Pyramids of snow
Date: 2023-12-16T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: English fiction -- 20th century

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Title: Pyramids of snow

Author: Edith Metcalfe

Release date: December 16, 2023 [eBook #72428]
Most recently updated: February 5, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: London: Ward, Lock & Co., Limited, 1903

Credits: Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PYRAMIDS OF SNOW ***

"'Go out and stop out, or I'll have you put out.'" (Page 83.)

PYRAMIDS OF SNOW.

BY

EDITH METCALFE.

"I can tell you without the help of an augur what will be your fate you become a gambler. Either the vice will end by swallowing you up alive as a quicksand does, or if you are a winner, your gains will disappear more quickly than they came, melting like pyramids of snow."

WILLIAM DE BRITAINE.

LONDON:
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED.
NEW YORK AND MELBOURNE.
1903

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I
The Viaticum

CHAPTER II.
The Best Thing in the World

CHAPTER III.
Fraud

CHAPTER IV.
Mediation

CHAPTER V.
Kindred and Affinity

CHAPTER VI.
Bravado

CHAPTER VII.
Melville leads Trumps

CHAPTER VIII.
Rivals

CHAPTER IX.
Bigamy

CHAPTER X.
Light come, Light go

CHAPTER XI.
Mrs. Sinclair pays a Visit

CHAPTER XII.
A Pic-nic

CHAPTER XIII.
Murder

CHAPTER XIV.
The Finding of the Body

CHAPTER XV.
Flight

CHAPTER XVI.
An Unexpected Will

CHAPTER XVII.
An Arrest

CHAPTER XVIII.
A Faithful Servant

CHAPTER XIX.
In the Park

CHAPTER XX.
Money makes a Difference

CHAPTER XXI.
The Result of the Trial

CHAPTER XXII.
Mr. Tracy becomes Active

CHAPTER XXIII.
Sir Ross is Quits

CHAPTER XXIV.
Mrs. Sinclair Resolves to Go Away

CHAPTER XXV.
Mrs. Sinclair Goes away

CHAPTER XXVI.
Fate takes the Odd Trick

CHAPTER XXVII.
The Place of Peace

PYRAMIDS OF SNOW.

CHAPTER I.

THE VIATICUM.

Upon most of the people who thronged the rooms the incident was lost. Of those who saw it many did not understand its meaning, and the rest were too much absorbed in their own affairs to give it any attention. The scene was the Casino at Monte Carlo; every chair was occupied, and behind every chair men and women were standing, all intent upon the play, all consumed by the feverish thirst of winning money born of the atmosphere of the place. The brilliant light flashed in jewels and gleamed in eager eyes, heightened the colour of flushed cheeks and emphasised the pallor of haggard faces; against the black evening coat of one man sitting down was outlined the bare arm of a woman, who laid her stake upon the table, and when the hand was withdrawn it still hesitated over the black coat until the fortune of the stake should be declared. Dominating everything was the monotonous sound of the croupiers' voices and the noise of the money as it was raked to and fro upon the tables.

The incident which took place in this scene was a not uncommon one. It was a little procession of three men, one a dark, good-looking man in well-cut evening dress, who walked nonchalantly through the rooms, pausing almost imperceptibly while his two companions shot a glance of interrogation at each of the croupiers; when the croupiers, in reply, had shot a glance of assent at his companions, the dark man moved on again until he had almost completed his tour of the rooms. It was Melville Ashley undergoing the process of identification as a well-known frequenter of the rooms before receiving the viaticum which should enable him to return to London.

It is the habit of the Englishman to conceal his feelings, and no one could have guessed from Melville's demeanour whether he experienced relief at having come to the end of his tether, regret at knowing that he could play no more that season, mortification at his somewhat humiliating position, or any other emotion which one may suppose natural to a gambler who is suddenly baulked in his pursuits. He seemed entirely unconcerned, perhaps a little bored, but certainly in complete possession of himself. To the few people who, knowing him, found time to vouchsafe him a nod of greeting, he bowed pleasantly enough. Of the existence of the others he appeared unaware, though, in point of fact, his senses were so alert that he could have supplied a remarkably close description of everyone had he been asked to do so. For the time the gambling fever had left him, and with the vanishing of his last coin there awoke in his mind an intense disgust at the heavy scent in the air and the grotesque sight of the many pairs of white gloves. He was only anxious for the great baize doors to swing behind him and exclude him from what was generally the one desire of his heart.

Only once did he betray any interest. A woman leaning back in her chair put out her hand to detain him. She understood the significance of his escort, and there was some commiseration in her eyes.

"Are you going home, Mr. Ashley?" she asked, in a low tone.

"Yes," he answered, with a little smile; "I leave to-night."

In those conventional words was conveyed a perfectly frank confession of the state of his finances. No need to invent any explanation of so sudden a departure. His questioner was well enough acquainted with the language of the place to know that he had pledged his word to return at once to London, in consideration of value received.

"I'm sorry," she said, and looked as if she meant it; "but I daresay I shall be following you soon, and then, perhaps, we may meet again. London is a tiny little place."

"Yes," Melville assented politely; "but wouldn't it be as well if you gave me one of your cards?"

"I haven't any," said Mrs. Sinclair, smiling lightly, for she liked a sportsmanlike loser. "Men always carry cards—in case of duels, I suppose, but women have no room in their purses for anything but money, and nowhere but their purses to put anything else. Give me one of yours, and I will write to you."

"That is too good of you," he replied, as he gave her one; "but of course you will forget all about it. Good-night, good-bye."

"Auf wiedersehen," she answered prettily, and turned to her companion on her left, who had watched the little comedy with a scowl upon his face. Melville noted the scowl and bowed sardonically as he moved away. To be conscious of superiority to anyone is satisfactory in one's hour of discomfiture, and Melville derived a complacent satisfaction from this little man's evident annoyance.

"The little bounder doesn't like me," he thought, "but he's a little ass to show it. He must be very rich for Mrs. Sinclair to be willing to lay aside her weeds for him."

The doors swung behind him, and in another moment Melville was in the open air. He stretched out his arms in pure enjoyment of the lovely night.

"I am infinitely obliged to you," he said to his escort; "the other trifling formalities will, doubtless, be completed in due course;" and in what seemed an incredibly short time Melville was on his way to London.

Inside the Casino, the little bounder turned to his companion.

"Since you have no room in your purse for visiting cards," he said, "may I not keep that one in safe custody for you?"

"Thanks, no," the woman answered, and slipped it inside her dress; "I haven't finished playing yet, and my luck is in to-night."

"Would you be as kind to me," he pursued, "if I had to have recourse to the charity of the bank to pay my fare to London? Or would you drop me when my money went?"

Mrs. Sinclair looked at him coolly.

"Don't ask leading questions, and please don't make yourself ridiculous. Civility costs nothing, and it amused me to be civil to that—gentleman."

"It is rare for you to be amused with anything that costs nothing," he retorted, but Mrs. Sinclair would not be drawn. She began to play again, and, when at last she stopped, the little man's carrying capacity was taxed to take her winnings back to her hotel.

It would be a vain task to try to record all Melville Ashley's thoughts as the train bore him across France; in the aggregate they amounted to little less than a comprehensive cursing of everything and everybody, including himself. For his position was desperate.

The younger son of his parents, both of whom had died while he was still an infant, he had been brought up with his brother Ralph under the guardianship of his uncle, Sir Geoffrey Holt, lord of the manor of Fairbridge, in Surrey, whose co-heir, at any rate, he hoped some day to be. Sir Geoffrey had played his part well, placing every advantage in the way of both his nephews, but as the years slipped by he found it difficult to be quite impartial in his personal treatment of the two lads, though he never failed to be impartial in his dealings with them so far as they affected the education and up-bringing of the boys.

It was Ralph, however, who engrossed his uncle's affection, and something in Melville's nature rose in rebellion at the thought that he came second in the estimation of any person. Both boys were handsome, Melville especially so; both were well endowed with intelligence, and both took advantage of their opportunities. But whereas Ralph developed into a frank and unaffected man, fond of athletics and outdoor pursuits, Melville became more and more self-centred and reserved, devoting all his time to his one absorbing love of music. Manhood brought liberty, and liberty in Melville's case brought lack of self-restraint. His finer qualities led him into a certain sort of temptation, and the men with whom his rare musical talents brought him into contact were of a free and easy Bohemian type that did not afford the most healthy companionship for a young fellow of his particular temperament. Musical evenings led to smoking concerts, and the concerts to late nights of which other and less innocent amusements were the principal feature; billiards and cards became first a habit and then a passion, and Melville was still in his early twenties when it was obvious that he was a confirmed gambler.

Sir Geoffrey was patient and he was rich, but detestation of the gambler was added to his dislike of his younger nephew, and more than one violent quarrel had taken place between the two. It says much for the elder man that he never referred to the position of absolute dependence occupied by the younger one; but when, a few weeks before, Melville came to him with the oft-repeated tale, Sir Geoffrey spoke his mind in the vernacular.

"Let me know the sum total of your accursed debts," he said, "if you have the honesty or the wit to remember them, and I will clean the slate. Then I will give you a final two hundred and fifty for yourself, and that shall be the end."

When Melville gave him the damning list of debts, Sir Geoffrey bit his lips until they bled. Livery stables, and wine and cigar merchants told a tale of luxurious living which Sir Geoffrey himself had never been able to afford in his younger days, and there were other items not precisely specified, into which the elder man thought it better not to enquire too curiously. But he kept his word. He drew crossed cheques payable to every person named in the list for the full amount, and demanded a receipt from each in full discharge of his nephew's liability. When the last receipt came in, after a miserable week of waiting, he sent for Melville to his library.

"Is that the last?" he enquired grimly, and Melville assented. Then Sir Geoffrey sat down at his table and drew one cheque more. "There is the two hundred and fifty I promised you," he said; "make the best use of it you can, for it is the last you ever have from me. The dog-cart will take you to the station in half-an-hour." Then he turned on his heel and left him, and Melville returned to town.

Five weeks before! And now the whole of the money was gone. With all his ingenuity it would be difficult to invent a story which his uncle would be likely to accept as a valid explanation of so surprising a fact.

Melville lighted a cigar and cursed his luck again.

Then the gambler's spirit re-asserted itself. He had had a glorious time at Monte Carlo while it lasted. One night he had won more than five thousand pounds, and another night the bank had to send out twice for fresh supplies of money. That was the time of triumph. People had crowded round him, some to follow his play, some to envy, some to congratulate him, and among them he had seen Lavender Sinclair for the first time: a magnificent woman truly, with splendid colouring and grandly moulded limbs; she wore turquoise velvet, he remembered, and round her neck a barbaric collar of turquoise bosses linked together on red gold; even in that room, where jewels were as common as morals were rare, her jewels were conspicuous, and she wore them perfectly. Some acquaintance introduced him to her, and she seemed interested in hearing his name—had met people who knew him, or some distant kinsmen, but there was no indication of any desire on her part to press the acquaintance. She was in the ripest glory of her beauty, the sort that is at its best when it is mature. He wondered idly how old she was, over thirty certainly; but, after all, it did not matter. Rumour had it that she was going to marry Sir Ross Buchanan, and Melville was contemptuous of her choice of a second husband; he knew the man by sight, an undersized, rather weakly fellow, who inherited an old title from his father and, it was said, two millions sterling from his mother. Sir Ross was a pill that required an unusual amount of gilding, and Melville's first admiration of the woman was replaced by scorn of her venality. She was sympathetic though when he bade her good-bye, and Melville appreciated sympathy.

The journey was very tedious, so Melville opened his dressing-case and took out a packet of letters which had reached him at the hotel, but to which he had not troubled to attend. Several he tore up and threw away, but there was one which he carefully replaced in its envelope in his bag. It was from his brother, and ran as follows:

"DEAR MELVILLE,—Why didn't you tell me you were going to Monte Carlo? However, I hope you are enjoying yourself and having good luck. By the way, I am going to ask you to do me a great favour. Can you lend me a hundred for a fortnight? I will repay you then. My solicitors are selling some capital for me, but they are so slow, and I am in immediate want of the money. Do write soon.—Yours ever, RALPH ASHLEY. P.S.—Have you heard of my engagement to Gwendolen Austen?"

"So he is hard up, too," Melville muttered. "No, I wouldn't lend him fifty pounds if I had fifty thousand to-morrow. And engaged to Gwendolen is he? I wonder if I can put an end to that. If she were my wife I might even win the old man round again."

Then his mind reverted to his immediate difficulties, and he went over the old useless ground of trying to think of some way to raise the wind, failing once more to see any light at all, as indeed he was bound to fail, since honest work did not come into his most casual consideration.

It was not, however, until he found himself in his chambers in Jermyn Street that he fully realised how he had come to the end of all things. There were invitations awaiting him which he could not accept for lack of ready money; little accounts which he would have been only too glad to hand over to his uncle if he had remembered their existence; all insignificant enough individually, but totalling up to a considerable sum; private tips from hangers-on at stables, which were certain to be good since he could not avail himself of them; letters from women suggesting trips up the river or supper after the play; even letters from friends saying they were hard up, and reminding him of small obligations under which he lay to them. Melville felt as if he were at last at bay, with all his worries like so many starving wolves tearing him down to his destruction. And worse than all was the extreme physical reaction from the unwholesome life of excitement he had lately been leading at Monte Carlo. While that life lasted no fatigue oppressed him. A tumbler of champagne or a stiff pick-me-up from a chemist always availed to keep him going. But now the excitement was over. The curtain was rung down, the lights were all turned out, he was alone with his troubles, and had no pluck left to face them. In sheer weariness he turned into bed and slept the sleep of deep exhaustion.

CHAPTER II.

THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD.

Even while Melville, with despair gnawing at his heart, was speeding on his journey back to England, Sir Geoffrey Holt was keeping festival at Fairbridge Manor. That very evening he had given a final dinner party to celebrate the betrothal of his god-child, Gwendolen Austen, to his favourite nephew, Ralph Ashley.

In the whole of a land which is proud to claim as its children so many fair women and brave men, it would be difficult to find a fairer woman or a braver man than now engrossed Sir Geoffrey's thoughts, and in their approaching union he looked to see the culmination of his own happiness. It was infinitely pleasant to know that the two, over whose lives he had watched so tenderly, would never leave him now, but hand-in-hand would walk in quiet contentment by his side, lightening the burden of his increasing years, and giving him fresh pleasure in their own unfolding joys. No man could ever hope to win richer reward for his unfailing goodness to others than Sir Geoffrey was reaping now for his long care of this boy and girl.

So he threw wide his hospitable doors, and asked the county to come and shower congratulations upon the happy couple. For a week he kept open house, and his pleasure was so apparent, his high spirits so contagious, that he made himself loved the more by his unaffected delight and his manner of displaying it. To his succession of dinner parties practically the entire county came, until both Ralph and Gwendolen were at a loss to find fresh ways of saying, "Thank you," for so many expressions of goodwill.

But this evening had brought the entertainments to a close, and when Sir Geoffrey, standing by his open door, had bade the latest guest good-bye, he turned with a sigh of satisfaction into the great hall where his children, as he called them, were laughing over some incident which had amused them during the day.

Sir Geoffrey pulled his god-daughter towards him and held her face between his hands.

"The last guest gone," he said, smiling at her; "now, Gwen, confess you are not sorry."

"I didn't know there was so much kindness in the world," she answered, smiling back at him, and her eyes were shining; "but I confess I am glad we are all by ourselves again."

"Tired?" he asked.

"Not a bit," she answered brightly; "unless it be of seeming to occupy so much attention."

"And you don't want to go to bed?"

"Indeed, no," she said indignantly. "When one is as happy as I am it would be a shame to spend a single hour asleep."

"Then let us go down to the house-boat," Sir Geoffrey said. "I daresay Ralph can manage to amuse you somehow, and I want to talk to your mother."

"Do you want to talk to me, Ralph?" said Gwendolen, turning to her lover, who was looking at her with affectionate pride.

"I don't seem to have had a chance of talking to you for a week," Ralph answered promptly. "Let's go at once and—and get a deck chair ready for your mother."

Sir Geoffrey chuckled.

"An admirable reason for both of you hurrying away. Ralph is too weak to move one by himself; you must help him, Gwendolen."

Ralph put a wrap round Gwendolen, and, linking her arm in his, went through the French window across the garden.

It was a glorious night. A full moon shed a mellow splendour across the lawns, throwing the masses of the cedars into bold relief against the sky, and glinting in all the diamond panes of the heavy-leaded windows. Over the phloxes and tobacco plants that adorned the borders great moths were wheeling, and bats were flickering in and out of the plantation that screened the stables from the house. As the garden sloped towards the river the turf was more closely shaven, and along the water's edge were sunk pots in which magnificent geraniums and sweet heliotrope were growing.

Moored by the extreme boundary of the garden Ralph's house-boat lay; it contained a little bedroom and two sitting-rooms, fragrant with flowers and light with mirrors and thin curtains, and the upper part, covered in with a pale green awning, was a mass of flowers and palms. Here were deck chairs, and little tables, and Japanese lanterns.

Ralph put two chairs ready for Mrs. Austen and Sir Geoffrey, and then looked at Gwendolen.

"Shall we wait here for them, or would you like me to punt you up the stream?"

"Let us stay here," she answered; "somehow——"

"Yes?" he said enquiringly.

"Somehow I fancy the others will not come," she said, rippling with laughter. "Sir Geoffrey is always so thoughtful."

Ralph took her in his arms and kissed her passionately.

"I love you—I love you," he said, between set teeth, and Gwendolen drew a sigh of perfect content. "If it could always be like this," he went on. "Just you and I in the peace, with the river and the moonlight to reflect our happiness."

But Gwendolen shook her head.

"You would soon tire of that," she said, and when he would have demurred laid her hand upon his lips. "I hope you would, at any rate, for I would not like you to be a lotos-eater dreaming your days away. There is so much to do in the world, Ralph, and surely we, to whom so much has been given, would not wish to give nothing in return."

He kissed the hand that caressed him.

"Tell me what I am to do."

Gwendolen considered.

"It is not easy to see just at first," she admitted, "but work, like charity, begins at home. You will be a good master to your household, and will take an active interest in the estate. You will be so anxious to make the tenants happier in their respective stations that you will be surprised to find how many things go to make up their lives. Life is a big bundle of little things, you know, not a little bundle of big ones. If you really set your heart upon doing good you will never stop for lack of something to do. That is a wonderful thought, Ralph: there is no end to the good you can do in the world."

"Go on," he said tenderly; "go on, dear, good little woman!"

"That is only thinking of your life at home," said Gwendolen; "but there are wider interests outside. I should like you to make a name for yourself in the great world; it might be in philanthropy, it might be in politics. I'm often sorry you have no profession, but the world has always need of good men, and I won't let you hold wool for me while the world wants one pair of honest hands. Oh! Ralph, wouldn't that be more worth while than idling your life away, even if it could always be like this?"

"Much more worth while," he answered gravely. "You have made me happy; you will make me good; you may make me famous. That is a great deal for one little woman to do for a man. What am I to do in return for you?"

"Only love me," she said. "Love me always as you do now; never any less tenderly or truly, even when the other interests are nearer than they are to-night. What more can you do than give me love—the best thing in the world?"

"I think I may safely promise that," Ralph said, and his deep voice quivered. What had he done that Providence should heap blessings on him so lavishly? For what had already been bestowed upon him he could never show sufficient gratitude, and now there was the crowning gift of all—the love of a pure and beautiful girl, whom he knew he had loved all his life.

Gwendolen lay back in one of the deck chairs, and Ralph, leaning against the wooden railing, feasted his eyes upon the picture that she made. In a dress of white mousseline-de-soie, trimmed with rare point lace, she looked ethereally beautiful in this setting of coloured lamps and lovely flowers. Her hands were clasped upon her lap, and the moonlight caught the diamonds in the ring that he had given her, and even sought out the little diamond drop that did duty as an earring. Against the scarlet cushions on which she reclined her fair skin showed like ivory, and Ralph was filled with something akin to amazement that this incarnation of all that was sweet and lovely in English womanhood would soon be his to have and to hold for ever.

Her eyes, large, brown, and true, were fixed steadfastly on him, and found no less pleasure in what they saw than his did. In his evening dress Ralph looked taller than the six feet that he actually measured; fair hair curled crisply over a sun-tanned face, in every line of which frank candour was written, and his athletic figure was graceful in every involuntary pose. Gwendolen had reason to be proud of her lover as he thus stood silhouetted against the moonlit sky, and she made no secret of it to herself that she found pleasure in his unconscious show of great strength in restraint. He could kill her with so little effort of those well-shaped, nervous hands, and yet one look from her could make his whole frame tremble.

So in silence they communed together, as is the way with lovers who know that no words can express a tithe of their deep emotion. And, indeed, while lovers have eyes to see, they do not need tongues to speak. Silence is best when two hearts are in accord.

The silence was broken by Sir Geoffrey's voice talking to Mrs. Austen as they came over the velvety turf. Sir Geoffrey helped his companion on to the houseboat and followed her up the stairway.

"Forgive us for being so long, Gwendolen," he said in his cheery, bantering fashion. "I hope my nephew has been doing his best to entertain you."

"He has been behaving very nicely," Gwendolen replied, "and I think you have brought him up very well."

"I told Martin to bring us some coffee and liqueurs," Sir Geoffrey went on, "and I'm going to smoke, if you ladies will allow me, and look at the reflections in the water, and fancy I'm young again."

Mrs. Austen protested.

"You are young, until you feel old," she said, "and you don't feel that to-night."

"No, I don't," said Sir Geoffrey stoutly. "This is an ideal ending to one of the happiest days of my life, and if a man is only as old as he feels, I shall come of age on Ralph's wedding-day." He lighted a cigar and flung the match into the river. "Have a cigar, Ralph? I'm sure you have earned it." The old fellow was pleased that his nephew could not chime in with his trivial chatter, and pulling up a chair by Gwendolen's side, he patted her hand. "Happy, Gwen?" he asked, and as the answering smile dawned in the girl's dark eyes, he wiped his own, which suddenly grew misty. "That's right, that's right," he said quickly. "Ah! here is Martin with the tray."

Allured by the material pleasures of tobacco and liqueurs, Ralph descended to earth again, and soon the little party were laughing and chatting merrily enough. Soft strains of music from another houseboat were carried down to them, and presently a young fellow poled a racing punt swiftly down the stream; two swans floated out from underneath the trees, rocking gracefully on the water ruffled by the punt; and from the tender came suggestively domestic sounds as the old butler put away the cups and saucers and decanted whiskey for the men.

Then presently they strolled back to the manor house and lingered for a little in the hall; and while Ralph took his time to bid Gwendolen good-night, Sir Geoffrey found opportunity to say a few more words to Mrs. Austen.

"I wish I could tell you how happy I am," he said. "I have hoped for this all my life, and now it has come to pass. They both are worthy of each other, and to see such happiness as theirs is almost as good as having it oneself."

Mrs. Austen cordially agreed, but she wondered if Sir Geoffrey's hearty words were at all belied by the sigh that accompanied them. Yet she stifled the suspicion as it was born, for no woman lives long enough to give her child in marriage without learning the truth that underlies the words:

"Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that
tell of saddest thought."

Then, with the curiosity of her sex, she wondered again, as she had so often wondered before, why Sir Geoffrey Holt himself had never married.

CHAPTER III.

FRAUD.

Rather more than a week elapsed, during which Melville saw practically nothing of the outer world. His chambers were at the top of the house in Jermyn Street, the suite consisting of a sitting, bed, and bath rooms, which he rented furnished for seventy pounds a year. His food and attendance were all supplied to him by the general manager of the house, and his credit for these bare necessaries of life was still good. So Melville gave orders to the hall porter to reply uniformly to all enquirers that he was not at home, and remained in his chambers steeped in dull melancholy. One evening he stole out and pawned his violin, but that very night he lost nearly all the proceeds of the transaction in some utterly foolish wager, and the next morning he woke up face to face with the fact that he only possessed ten shillings in the world. It was pouring with rain and the wind was howling round the balustrade outside his windows. Melville shivered; he felt cold and ill, and recollected that he had eaten no dinner the night before. He rang the bell and told the valet, whose services he shared with the other tenants on his floor, to bring him up some breakfast and some shaving water.

"What is the time?" he asked curtly, as the man came from his bedroom to say the shaving water was ready.

"About twelve, sir. I will bring up your breakfast in a quarter of an hour."

Melville turned to the window again. If only the rain would stop! And how he missed his violin! No human being could realise what his instrument had been to him, or what a wrench it had been to part with it. He felt utterly destitute.

"What am I to do?" he muttered vainly. "Sir Geoffrey—no, it's worse than useless to apply to him—last time was the last time, unless some marvellous inspiration helps me to pitch some plausible yarn."

While he was still harping on the one perpetual theme, the valet returned with his breakfast, and Melville drank some tea and disposed of some excellent kidneys.

"I was getting quite faint," he said to the man who was attending to him. "Don't bother about things this morning. I shall go out presently, and you can do whatever you've got to do then."

"It's a very wet day, sir," the other answered.

"Wet?" said Melville disgustedly. "I should think it is wet. The weather certainly means business." He drank some more tea and lighted a cigarette. "By the way, put out my dress clothes early this evening. I probably shall not be dining at home."

The valet hesitated.

"Have you any more linen in any other portmanteau, sir?" he asked.

"I'm sure I don't know," Melville replied testily. "You'd better look and see. Anyhow, find some."

The valet looked still more uncomfortable.

"I sent all I could find to the wash, sir," he stammered; "and the laundry people have refused to leave any clean linen until your account is settled."

Melville grew scarlet with anger.

"What do I owe them?" he asked.

"It's a little over four pounds, sir. Will you write a cheque?"

"No, I won't," said Melville shortly. "Go to the Burlington Arcade and tell my hosiers to send me over three dozen, and put them down in my account."

"Yes, sir," said the valet civilly, and left the room.

Melville laughed when the door closed behind the servant. When the devil laughs it is time for good folks to beware, and Melville felt like a fiend at that moment. It was grotesquely funny that he could get three dozen shirts on credit, but had not the money to pay his washerwoman. But the fact was a staggering reminder of his real position. He got up preparatory to going out, when he remembered that he had still to shave; he went, therefore, into his bedroom, and, having stropped his razor, took off his collar and tie and began to make a lather for his face.

And then suddenly the idea came to him with the force of a conviction that the way out of his trouble lay plain before him. It was the cowardly way which it yet requires a measure of courage to take. Death was the solution of the problem. He did not know how to live, but it was very simple to die. He sat down in a chair and, almost closing his eyes, peered at his reflection in the mirror. Very little paler—only with eyes quite closed—he would not look very different presently if he did this thing. And, unless his courage failed him in the act, it would not hurt. Then what would happen? The scene here, in this room, with the dead body stretched upon the floor, was easy to imagine. It might not be very appalling. Had he ever contemplated such a deed before he would have provided himself with some poison, which, while it was as fatal as the razor blade, would not disfigure him; for to the living man the idea of being disfigured after death is always repugnant. But he had no poison, and here was the razor ready to his hand. He would be found quite soon—but it must not be too soon—and he rose and stealthily locked the outer door.

Again he sat before the impassive mirror. There was no one who would care. In all the world, so far as Melville knew, there was no one who would care if he were dead, only a few who would resent the manner of his dying.

He had nothing left to lose. Penniless and friendless in the present, bankrupt of hope for the future, he had nothing material left to lose, at any rate, and he stood to gain emancipation from an environment to which he had ceased to be adapted.

He would have to draw the blade across his throat—so! He must do it very strongly, very swiftly, or he would fail.

The man leant forward on the dressing-table and gazed closely at himself in the glass; he saw exactly where he must make the gash, and without any hesitation or nervousness he felt the edge of the razor with the thumb of his left hand. As he did so he cut the skin, and some blood fell upon the snow-white cover of the table. In the extraordinary mental state in which he was, the horrible incongruity in his reasoning did not strike him, but, in actual fact, the bloodstain on the cloth gave him offence, and he paused and looked around him. This—would make such a mess! And there was a revolver in his bag. How stupid of him not to have remembered that! It had another advantage, too, for people might think the pistol had gone off by accident while he was cleaning it, whereas there could be no doubt about the intention in the other case. It mattered a great deal what people would think.

He laid down the razor on a chest of drawers and removed the soiled toilet cover from the dressing table. Then he went to his bag to take out his revolver. The valet had disarranged the contents of the bag, and Melville turned over a lot of things and could not find the little pistol case. Instead, his hand fell upon a heap of letters, and on the top of them was the one that had come to him from Ralph asking for a loan of a hundred pounds.

A sudden revulsion of thought made Melville sick and giddy. It was as if a gambler who had lost all but his last five-franc piece had, after hesitation, staked en plein and followed with a run of wins on single numbers. One cannot follow up the gambler's line of thought, but many a one whom that fortune befell would be almost sick to think how narrowly he missed his chance. Melville was a gambler pure and simple. An instant before he had been upon the very point of death because he did not know whence money could be got, and without money he did not want to live. Yet here in his bag was a letter which might mean at least a hundred pounds. Of course, he might lose his stake, but to kill himself without having made the venture was intolerable.

The physical endurance of the strongest man has its limitations, and Melville staggered into the sitting-room and threw himself into a great armchair. Here presently he was discovered by his valet, who was frightened by his master's complete collapse. Some hours passed by before he regained anything like his usual self-control, and then, resolutely putting out of his mind all thought of how close he had been to death, he began to consider the best time and manner of making his final venture to raise money.

A train left Waterloo at six-forty, which would land him at Fairbridge Manor at eight o'clock. If he went by that train he would in all probability find Sir Geoffrey Holt in a good humour after dinner. He even took the precaution of changing his clothes again, substituting a somewhat shabby lounge suit for his elaborate frock coat. "May as well look the part," he said sardonically to himself. "The Prodigal Son was a bit baggy at the knees, I imagine, and that is the scene I'm on in now. I shall have to draw on my imagination about the husks all the same."

There was something almost heroic—in a wicked fashion—in his effort to pull himself together, for his recent temptation to commit suicide had really shaken him. He drank freely of the spirits in his tantalus as he was dressing, and all the while tried to anticipate every difficulty in the interview before him.

"If only Ralph is out of the way I may pull it off. His letter will serve to account for one hundred of the last two-fifty, and I can gas about some forgotten bills to explain how most of the rest has gone. It's a fighting chance anyhow, and if I fail there is still the pistol."

From one thought sprang another.

"There is still the pistol!"

With a curiously furtive action Melville took the revolver from his portmanteau and slipped it into his pocket. Then he crept downstairs, and, hailing a hansom, drove to Waterloo.

But when the train steamed into Fairbridge Station, Melville was not in it. He was so restless that he could not endure the swaying of the carriage, and getting out two stations short of his destination he resolved to walk the rest of the way.

Leaving the high road he made his way down to the river and followed the towing path. It was getting dark, but the rain had ceased; the silence was intense, and the occasional splash of a water-rat startled him so much that he was angry with himself for being in so highly strung and nervous a condition.

When at last he reached the gardens of the Manor House he was feeling very shaky; he walked quickly towards the house, wondering, now the moment was at hand, how he should begin.

"Ralph may be cornered for money," he muttered, "but I notice he hasn't got rid of his houseboat. I wonder whether he is here to-night. Everything depends upon that."

He crept cautiously up to the dining-room windows and tried to peep through the blinds. As he did so he heard the front door open, and crouching down hid himself in some shrubbery. He recognised Sir Geoffrey's firm, quick step, and peering over the laurels saw his uncle walking with Ralph down the drive. He watched them shake hands, and saw Ralph walk briskly away; then he drew back among the laurels as Sir Geoffrey returned to the house and quietly closed the door.

"So Ralph is here to-night," said Melville under his breath; "my luck again!"

He felt horribly uncertain what to do. His first impulse was to follow Ralph, who might be going up to town, but he refrained, and walked softly down to the towing path again, turning round at every other step to see if Sir Geoffrey were coming. The evening grew colder, and Melville turned up the collar of his coat and stood back among the shadows, steadying himself against a tree.

"Perhaps that is Sir Geoffrey," he thought, as the sound of footsteps fell upon his ear. "No! it's someone going the other way. 'Pon my word, I'm beginning to feel quite guilty. Still—I'm not going back without seeing him. Perhaps I'd better go up to the house and get it over. Why can't he come down here as usual?"

He retraced his steps, and as he reached the garden gate came face to face with Sir Geoffrey, who, apparently, was not at all surprised to see him.

"How do you do, uncle?" Melville said. "I thought I would look you up."

"Very good of you, I'm sure," said Sir Geoffrey drily. "Have you just come from the station?"

"Yes, just this instant," Melville answered, without thinking.

"H'm!" said Sir Geoffrey; "I suppose they must have put on a new down train. Did you meet Ralph?"

"No," said Melville shortly.

"H'm!" said Sir Geoffrey again; "I thought not."

"Not a very promising beginning!" said Melville to himself; then he added aloud, "Is Ralph staying with you?"

"He has been," said Sir Geoffrey, "and he's coming back to-morrow, so I am sorry I cannot offer you his room."

Melville was annoyed.

"I am not aware that I have asked you to give me his room, and I am aware that you prefer his company."

"That being so," said Sir Geoffrey, "it seems to me that you have chosen a somewhat unconventional hour for your visit."

"I've only just returned to England," Melville replied; "otherwise I should have called earlier."

"May I ask the object of your visit now you have called?" enquired Sir Geoffrey. "What is it you want?" and he looked keenly at his nephew.

"Well," Melville stammered, "the fact is I wanted to ask you to give me some more money. I—I——"

"But it's not two months since I gave you two hundred and fifty pounds," cried Sir Geoffrey. "What on earth have you done with that?"

Melville was at a loss how to begin the explanation he had invented.

"I've been away," he said lamely, "and ill, and—and it's gone."

"I can quite believe it's gone," said his uncle bitterly. "Money melts before you like pyramids of snow. I wonder you have the face to ask me again."

Melville flushed. He knew that Sir Geoffrey had detected him in one lie, and that in his present state of excitement he would only make matters worse if he faltered in his suddenly improvised story.

"Well, what am I to do?" he asked.

"Do what every other man does," Sir Geoffrey said. "Work, instead of idling about in the club and playing the fiddle—and the fool."

"But I can't get any work," Melville objected.

"What have you tried to do?"

"Oh, it's no good going into all that."

"I should think not," said Sir Geoffrey with a bitter laugh, "but, anyhow, I won't help you any more; men of your type never will work while they've got any relations on whom they can sponge. You give up the fiddle, as a start."

"I have," said Melville, "to a pawn-broker."

"Best place for it," grunted Sir Geoffrey unsympathetically. "I'll pay the interest for you next year, if you'll agree to leave it there."

Melville clenched his fists and walked on in silence for a few yards.

"You don't mind helping Ralph," he said, with a sneer; "he's so different, isn't he?"

"That is my own affair," Sir Geoffrey said, "but I don't mind saying I've never had to refuse him, because he has never asked me. He's a thoroughly fine fellow."

"He's a humbug," said Melville. "He's not above borrowing from me at all events. As you insist upon knowing what I did with the last two hundred and fifty I had from you, I will tell you that I gave Ralph a hundred of it."

"I don't believe you," said Sir Geoffrey. "You're a liar, Melville, and I've proved it."

"Read that," said Melville shortly.

He took Ralph's letter out of his pocket and gave it to his uncle, who read it in the fading light. A spasm of pain crossed the old man's face, but he drew himself up with dignity.

"I detected you in one lie, sir," he said, "but I may have made a mistake about this. If so, I apologise. You did what your brother asked you? Sent him this hundred pounds?"

Melville met his keen eyes steadily.

"I did. I sent it to him at once."

"How? By cheque?"

"No," said Melville; "in notes—twenty fivers." His wonted effrontery returned to him. "I can tell you the numbers if you like."

"Thank you, no," replied Sir Geoffrey. "I'm not proposing to try to trace the notes now, and Ralph can give me his own explanation of his temporary embarrassment later. Come to the house and I will repay you for him now."

Melville's heart beat rapidly with excitement. He felt absolutely no shame at his fraud, no fear of the subsequent inevitable exposure. He had to get money somehow, and with incredible swiftness it was already almost in his grasp. They walked in silence to the Manor House. As they passed the drawing-room windows Melville caught sight of Gwendolen Austen's figure and involuntarily paused, but Sir Geoffrey noticed the action and harshly interrupted him.

"Mrs. and Miss Austen are staying here as my guests. As this is purely a business visit on your part we will, if you please, go to my library," and he strode along the terrace.

Melville followed him, and turning to the right came to the west front of the house, on which side lay Sir Geoffrey's private set of rooms. To Melville, overwrought with excitement as he was, the library with its great armchairs and well-filled bookcases looked very homelike and comfortable, but he did not venture to sit down unasked, and Sir Geoffrey pointedly refrained from everything approaching hospitality. He unlocked a drawer in his writing table and, taking out his cheque book, filled in a form payable to Melville for one hundred pounds. Before signing the cheque, he laid down his pen and looked scrutinisingly at his nephew.

"There are a few things I wish to say to you, Melville," he said very slowly, "before we finally part, and I beg you to remember them, as they may prevent any future misunderstanding. For more than thirty years I have treated you as my son, in spite of endless disappointments at your total failure to give me any return in consideration or affection. You have always been utterly selfish, and, as I think, utterly bad. Now I am a rich man, and you may perhaps argue that I am only anticipating the provision I have doubtless made for you in my will. Please understand that that is not the case. Over and above the just expenses of your life up to now you have already had from me many thousand pounds, which have been squandered by you in wanton vice. I do not intend you to have any more. I hold that my money was given to me for some other purpose than that. In point of fact, I have not made my will, but when I choose to do so, you will not be a legatee. You understand perfectly?"

Melville bowed.

"Very good. Now I am giving you this cheque because for once you have done an unselfish action and have lent your brother two-fifths of what you had reason to suppose was the last money you would ever receive from me. I am very, very sorry Ralph asked you for it, but very glad you sent it to him. I repay you on his behalf, and will see that he in turn repays me."

Sir Geoffrey signed the cheque and gave it to Melville.

"I have left it open so that you may obtain the money in the morning. This, too, is your property," and he gave him Ralph's letter, which Melville had forgotten.

Then Sir Geoffrey rose.

"This is a final parting, Melville," he said solemnly, "and I wish to heaven it were not so. If in these last few weeks I had any reason to hope you had been trying to be a better man I might have been more harsh to-night, but not so relentless. But the money I gave you the other day, apart from this hundred pounds, has gone in gambling as all the rest has gone, and as everything else I might give you would go. And I declare now, upon my word of honour as a gentleman, that I hold myself free of you at last. From whatever you may do in the future to bring shame upon your family I, in their name, declare we are absolved, and you must look for no more help or countenance from us. And now I will ask you to go. You can walk to the station, and will not have long to wait for a train to town."

And opening the French windows on to the lawn, Sir Geoffrey stood with set lips and stern eyes until his nephew disappeared among the shrubbery that fringed the drive.

Outside, Melville drew a deep breath.

"The hysterical old idiot!" he said, half audibly; but his fingers trembled as he placed the cheque in his inner pocket, and he was more nervous than he thought himself capable of being. "Still, I've got a hundred pounds, and as for the row which, I suppose, is bound to follow when the old man finds out the truth—that can rip for the present. I'm glad he didn't cross the cheque. There wouldn't have been much change out of it for me if I'd had to pay it into my account, because I'm so overdrawn, and, what's more, it might be stopped if Ralph turned up early to-morrow. Gad! I'll go to the bank at nine."

He stumbled along until he reached the station. He had another stiff glass of spirits at the refreshment bar, and found he had only a shilling left.

"Good thing I took a return ticket," he muttered, "and as for to-morrow I can go to the bank in a cab, thank goodness, and go home in a balloon, if I choose. And after that, I'll clear out of town for a bit and pull myself together—and pull myself together."

He laughed stupidly as he found himself repeating his words, and then huddled up in a corner of the carriage. How he got back to his chambers in Jermyn Street he scarcely knew, but he had been there some time before his attention was attracted by a letter which was lying on his table. It was written in a hand that was not familiar to him. It bore date that morning, and the paper was stamped with a monogram and the address, 5, The Vale, South Kensington.

"Dear Mr. Melville Ashley," it ran, "there are many reasons—into none of which do I deem it expedient to enter now—why I have hitherto refrained from inviting you to my house. For the moment I will confine myself to making the announcement, for which you may be wholly unprepared, that I married Sir Geoffrey Holt many years ago, and am, consequently, your aunt by marriage. I shall be obliged if you will call upon me to-morrow at half-past four o'clock, and it is my desire that until I have seen you, you shall not acquaint any third person with the contents of this communication.—I am, yours faithfully, LAVINIA HOLT."

At last the full significance of the note was borne in upon him.

"Married Sir Geoffrey many years ago!" Melville said slowly. "Strange! that is very strange!"

He entered the address in his pocket book, and then carefully locked away the letter, together with that from Ralph, in a despatch box.

"In spite of all you said, Sir Geoffrey, I fancy this letter, too, may mean money in my pocket!" and the smile upon his face was very evil.

CHAPTER IV.

MEDIATION.

Breakfast is a period of probation for many people's temper. It is a comparatively easy matter after dinner in the evening to assume light spirits with one's evening dress, knowing that the work and worries of the day are all behind one, but considerable philosophy is required to be entirely amiable the first thing in the morning, when the same work and worries have to be taken up anew.

So when, the morning following Melville's surprise visit to the Manor House, Sir Geoffrey entered the dining-room, Gwendolen's loving eyes perceived at once that something had occurred to ruffle his equanimity. With her he was never irritable, but his greeting was absent-minded, and he seemed to seek in vain for anything to interest him in the columns of the Times.

Mrs. Austen usually breakfasted in bed, and as Ralph was not to return until the middle of the day, Sir Geoffrey and Gwendolen were alone together, and the meal passed almost in silence. At last Sir Geoffrey himself appeared to become aware of the fact that he was discharging his duties as a host with something less than his usual success.

"Forgive me, Gwen," he said pleasantly. "I'm an old bear this morning, and poor company for my beautiful princess."

Gwendolen rose and put her arms round his neck.

"Then if the story books are to be believed, the beautiful Princess only has to kiss the old bear, and he will be transformed into Prince Charming again," and leaning over him she kissed him affectionately.

"You're a little witch," said Sir Geoffrey, smiling; "but tell me, aren't you burning to know what has upset my temper to-day?"

"Not at all," Gwendolen answered quickly, "unless it is anything that I have done."

"Of course it isn't," said Sir Geoffrey; "but it's the next thing to it. I've got a bone to pick with Ralph."

Gwendolen's face clouded over.

"Oh! I am sorry," she said, but almost immediately her eyes shone brightly again. "It can't be very serious, though, because he's sure to have some perfectly satisfactory explanation for whatever he has done, and as soon as you see him you'll find there's no bone to pick."

"You're a loyal little woman," said Sir Geoffrey, well pleased, "and I've no doubt you're right. What time is the immaculate hero to honour us by his reappearance?"

"About a quarter to one," Gwendolen replied.

"In time for luncheon," Sir Geoffrey remarked. "Whatever one may think about his other meritorious qualities, there can be no doubt about the excellence of Ralph's appetite."

"You're trying to draw me," said Gwendolen cheerfully; "but I won't be drawn. I like a man to have a good appetite, and, by the way, you're not a bad trencherman yourself."

Sir Geoffrey laughed.

"I've got some work to do this morning," he said as he got up. "You must kill the time somehow until Ralph returns, and after luncheon you will be able to pick water lilies and gaze into each other's eyes to any extent. Are you going to meet him at the station?"

"I thought of doing so," Gwendolen admitted.

"Did you really!" said Sir Geoffrey, with affected incredulity. "Well, I don't want to interfere with your plans, but seriously, Gwen, as soon as you've got over the shock—I mean the rapture—of seeing him again, will you tell him to come to me in the library?"

"Of course I will," said Gwendolen, "and seriously, too, dear uncle, I'm sure everything will be cleared up as soon as you see him."

"I daresay it will," Sir Geoffrey agreed, "but I have always believed in getting to the bottom of things immediately. When you're married, Gwen, avoid a misunderstanding with your husband as you would avoid the devil. Quarrel if you must, but, at any rate, know what you're quarrelling about. That's good advice."

"How can an old bachelor give any good advice about the married state?" Gwendolen asked lightly, and she nodded gaily as she ran upstairs, not noticing how the expression altered on Sir Geoffrey's face.

"Blows beneath the heart dealt by those one loves the most," he muttered sadly. "Well, it's inevitable in this world, I suppose, and, after all, there's compensation in the love itself. But Ralph ought not to have stooped to borrow that money from Melville; and what on earth can he have wanted it for that he was afraid to ask me? That's the sting," and the old gentleman walked slowly to his library and shut himself in there alone.

Both to Sir Geoffrey and to Gwendolen the morning seemed to drag, but at last the train which brought Ralph from town arrived, and, heedless of the bystanders, Gwendolen kissed her lover and walked down the hill with him to the river.

"Had a happy morning, dear?" he asked.

"A very long one," Gwendolen replied. "Time is very inconsiderate to people who are in love; it flies when they are together and halts when they are alone, whereas, of course, it ought to do exactly the reverse."

"Of course it ought," Ralph assented, "but, anyhow, it's ripping to be alive. By Jove, Gwen, I think I'm the happiest man in the whole world."

Gwen looked at him critically.

"I'm sure you are the nicest," she said enthusiastically, and did not demur to his finding her approval an excuse for another kiss.

"Let's go on the houseboat," he said, "and after luncheon I will punt you up to where the water lilies are."

"Pick water lilies and gaze in each other's eyes," said Gwen, laughing; "that was the programme Sir Geoffrey mapped out for us. Oh! I forgot. He asked me to send you to him directly you arrived. He's in the library."

"Can't it keep till after luncheon?" Ralph asked indifferently. "I want to talk to you."

"No," Gwen replied; "you must go now. I promised that you would. He said he had a bone to pick with you."

"Did he?" said Ralph. "I wonder what's the matter."

"I don't know," Gwen answered, "but he was very quiet at breakfast, and I guessed there was something wrong; then he told me it was about you, and I said you could explain anything you did or didn't do, and you've got to go at once and do so."

"A very lucid statement," Ralph said, smiling. "Well, it's a bore to have to leave you at once, but if you've promised, there's no help for it."

"None," said Gwendolen gravely. "Come along, Ralph."

In her heart she was a little uneasy, for although she had absolute confidence in Ralph's perfect integrity, she had never before seen Sir Geoffrey look so troubled at anything in which his favourite nephew was concerned. But she stifled her not unnatural curiosity, and, leaving Ralph at the library door, ran off to the room where her mother was writing wholly unnecessary letters.

Sir Geoffrey was so engrossed in a book that he did not hear Ralph come into the room. Comfortably ensconced in a huge armchair, with spectacles on his nose, and the sunlight streaming through the window upon his silver hair, he embodied the general idea of a cultivated old English gentleman. Ralph looked at him, and then spoke.

"Gwendolen tells me you want to see me, Uncle Geoffrey, so I've come straight in."

Sir Geoffrey looked up.

"Yes," he said. "Melville was here last night."

Ralph was vexed, for he knew what was the usual reason for his brother's visits to Fairbridge.

"Was he?" he said. "I didn't know he was back."

"Then you knew he was going abroad?"

"Oh, yes," said Ralph. "He made no secret about it to me."

Sir Geoffrey only grunted, and Ralph went on.

"In many ways I'm rather sorry for Melville, uncle. Of course, I know he has been a lot of worry to you, but he's my brother after all, and it isn't easy to get the sort of work that he could do."

"He's had a good education," said Sir Geoffrey, "and he's got good health and a pair of hands. What more does a man need to earn an honest living?"

Ralph was very happy, and when one is happy it is difficult not to feel generously disposed even to those one loves the least; so now he championed his brother quite sincerely.

"I've got all that, too," he said, but Sir Geoffrey put up his hand in deprecation of any comparison between the two brothers.

"You owe me a hundred pounds, Ralph," he said.

"My dear uncle," Ralph replied. "I owe you a great deal more than that. I can never repay you a fraction of what I owe you."

Sir Geoffrey's face lighted up with pleasure at the young fellow's frank expression of gratitude.

"One does not repay free gifts," he answered. "Let all that pass; but, Ralph, why couldn't you tell me you were in need of ready money?"

"I don't quite understand," said Ralph, looking puzzled.

"A few weeks ago," said Sir Geoffrey, rather testily, "you borrowed it from Melville, and I repaid him for you last night."

Ralph's face flushed with indignation.

"You paid Melville a hundred pounds for me?"

"Yes," said his uncle.

"But I don't owe him anything."

"You wrote to him at Monte Carlo, and asked him for a hundred pounds. What did you want that for?"

"To complete the purchase of the yacht for Gwendolen. I wanted to give it to her absolutely unencumbered. Mr. Tracy was selling some capital for me and said I must wait till the following settling day for the cash, and I asked Melville to lend me the hundred I needed until the matter was completed. But he didn't send it. He never even answered my letter."

"He tells me he sent you a hundred pounds in notes," Sir Geoffrey said distinctly. "Isn't that true?"

"No," said Ralph indignantly; "it's an absolute lie." He paced the room in angry impatience. It seemed incredible that his own brother could be capable of such an utterly unworthy trick. Sir Geoffrey closed his book with a snap and pressed his lips together.

"I ought to have known you both better," he said; "but Melville's story was so circumstantial, and there was the evidence of your letter, too. I was completely taken in. But now I know what to do."

Ralph stopped abruptly.

"What are you going to do?" he asked.

"Instruct Tracy to take proceedings against Melville for getting money under false pretences."

"But that's punishable with imprisonment," said Ralph aghast.

"Certainly it is," said Sir Geoffrey grimly.

"But you can't make a convict of my brother, and your nephew!"

"Our relationship to him is our misfortune," said Sir Geoffrey, "not our fault. I shall do what I say."

"Look here, Uncle Geoffrey," said Ralph excitedly, "after all, this is largely my affair. I will give you back the hundred pounds—I've got the money now—and I will go to town at once and square accounts with Melville. Did he tell you where he was staying?"

"No," said his uncle; "I did not enquire."

"Well, I'm sure to get news of him at Jermyn Street, if he isn't actually there. Promise to abandon all idea of prosecution, and leave this in my hands. Promise?"

Sir Geoffrey looked with pleasure at his nephew as he stood erect before him, glowing with just indignation, but with chivalrous desire to spare his brother this crowning shame.

"How you two fellows are brothers passes my comprehension," he said. "Well, Ralph, I tell you what I will do. I'll give you a week—you need not go up to town again to-day, for that would be hard on Gwen. I'll give you a week, and if you can make Melville disgorge the money I'll take it back with uncommon satisfaction. If you fail, I reserve liberty of action."

"That's fair, I suppose," said Ralph reluctantly; then he added more hopefully, "but it will be all right; of course, it will be all right."

Sir Geoffrey shook his head doubtfully, but the mellow roar of the gong reverberated through the house announcing luncheon, and he welcomed the interruption.

"Shake hands, my boy," he said. "I'm sorry I misjudged you, even for a moment. And now come along, or Gwen will think I've frightened away your appetite."

He linked his arm within his nephew's, and went into the dining-room with all his wonted cheerfulness restored.

CHAPTER V.

KINDRED AND AFFINITY.

Possession of money has an invigorating effect upon the majority of people, and Melville, who like most gamblers lived only in the present, awoke in the morning feeling a new man because of the open cheque for £100 which he had secured the night before. No qualms of conscience disturbed his equanimity because of the device he had adopted to obtain it. As soon as his toilette and breakfast were completed he could get the money from the bank, and the future, with its difficulties and complications, might be left to take care of itself. The solid satisfaction derived from the possession of money was enough for the moment.

Moreover, to-day contained an element of surprise in the shape of his pending visit to his unknown relative, and next to money there is probably nothing that has so much charm for the average gambler as the element of surprise, had any kindred spirit been with him at the time Melville would have made wagers upon the age and appearance of this Lady Holt, of whose existence he had never heard before. She was old, of course, and most likely intensely disagreeable; incompatibility of temper was doubtless the reason of her separation from Sir Geoffrey, and desire to avoid scandal the explanation of her complete seclusion from the world. The phrasing of her letter showed that she was precise, and upon that fragmentary piece of evidence Melville erected in imagination a complete living personality, in much the same way as scientists "restore" an entire prehistoric mammoth from a single tooth.

He dressed with particular care, and after an early breakfast went cheerfully downstairs and drove to his uncle's bank. Then, with eighteen five-pound notes in his pocket book and ten pounds in cash in his waistcoat, he was in a position to spend in a sufficiently agreeable manner the hours that intervened before he was due at South Kensington.

A refresher, in the shape of a sherry and bitters at the club, was followed by a delicate but entirely adequate luncheon at the Dieu-donnée, and Melville's enjoyment of it was not diminished by the fact that, happening to meet a casual acquaintance there, he lunched at the same table, and suggested that they should toss to decide which of the twain should pay the joint account, with the result that the casual acquaintance lost. Evidently the fickle jade was smiling on Melville; a couple of games of billiards followed the luncheon, and another refresher the billiards, and in high good humour Melville sauntered down the Ladies' Mile, preparatory to driving from Albert Gate to The Vale.

Opposite the French Embassy he parted from his friend.

"Sorry I can't ask you to come with me, old man," he said genially, "but I'm obliged to pay a duty visit to an aged aunt."

The friend expressed his sincere commiseration, but Melville only laughed.

"It's a very little flaw in an otherwise perfect day. You must lunch with me next time, and I will give you your revenge at billiards," and carefully choosing a well-appointed hansom he drove away.

The Vale, South Kensington, is a little-known cul-de-sac lying just off the Fulham Road. It contains but half-a-dozen houses, with trim lawns in front and quite large gardens in the rear; great elms shade the houses, and the remoteness from the main road makes them very quiet; in all of them are French windows and small verandahs, and there is an air of quietude and refinement about the place that makes it very attractive.

"The old lady does herself pretty well," thought Melville to himself as he walked up the gravelled path and noticed the close-cropped lawn and the blaze of geraniums and petunias. "I wonder what she knows about me, and what line I'd better take! The interesting musician might be diplomatic perhaps."

He thought that the maid who opened the door looked curiously at him as he enquired whether Lady Holt was at home, but, after all, that was a trifling matter, capable of bearing many interpretations. His interest was, however, more fully aroused by the drawing-room into which he was shown to await his aunt's coming, for it was not at all the sort of environment in which he had imagined he would find Sir Geoffrey's wife. It was essentially the drawing-room of a worldly woman of the world, furnished with taste, but evidently at great cost; photographs and silver boxes, enamels and ivories were scattered in profusion over the many tables, water colours by rising artists covered the walls, cushions and flowers were everywhere.

"I shall have to readjust my preconceived notions of my elderly relative," he said to himself as he took a rapid survey of the pretty room; "this is a veritable canary's cage."

Then the door opened, and at the rustle of silk petticoats he turned to make a formal bow to his aunt. But as he turned, an exclamation of surprise escaped his lips and his single eye-glass dropped upon the floor, for the woman who entered was no precise and ringletted old lady, but the one who had asked him for his card at Monte Carlo, and who had expressed such sympathy with him when he was reduced to the necessity of applying for the viaticum. It was indeed no other than the charming Mrs. Sinclair.

She came forward with perfect self-possession, but a gleam of amusement lurked in her eyes.

"This is really a most astonishing experience," Melville said, as he bowed over her hand. "You are quite the last person I expected to see."

"Not the last you wanted to see, I hope," she replied, "but I confess delight is not the predominant expression upon your face at the moment. Won't you sit down?"

Melville picked up his monocle and polished it carefully before readjusting it in his eye.

"But tell me," he persisted, "what are you doing here?"

"Living here," Mrs. Sinclair answered. "What else do you suppose?"

"I can't quite sort things," Melville said apologetically. "To begin with, you see, I had never heard until last night that there was a Lady Holt, and when I got her note asking me to call here to-day I tried to picture what she would be like."

"What was the result of your efforts?" Mrs. Sinclair enquired.

Melville laughed slightly.

"Well, I'm bound to admit that I imagined my uncle's choice in women would be early Victorian, so to speak, and I don't think it's anything but a compliment to say that the early Victorian brand isn't very likely to agree with you. If you like Lady Holt, there is hope for me."

"I like her very much," Mrs. Sinclair said. "Mr. Melville, it isn't quite fair, perhaps, to lay snares for young men, and you evidently don't grasp the situation. You remember your last night at Monte Carlo?"

"It was not the sort of night to forget readily," Melville replied grimly. "I never had such monstrous bad luck at the tables before."

"You gave me one of your cards and I promised to write to you."

"You did," said Melville.

"I have kept my promise," said Mrs. Sinclair. "I wrote to you yesterday and asked you to come to see me. I am Lady Holt."

The astonishment depicted on Melville's face was ludicrous, and Mrs. Sinclair rippled over with mirth.

"I never thought to see you so taken aback," she said. "What I like so much about English gentlemen is that they are so imperturbable, and now you are gazing at me as if I were a freak."

"Really, I beg your pardon," Melville said. "but to think how grossly I have misjudged Sir Geoffrey!"

"Come, that's much better," Mrs. Sinclair replied. "Yes, Mr. Ashley, the confession has to be made; I am your aunt."

"I'm uncommonly delighted to hear it," Melville said heartily, "and I've only one regret in learning the fact."

"And that is——?" his new-found relative enquired.

"That I did not know it long ago," Melville replied. His wonted composure returned, and with it his wonted desire to stand well in the opinion of those in whose company he happened to be—a desire, it may be said, characteristic of many men who drift into bad lives from weakness rather than from natural vice. "Tell me, have you refrained from claiming relationship with me all this time because you heard I was a bad lot?"

"I perceive you are not expert in drawing inferences," Mrs. Sinclair said; "one does not associate the particularly goody-goody type of young man with Monte Carlo, and that is where I saw you first."

"That is true," Melville admitted. "I must plead guilty to not being goody-goody. By the way, am I to call you 'aunt'?"

Mrs. Sinclair shuddered.

"Certainly not," she said emphatically; "there is no necessity to draw public attention to the question of my age."

"What am I to call you?" he persisted.

"Call me Mrs. Sinclair," she said. "How old are you?"

"Thirty-five," Melville answered. "Why?"

"Then you are old enough to call me Lavender when we are alone," she said. "Out of doors it had better be Mrs. Sinclair, I suppose. It is a censorious world."

She leaned back in her chair and surveyed her nephew critically; the scrutiny was satisfactory, and she was glad of the impulse that had prompted her to disclose her identity to him. Yet, shrewd and clever woman as she was, she had taken a step which, while it could never be retraced, was the first towards the undoing of them both. There were other things in her life which in her hours of reflection she regretted, not least among them being her separation from a husband whose good qualities she fully recognised, but nothing in the past had been so fraught with peril to herself as this alliance with her husband's nephew, which she owed to a single moment of caprice.

"Confess now," she said presently, "you are burning with curiosity to know all about everything?"

"That is a comprehensive way of putting it," he laughed, "but it is true. Tell me everything that is necessary, and as much more as you think fit."

"The only thing that is necessary," Mrs. Sinclair replied, "is that I actually am Sir Geoffrey Holt's wife. I married him years ago, when I was too young to realise all that marriage means, especially marriage to a man many years older than oneself. And—it didn't answer. That is really all." She had no intention of telling Melville very much about herself, and, of course, he could not cross-examine her. "He had not come into the title then," she went on, "and indeed there was no reason for supposing he ever would, for his brother was quite young enough to have married and had sons. Perhaps——" She paused, and Melville took advantage of the pause to give expression to the thought that was uppermost in his mind.

"I wonder that his marriage has been so completely forgotten. I never heard of it, and I'm quite sure my brother never has, yet he has been like a son to Sir Geoffrey, and knows a lot about his affairs."

Mrs. Sinclair flushed a little.

"Sir Geoffrey is a very proud man. He always was; indeed, that had a great deal to do with our mutual incompatibility, and proud men are apt to hold their tongues about their failures. Oh, yes!" she said, laughing, though there was no mirth in her laughter, "it was a dismal failure, and so we agreed to separate and never trouble each other again."

"And you never have?" said Melville.

"We never have."

"Sir Geoffrey is a very rich man," Melville remarked, following the line of his own thoughts.

"I believe he is," said Mrs. Sinclair indifferently. "All the money in the world doesn't make some things worth while."

"But I suppose he is very generous to you?"

"I wouldn't touch a penny of his money," said Mrs. Sinclair vehemently.

Melville, of course, dropped the subject, but noted her reply for future use. What he wanted to ascertain most at the moment was Lady Holt's feeling for her husband, but she gave him no opportunity.

"What's your brother like?" she enquired. "Anything like you?"

"Nothing," said Melville shortly. "Ralph is a paragon of all the virtues and I'm—not."

"And he's like a son to Sir Geoffrey?" said Mrs. Sinclair. "Is he to be his heir?"

"I don't know," Melville answered moodily. "I suppose so; but, as a matter of fact, Sir Geoffrey hasn't made his will, so I don't know what he will do with his money."

Mrs. Sinclair yawned. The conversation really did not interest her much, and she had her own reasons for not wishing to let it get too intimate. She had taken a fancy to Melville when she first saw him in the Riviera; he belonged to the type of man in whose company she was most at home, and she foresaw a certain amount of pleasurable excitement in which she could participate with him without being worried by demonstrations of a more affectionate interest, which men not related to her were apt to make. A nephew is safer than a cousin.

"You must ask me to dine with you," she said, "and we will develop our acquaintance gradually. I hate finding out all about people at once and having nothing left to learn."

"Dine with me to-night," said Melville promptly. The hundred pounds were burning a hole in his pocket, and he felt convinced that more would be forthcoming now from the same source. "Where shall it be?"

"Wherever you like," Mrs. Sinclair replied. "I'm always interested in people's varying ideas of hospitality. Come here for me at half-past seven and take me to the appointed place. Only don't tell me now where it is to be."

"All right," said Melville with alacrity. He liked her point of view and felt amazingly sympathetic already. Moreover, he recognised as clearly as she did the value of their relationship as a preventative of mutual misunderstandings. "I will go and fix it up. 'Pon my honour, I'm awfully delighted about this."

"Respect my confidence," she said gravely. "I may rely on that?"

"Absolutely," he answered. "I never interfere with other people's private business. It's not my form; and, besides, I'm so grateful to you for recognising me that I'm not going to forfeit a good thing."

Mrs. Sinclair was satisfied. She rang the bell for the maid to open the door, and smiled graciously upon her nephew.

"I hope you're going to be a great success," she said, as he rose to go. "There is an element of romance in the way fate has brought us together that is fascinating, and really you are a very creditable nephew."

Melville smiled sardonically. His aunt's husband held such a different opinion!

"I am a particularly fortunate one, I think," was all he said, and as he went out into the Fulham Road he thought the sun had never shone so brightly. Fortune had turned her wheel again, and his gambler's soul exulted.

CHAPTER VI.

BRAVADO.

It was, indeed, with a very similar sense of satisfaction to that enjoyed by a man who, when playing cut-throat euchre, finds the joker in his hand, that Melville contemplated the advent of Mrs. Sinclair into his life. In many respects she was a charming woman; vigorous and resourceful in consequence of her somewhat adventurous career, but womanly and free from affectation. Moreover, if she could not claim entire exoneration from the charge of being an adventuress, she was entitled to several important limitations in the term; she gambled, it is true, and led an extravagant life, but she did both out of her own resources, and did not prey upon society as do most of the evening-gowned frequenters of the Casino. What other skeletons might be hidden in the secret cupboard of her life, Melville did not yet trouble to surmise; he assumed that among them was the grisly relic of her marriage with his uncle. The marriage had been a failure; the couple had separated and agreed to let the story be forgotten; "Sinclair" was merely a nom-de-guerre, and everything was capable of a perfectly satisfactory explanation, with the exception of her financial independence. Melville could not understand the feeling which prompted her to refuse assistance from her husband, more especially in such a case as this, where she might dictate her own terms for consenting to suppress the fact of her existence. What her motive was in so doing was one of the first things Melville intended to ascertain; there might be money in the knowledge. But the first thing he intended to do was to tell Sir Geoffrey that he knew this amazing secret of the marriage, for he felt convinced that he could make money by holding his tongue on that subject to the world at large.

Such were the thoughts that passed through Melville's mind as he walked from the station to The Grange at Fairbridge, where the Austens lived. With him to decide was to act, and the previous night he had resolved to adopt a bold policy and face Sir Geoffrey and Ralph at once; they had had time to compare notes about the hundred pounds, and a stormy interview with them both was inevitable, but it possessed no terrors for Melville now. He guessed correctly that for the credit of the family neither of them would detail the facts to the Austens, with whom he was particularly anxious to stand well. Too selfish a man to be capable of real love for any woman, he yet liked Gwendolen better than any other woman he had ever seen, and he was quite willing to "range himself" if she would be his wife. That she was engaged to his brother troubled him very little. Engagements had been broken off before now, and the idea of cutting Ralph out had a certain piquancy that rendered the attempt worth making.

Looking delightfully cool and well-bred in his grey flannel suit and straw hat, with a turn-down collar that seemed to suggest an innocent simplicity of character, Melville walked slowly down the hill from the station and presented himself at the Austens' door. The ladies were in the garden, the servant informed him, and there Melville sought them, confident of a friendly greeting from them both.

Mrs. Austen was unaffectedly glad to see him. She had a tolerant feeling for nearly all young men, and Melville's marvellous gift as a musician had an especial charm for her. To Gwendolen he was Ralph's brother, and hitherto Ralph had championed Melville's cause, with the result that the girl was disposed to regard him as a somewhat maligned young man. So to-day they made much of him, and, under the influence of their warm welcome and gentle refinement, Melville was at his best.

"I've been sowing wild oats at Monte Carlo," he said gently, "and I found it vanity. So I've come home. No, I had no adventures and met nobody I knew. I lost all my money, and I'm very sorry for myself."

He congratulated Gwendolen on her engagement to Ralph, and there was a touch of pathos in his voice that proved him to be a consummate actor. Altogether, he enjoyed himself hugely, and awaited the critical moment of meeting his brother with actual pleasure. Ralph was expected early in the afternoon, and Melville lunched at the Grange and occupied the centre of its little stage with much complacency.

After luncheon Gwendolen remained indoors to watch for Ralph, and Melville sat in the verandah with Mrs. Austen and waxed confidential. She liked to be regarded as the recipient of the confidences of young men, and Melville played upon her amiable weakness, being careful to invent such peccadilloes only as would not strain her charity unduly.

"Heaven divides its gifts very unequally," he remarked presently.

"Why that platitude?" asked Mrs. Austen.

"I was thinking of Ralph and myself," he said. "Of course, Sir Geoffrey has been equally generous to us both, but I notice that Ralph gets all the affection. He was always Uncle Geoffrey's favourite, and now he is engaged to Gwen." He sighed pathetically, and Mrs. Austen considered.

"I think your uncle is just as fond of you as he is of Ralph," she said, "but you're not a home bird and your brother is. Really, I don't think Sir Geoffrey could have been kinder to you if you had been his own son."

"Not kinder," Melville said, "but fonder, more affectionate. You have known him a long time, Mrs. Austen. Why do you suppose he never married?"

"I have often wondered," Mrs. Austen said, "but I never met him until he came into the title and estates, and he was not a young man then. He may never have wanted to marry, or he may have had some disappointment. At all events, it's an excellent thing for you boys that he never did."

"Excellent," Melville assented heartily. Mrs. Austen evidently had no suspicion of the facts; that meant that Sir Geoffrey did not want her to know them, and that, too, was excellent. "Ah! here comes Ralph, dancing on air."

Judging by the expression on Ralph's face, dancing on air was a disagreeable mode of progression. He was, indeed, furious at finding Melville thus established in the heart of the citadel; he was conscious, too, of a disadvantage in being thus taken by surprise. Confident in the justice of his indignation, he could have invaded Melville's chambers and demanded explanations and apologies for the fraud; here all the force of his attack would be wasted in the interval before he could deliver it.

He made no offer to shake hands, and, flushed with anger, he compared unfavourably with Melville, sitting so imperturbable, and prepared for all contingencies.

Melville employed every little artifice of which he was capable to heighten the contrast between his brother and himself, of which he saw Mrs. Austen was conscious. He made room for Ralph upon the verandah, and chatted gaily of a hundred trifles, but to all his flippancies Ralph returned only monosyllabic answers, appearing awkward and ill-mannered even in Gwendolen's biassed judgment.

At last Melville rose to go, and with alacrity Ralph rose too.

Melville protested politely.

"Don't let me take you away, old man," he said.

"But I want to have a talk with you," Ralph answered.

"Thought you weren't particularly pleased to see me," Melville returned placidly, "but I'm glad I was wrong. Good-bye, Mrs. Austen, and thanks awfully for a jolly time. May I come again soon?"

"Do," she answered, "there's always cold luncheon and a warm welcome here for you." She made the remark pointedly, for she was a little vexed with Ralph. She even went so far as to restrain Gwendolen from accompanying the brothers to the gate, and as they disappeared at the end of the drive Ralph was conscious of almost being in disgrace with his future mother-in-law.

Outside, however, on the main road his embarrassment vanished.

"What the deuce do you mean by coming here like this?" he said angrily.

"My dear Ralph," said Melville coolly, "The Grange doesn't belong to you, nor does the Manor House—yet. I've been to The Grange because I wanted to see the Austens, and now I'm going to the Manor House because I want to see Sir Geoffrey."

Ralph was unfeignedly astonished.

"You want to see Sir Geoffrey?" he gasped.

"I do," said Melville. "Why not?"

"I wonder you have the audacity to look him in the face again," said Ralph hotly. "You are a liar and a thief."

"Go slow, Ralph," said Melville, "go slow. It seems to me you're off your chump. If your engagement hasn't turned your brain, tell me what all this pother is about, and leave mud-slinging till afterwards. What do you mean?"

Ralph was almost deceived by his brother's calmness; at any rate, it had the effect of making him struggle to regain command of his own temper.

"I wrote to you when you were at Monte Carlo," he said more quietly, "and asked you to lend me a hundred pounds."

"That's so," said Melville. "Sorry I couldn't oblige you, but I didn't even read your letter till I was on my way home, and then I was broke myself."

"But you got a hundred pounds out of Sir Geoffrey," spluttered Ralph.

"I did," said Melville. "I hope you did the same."

"Good heavens, man!" cried Ralph, as angrily as before; "don't try your vile swindles on me too. You told Sir Geoffrey you lent me that hundred pounds and got him to hand you over an open cheque for the amount in repayment of what you said was my debt, leaving him to get explanations from me afterwards."

"I hope the old man wasn't very crusty," said Melville sweetly.

"But your whole story was an infernal lie," roared Ralph, "and you got that money by a vulgar, low-down swindle. You are a liar, Melville, and a thief. I wish to heaven Sir Geoffrey had kicked you out of the house before he parted with the cheque."

"I daresay you do," Melville replied, unmoved; "but really, Ralph, you've had your whack out of the old buck, and now you're going to marry the Austen money you needn't grudge me a bit, need you? It's not exactly brotherly."

The sneering affront goaded Ralph almost to madness.

"You can thank me that you've not been arrested already for getting that money under false pretences," he said, livid with passion. "If Sir Geoffrey had had his own way you would have been, and 'pon my word, I'm beginning to be sorry I begged you off."

"Perhaps it isn't too late even yet," said Melville, no less calmly than before, "but I fancy you are exaggerating. Sir Geoffrey is always intemperate in his language, but I can't believe he would adopt such extremely unpleasant measures as the prosecution of his own nephew. However, I'll talk to him about it. I came down with the intention of doing so after I left The Grange."

Ralph was nonplussed. Such unlimited assurance as that displayed by Melville was outside his experience, and it even began to have some effect upon him.

"I think it was a mean and dirty trick," he said, "to make out that I owed you anything when I didn't, but that part of the business you can settle with your own conscience. What are you going to do now about the money?"

"How do you mean?" Melville enquired innocently.

"Well," said Ralph, "I persuaded Sir Geoffrey to drop the idea of legal proceedings by saying that as you had used my name the matter ought to be left in my hands. I've been to town to get the money, and I repaid him this morning."

"That's really awfully good of you," Melville said effusively. "I am infinitely obliged to you, but I'm afraid I shall have to owe it to you for a little while."

"It's simple waste of time to talk to you," said Ralph with scorn, "but there's one more remark I have to make, and you may as well remember it, for I mean what I say. I can't undo the fact that you are my brother, but I can do a good deal to prevent it from being forced on my attention, and one way is to avoid seeing you. Now, in future I'll trouble you to keep away from The Grange."

Melville coloured. This was a contingency he had not foreseen, and for a moment he lost his judgment.

"Jealous, eh?" he enquired, with ill-affected sarcasm. He was no coward physically, but he almost quailed before the blaze in his brother's eyes. Ralph did not trouble to fling back the taunt. With suppressed passion he spoke rapidly and distinctly, and each word flicked Melville on the raw.

"You are a contemptible swindler, and if you only have rope enough you'll hang yourself in the end. I'm quits with Sir Geoffrey over your last fraud, and it's worth every penny of the money to have learnt to know you as you are; but now I do know you I'll take jolly good care that you don't hang about my friends. Sir Geoffrey has ordered you out of the Manor House, and I order you out of The Grange. Go there again, and I'll tell Mrs. Austen all about this business and twist your neck into the bargain."

Melville forced a laugh.

"It will be time enough for you to order me out of houses when you possess any. When you are master of The Grange I shall keep clear of the place, you may be sure. Until then I shall call upon Mrs. Austen whenever I choose."

"If you go to The Grange I shall tell Mrs. Austen what has happened," Ralph repeated, "and she will order you out then herself."

"I dare you to do it," said Melville. In reality the idea filled him with uneasiness, but he was too shrewd to show it. Instead, he remarked reflectively, as if considering Ralph's interests only, "Mrs. Austen might begin to think she was allowing her daughter to marry into a queer family, supposing for the moment that she took everything you said for gospel."

Ralph drove his hands deep into his pockets. Honesty such as his often seems very stupid when confronted with the cleverness of a knave, and he felt unequal to a discussion with his brother. But he wished he had been less loyal to him in the past, less sturdy an advocate for his defence when Sir Geoffrey arraigned him. It was humiliating to think how completely Melville had taken him in. They walked in silence to the Manor House, and Ralph paused by the gate.

"I'm not going to argue with you, and I have nothing to add to what I said about The Grange. Go there and you'll see. Here is the Manor House. If you take my advice you will leave me here and get back to town by the next train."

"When I ask your advice I'll consider about taking it," Melville answered gently; he saw how his own coolness angered and flurried Ralph. "As for The Grange, Mrs. Austen has kindly invited me to dine there and bring my violin, and I need scarcely say I have accepted. And as for Sir Geoffrey, I have come down to see him, and if he's at home I will see him now; if he is out I shall wait."

"You are beyond me," Ralph said hopelessly. "Well, I don't want to keep you away from Sir Geoffrey if you are anxious to see him, but if I were in your shoes, which, thank heaven, I am not, I would blow out my brains rather than face him. I don't believe you have any shame left."

He opened the gate and, with Melville, walked up the drive. As they came in sight of the house, however, his mind shrank from the prospect of having to be present at so painful an interview between his uncle and brother as he felt sure this one must be. He stopped abruptly.

"You will probably find Sir Geoffrey in the library," he said. "I am going down to the houseboat."

"All right," said Melville unconcernedly. "I dare say I shall see you again later. If Sir Geoffrey asks me to stay, I will. By-bye," and noting with amusement the incredulous surprise written on Ralph's countenance he nodded cheerfully to him and walked in through the open doorway of the Manor House.

CHAPTER VII.

MELVILLE LEADS TRUMPS.

Melville possessed in an eminent degree the gift of winning the affection of his inferiors. Where no conflict of interest was possible he gave full play to the sympathetic part of his nature, which was his as it is the nature of all musicians. It was part of his policy, too, to stand well in the favour of those upon whom his comfort depended, and thus, although he was indifferent to the appeals of those who were inconvenienced by his indebtedness to them, and would resort to any subterfuge rather than pay his tradesmen's bills, yet he was a lenient and considerate master to his valet in Jermyn Street, was regarded with admiration by the hall porters of his club, and was held in affection by the old retainers at the Manor House, who had known him for so many years.

With Martin Somers, Sir Geoffrey's butler, Melville was an especial favourite. The old man had taught him all he knew of outdoor sports, and had often stood his friend when in earlier days the boy was in disgrace with his uncle.

Melville turned from the hall into the dining-room and rang the bell. It was cool and shady in this room, and Melville was conscious of a pang of regret at the knowledge that the place would never be his. His life had been full of variety and excitement, but it had cost him all chance of ever being master of the Manor House. Already he was an unwelcome visitor, and when in course of time it passed into Ralph's possession, its doors would very probably be closed to him altogether.

"Ralph is a stupid clown," he muttered, "but I'm not sure that he hasn't done better for himself than I have. To own this place and be Gwen's husband should be good enough for anyone."

The sigh that escaped him was born of sincerity, but he turned briskly to face his immediate task as the butler came in answer to the ring. Melville shook hands with him, making no reference to his previous evening visit to his uncle.

"Here I am again, Martin," he said cheerfully, "'Pon my word, it's good to see you."

"You've been abroad, Master Melville?" Martin asked.

"Yes," said Melville; "same old racket, same old place, same old luck."

Martin shook his head.

"I've no faith in Monte Carlo," he remarked austerely; "never heard of any good coming from there."

"That's rude," said Melville, "seeing that I've just come from there. How is Sir Geoffrey?"

"Pretty well, sir," the butler replied; "I may say very well."

"He's a wonderful old chap," said Melville. "He'll be marrying soon and having a family of his own; see if he doesn't."

"Sir Geoffrey never took any account of the ladies," Martin remarked. "It's a pity, in some ways; but, bless you, sir, he's got all the family a man needs in Master Ralph and yourself."

"Too much, perhaps," said Melville. "Go and tell him I'm here, Martin, will you."

The old servant went, and Melville turned to the sideboard with the air of a man who is quite at home and helped himself to sherry and seltzer. Martin seemed very slow in coming, and Melville paced up and down the room. As he did so he felt in his hip pocket the little revolver which he always carried.

"Gad!" he thought, "on what a hair one's fortune hangs! I was within an ace of turning that on myself when I saw Ralph's letter, and if I had not got that cheque so easily from Uncle Geoffrey I was mad enough then to have turned it on to him. And if I had done so all this knowledge and the power it gives would have come too late—just a few hours too late. And yet there are people who don't believe in luck!"

The butler's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"I'm very sorry, Master Melville, but Sir Geoffrey cannot see you this afternoon."

Melville frowned; he saw the perplexity on the old man's face, detected the hesitation with which he spoke.

"Cannot or will not?" he asked sharply.

Martin was no dissembler where his affections were involved.

"Sir Geoffrey seems very put out," he said apologetically, "and——"

"Go back to Sir Geoffrey and say that I must see him," said Melville peremptorily, and reluctantly Martin obeyed.

This time he did not return. Melville heard the library door bang and quick steps cross the hall. In another moment the dining-room door was flung open and, purple with rage, Sir Geoffrey himself strode in.

"What do you mean by forcing yourself upon me?" he said passionately. "Are you so dead to all sense of decency that you not only can't stop away after your last vile swindle, but even have the audacity to dictate to me in my own house? I will not receive you here. Go out and stop out, or I'll have you put out!"

Melville stood perfectly quiet.

"I'm sorry to cause you any more annoyance," he said, "but my business is urgent."

"I will not hear it," shouted Sir Geoffrey.

"You must," said Melville firmly. "I haven't come here to-day on my own account. I have come on behalf of Lady Holt."

For a moment the name seemed to convey nothing to Sir Geoffrey; indeed, the combination of words had never formed itself before his mind; he had not inherited the title when that passage in his life was closed. Melville saw that he was puzzled, and with cold emphasis he varied his announcement.

"On behalf of Lady Holt. I have come to see you about your wife."

Then he knew his shot had gone home. Sir Geoffrey paled, and seemed to be on the verge of a collapse; he turned vaguely to the fireplace where his great armchair stood, and sank feebly into it.

"Lady Holt!" he muttered. "Good God! my wife!"

Melville broke the silence.

"You thought that she was dead?" he said gently.

"Yes," said Sir Geoffrey; "I thought that she was dead." His voice was hoarse, his face white and hopeless. He did not question the truth of her reappearance in his life, or of Melville's coming as her ambassador; he knew how cruel destiny can be, how remorselessly she chooses our happiest moments to deal her hardest blows. For a moment the shock had numbed him, but as his full consciousness returned he was angry with himself for having betrayed by even so much as the quiver of an eyelid the fact that he was hurt, albeit the hurt was mortal.

With an effort he recovered himself, and his old sternness of manner towards Melville returned.

"When did you make Lady Holt's acquaintance?" he enquired coldly. "And how long have you known of—this?"

"I made her acquaintance yesterday," Melville answered; "I first heard of her existence the day before."

"Ah!" said Sir Geoffrey.

Melville interpreted the exclamation correctly; his uncle was thinking of his evening visit for getting money. He hastened to put him right.

"When I got back to my chambers after leaving you the night before last, I found a letter from Lady Holt asking me to call upon her yesterday, and, of course, I went."

"Of course," echoed Sir Geoffrey drily. He could imagine the alacrity with which Melville would follow up this discovery. "And she has sent me a message by you?"

"No," Melville replied. "I have come of my own motion. Uncle Geoffrey, your wife is in an absolutely destitute condition—she is starving."

Sir Geoffrey bit his lips. This thing was possible, and yet he could not place reliance on one single word his nephew uttered. He looked at him searchingly as if to read his soul, but Melville never blenched, and Sir Geoffrey was compelled to believe that in this instance his story was true, inasmuch as its truth was all to Melville's advantage. If only he could have looked his nephew in the face and denied the whole matter! But that was impossible. Not all the years that had elapsed could undo the marriage contracted in a moment of infatuation; all the injury which had been heaped upon him by his heartless wife could not release him from the obligation he had incurred. And now the forgotten story had been discovered by this unscrupulous, self-seeking schemer, who would be only too glad to retail it to an astonished world, unless it were made worth his while to hold his tongue. The suspicion leaped into life in the old man's mind. Melville might be sincere in his desire to be of service to his new-found relative, but the main plank in his platform was blackmail; he meant to have hush-money, and if that were not forthcoming he would publish all the facts, embellished, no doubt, by a malicious imagination.

At last he spoke.

"I need scarcely say I believed her to be dead. All my efforts to find her were in vain; but it is unnecessary to go into all that. Give me her address and she shall receive immediate and liberal assistance. I will go to her at once."

Melville shook his head.

"She will not see you. She guessed what you would say, and I gave her my word of honour not to tell you where she is."

"Is that so very binding?" Sir Geoffrey asked with scorn. "If I am not to know where Lady Holt lives, why should I come to her help?"

"It is for you to decide whether you will or not," Melville replied, "but somebody must, and soon."

"I will help her at once if I do it myself," Sir Geoffrey said, "but I do not intend to allow you to be my purse-bearer. Do you suppose I can place any confidence in you after your last disgraceful performance? How am I even to know that you are speaking the truth now?"

"It is entirely your own affair," said Melville quietly. "The case is urgent. If you will not assist your wife in her extremity, I must find someone who will."

He rose to go, and Sir Geoffrey watched him narrowly.

"What are you going to do?"

"One woman may befriend another," Melville answered; "perhaps Mrs. Austen will be willing to help Lady Holt."

"What business is it of Mrs. Austen's in particular?"

"I presume she is aware of Lady Holt's existence," Melville replied, "and may consequently be less astounded at the facts than other of your friends might be."

He thoroughly enjoyed the situation; it was certain that Sir Geoffrey would not allow the story which he had kept secret so long to be published now, at any rate, not until he had time for further consideration of its effect upon all concerned. He noted the nervous way in which his uncle clasped and unclasped his hands upon the arms of his chair, sure sign of the uncertainty within him, in spite of the rigid determination of his face. Sir Geoffrey was too proud to ask him to keep his knowledge to himself, but that he meant him to do so Melville was assured.

"Why did Lady Holt write to you?" Sir Geoffrey asked suddenly; "and what has she told you of her story?"

"I don't know why she wrote to me," Melville answered. "She merely said in her note that she wished to see me, said she married you many years ago, and asked me to regard her letter as confidential for the present. I saw her yesterday."

"Yes?" said Sir Geoffrey.

"She said all I need know was that she really was your wife, and I confess she satisfied me that she was speaking the truth. I suppose she was? She is Lady Holt?"

"I did marry many years ago, if you mean that," Sir Geoffrey replied, "but whether my wife is alive, and, if so, whether the lady you saw is my wife, I am not in a position to say. Obviously, I must see her before I do anything for her."

He thought he had scored a point, but he was wrong. Melville would not budge from his original position, and so long as Sir Geoffrey desired his old secret to remain sacred, Melville held the key of the situation. "I intend to keep my promise to her," he said coldly. "She is ill and actually destitute; she did not write to me until things had become so critical that she was on the point of being turned out of her lodgings. Of course, I put that all right, but you will have to see about her future."

Sir Geoffrey winced under the whole speech; the tone and the manner and the injustice of it were all so cruel.

"Be straightforward for once, Melville," he said peremptorily, "and tell me what you expect to get out of this? You discover something in my life which, for reasons of my own, I have kept to myself. Are you acting in good faith on behalf of this poor lady, or do you hope to turn your knowledge to your own advantage?"

"You doubtless had excellent reasons for dropping the curtain on that scene in your life," Melville said.

"And you propose to raise it unless I make it worth your while not to," said Sir Geoffrey bitterly. "I quite understand. You propose to add blackmailing to your other accomplishments."

Melville declined to grow angry.

"I have merely come to tell you your wife is starving," he observed, "and to suggest that you should help her. It is a condition that your assistance should reach her through me, for Lady Holt appears to hold her marriage in as much detestation as you do. The only thing I want to know now is whether you accept the condition and will allow me to be your envoy. If not, I shall act as I think proper. That is all. It is really very simple."

Sir Geoffrey got up languidly.

"I can do nothing to-day," he said, and Melville knew he had won. "I must write some letters, and if you will come here tomorrow I will give you some money for Lady Holt's immediate needs, and consider what steps to take for her future."

"I suppose I shall not be inconveniencing you if I stay the night here?" Melville said with admirably assumed indifference. "It will be pleasant to have a pull on the river, and will save me the double journey. I daresay Ralph can find me anything I may require."

Sir Geoffrey looked at him. His worthy nephew was losing no time in presenting a draft on account, but he affected to miss the point.

"As you please," he replied wearily; "and now I will ask you to excuse me. I must be alone."

The change from the angry, outraged uncle and guardian to the old-fashioned, courteous gentleman was pathetic, but the pathos was lost upon Melville. As soon as Sir Geoffrey left the room he rang the bell again.

"I'm going to spend the night here, Martin," he said to the butler; "will you find me what's necessary. I've brought nothing down."

The old man was pleased; evidently Master Melville had made his peace once more.

"I'm very glad to hear it, sir," he said deliberately. "Mrs. and Miss Austen are dining here to-night at eight o'clock. I will have everything ready for you in your own room by seven. Will you have some tea now?"

"No, thanks; I'll join my brother on the houseboat," Melville answered, and lighting a cigarette he strolled slowly down the garden. "My virtuous brother will be disconcerted," he said to himself, "and that is always agreeable to the onlooker. Thank heaven, I have a sense of humour! It is a quality in which the very good are woefully deficient, and Ralph is very good."

CHAPTER VIII.

RIVALS.

Ralph was disconcerted and not a little puzzled, but neither Melville nor Sir Geoffrey vouchsafed any explanation, and there was a traditional discipline maintained by the uncle over his nephews that precluded Ralph from asking any questions. So Melville made himself entirely at home, and no reference was made to the hundred pounds, for procuring which he had been within an ace of being prosecuted. Moreover, the one night's stay at the Manor House was extended into a week, and when at length he took his departure to London it was of his own free motion and not at the instigation of any of his relatives.

During the week he had several private interviews with Sir Geoffrey, but what passed between them was known only to themselves. On one occasion Mr. Tracy came down and was closeted for some time with Sir Geoffrey, but Melville, who was summoned to the library, emerged ultimately with a cheerful demeanour that effectually disposed of any suggestion that the advent of the solicitor was connected with his recent fraudulent transaction. He was, indeed, remarkably well pleased with the results of that particular debate, and subsequently jingled the money in his pockets with a light-heartedness most unseemly in a culprit.

Finally he bade a friendly farewell to his brother, a deferential one to his uncle, and a regretful one to Gwendolen Austen, and with the utmost self-satisfaction journeyed back to his chambers in Jermyn Street to enjoy the remainder of the season on an unruffled conscience and a well-filled purse.

His first visit was to his starving aunt, who gave him an excellent luncheon, accompanied by claret of undeniable quality; the impression left upon his mind at their first interview, that he had found an extremely pleasant acquaintance, was confirmed. Mrs. Sinclair was a "good comrade," and Melville became one of her most frequent visitors and her usual squire to the theatre and other places where the world amuses itself. He liked her unaffectedly, and she liked him, and the little house in The Vale would have had unalloyed charm for Melville but for the constant presence there of two other people.

The first of these was Mrs. Sinclair's maid, Lucille, who had admitted him on the occasion of his first visit. Entirely devoted to her mistress, with whom she had lived for many years, she had done her utmost to dissuade Lavender from writing to Melville and thus introducing an element of difficulty into a career now undisturbed, and likely to end in a marriage so desirable as that with the wealthy Scotch baronet, Sir Ross Buchanan.

The other was Sir Ross Buchanan himself, who was with Mrs. Sinclair in the Casino at Monte Carlo on the night when Melville became the recipient of the viaticum. Subject to the limitations suggested by his native Scotch caution, he intended to bestow his large fortune and his small person upon Mrs. Sinclair, and, knowing nothing of Melville's relationship by marriage to the object of his passion, he regarded him with dislike and jealous mistrust. He took no pains to conceal his dislike of Melville, and told Mrs. Sinclair in so many words that he disapproved of his visits.

"Have you any more grown-up relations to spring upon me?" he asked sarcastically.

"Now you're being stupid," she replied. "He is related to me and I like him, and now that I've opened my doors to him, I'm not going to close them again to gratify your caprice."

Sir Ross frowned.

"I hate the brute," he said viciously, "and I object to his visiting you."

"Then I had better arrange that you should not meet him," Mrs. Sinclair answered; "there will be no difficulty about that."

"I object to his visiting you at all," Sir Ross repeated. "You are too fond of him as it is; your attentions are quite marked. If you are so much attached to him now, there is no reason why you should not insist upon receiving him after we are married, and that I have no intention of permitting."

Mrs. Sinclair was not the woman to brook dictation.

"You might conceivably have some ground for objecting to Mr. Ashley visiting me if he were not related to me," she said coldly, "though even then I should think you unreasonable. But he is related to me, so your objection is merely absurd. Whatever you may do after we are married, you cannot revise my visiting list now."

"How is he related to you?" Sir Ross asked angrily, but that was a question which Mrs. Sinclair did not choose to answer. Sir Ross knew all about Mr. Sinclair, with whom Lavender really believed her marriage to have been perfectly legal, but he did not know anything about Sir Geoffrey Holt, and Lavender was particularly anxious that he should not. The only command she had laid upon Melville was that he should not talk about his uncle, and he had faithfully obeyed her. As potential husbands are not in the habit of discussing their predecessors in that office, she knew that Sir Ross would not talk about Mr. Sinclair, so that there had been no difficulty on that score either. Thus Melville was in ignorance of the fact that there ever had been any Mr. Sinclair, and Sir Ross was in ignorance, if not of Sir Geoffrey Holt's existence, at any rate of the part he had played in Lavender Sinclair's life. But for the impulse which had prompted her to claim Melville as her nephew, all the facts might have remained in the oblivion into which they had sunk.

"Very well," said Sir Ross, as Lavender remained silent, "if I cannot yet revise your visiting list, I can put you to your election between this person and myself. I have the honour to be your accepted suitor, and I object to this gentleman's attentions. You will be so good as to choose between him and me. If in defiance of my wishes you continue to receive him I shall absent myself from your house and consider our engagement at an end. If you are unwilling that that should occur you will dismiss Mr. Ashley as summarily as you took him up. I require you to choose between him and me, and I will come to-morrow for your answer. Good afternoon!" and unceremoniously hurrying into the hall he crammed his hat upon his head and marched away in high dudgeon.

But fortune still favoured Melville, or else it was Destiny leading him by easy gradations down to his destruction. For when the morrow came, bright and sunny, he found that he had no engagements until the evening, and determined to while away part of the time by chatting with his aunt. He therefore sauntered leisurely towards South Kensington, pausing in Piccadilly to buy some hothouse flowers for her. When he reached The Vale, Mrs. Sinclair was engaged with a dressmaker, and Melville, leaving the flowers in the hall, was shown into the drawing-room to wait her pleasure. Lucille brought the message asking him to wait, and was on the point of returning upstairs when the bell rang again. She opened the door and saw Sir Ross Buchanan, to whose cause with her mistress she was a staunch adherent. Instead of going upstairs to enquire whether Mrs. Sinclair was at home to him, Lucille took it upon herself to ask him, too, to wait, and ushered him into the drawing-room where Melville already was.

"There isn't any love lost between those two gentlemen," she thought as she opened the drawing-room door and noticed the change in Sir Ross's expression when his eye fell upon Melville, "and I'll give them the opportunity of having a few words. If Sir Ross is the man I take him for, he'll make it clear to Mr. Ashley that his room is preferred to his company."

Melville greeted Sir Ross cheerfully, ignoring the scowl upon the little baronet's face.

"Nice and cool in here," he remarked. "Mrs. Sinclair is engaged—frocks and frills, I understand, and all that sort of thing."

"I didn't have the impertinence to ask particulars," snapped Sir Ross, "and I don't take any interest in the details of ladies' toilettes."

"No?" said Melville. "That's a mistake; you should always be interested in what interests women, and nothing interests them so much as frocks—except frills."

"I don't require any lessons in how to deal with women, thanks," said Sir Ross.

Melville was amused. A little conversational fencing was always to his taste, and when one's opponent is angry to begin with, the odds are on oneself.

"Shouldn't presume to offer any to a man of the world, such as you are," he said, but if it was his intention to mollify Sir Ross, he was disappointed.

"I have an appointment with Mrs. Sinclair to-day," the baronet said, "on a matter of some importance. Perhaps you could make it convenient not to wait to see her this afternoon?"

"Mrs. Sinclair asked me to wait," Melville replied; "so I will, thanks." That Buchanan wanted him to go was enough to induce him to remain, but it was the only reason. Sir Ross, however, could not be expected to know that.

"To be precise, I have come to see her about you," he said.

"Oh! believe me, I am of no importance," Melville answered, smiling, "no importance whatever."

Sir Ross fumed and considered. Since Melville was obviously determined not to budge, perhaps the best thing to do was to explain the terms on which he stood with Mrs. Sinclair, and tell him quite frankly that he did not mean to put up with any tame cats. Incidentally, too, he might find out what the alleged relationship between Mrs. Sinclair and Melville amounted to.

"Perhaps you are not aware of the footing on which I stand with regard to Mrs. Sinclair?" he said, in a somewhat challenging tone.

"That of a valued friend, I am sure," Melville replied, a grin belying the politeness of his words.

"I am her affianced husband," Sir Ross announced pompously.

"The deuce you are!" said Melville. "I beg your pardon, I'm sure," he added hastily, "but you rather took me by surprise. Pray accept my warm congratulations."

"The fact that I am engaged to be married to her," Sir Ross went on, taking no notice of the congratulations, "will perhaps serve as an excuse for what I am going to say. You come here too much, Mr. Ashley, and I don't like it—I don't like it. Your constant attendance excites remark, and may compromise Mrs. Sinclair. That, in the circumstances, is a thing which I cannot permit."

He drew himself up and endeavoured to assume an air of commanding dignity. Melville, on the track of a mystery, never made a mistake. How Mrs. Sinclair contemplated marrying Sir Ross Buchanan, or anybody else, until Sir Geoffrey Holt shuffled off this mortal coil he could not conceive, but Sir Ross was evidently quite in earnest, and by fooling him to the top of his bent he might induce him to impart knowledge, which Melville had ever found a most valuable asset.

"I quite understand, Sir Ross," he murmured. "It is a most natural and proper feeling. But believe me, if I have been indiscreet I have erred through ignorance."

"You have been indiscreet," Sir Ross retorted, "and I am resolved that the indiscretion shall be terminated. I discussed the matter with Mrs. Sinclair yesterday, and, in point of fact, my appointment with her to-day was made that I might receive her answer."

"Forgive me if I'm dense," Melville said, "but even now I don't quite understand. That you might receive her answer to what?"

"You compel me to be candid," Sir Ross said, getting very red; "in plain English, I told Mrs. Sinclair that one of us—either you or I—must discontinue calling at her house, and I've come to know which it is to be."

Melville hugged himself.

"My dear Sir Ross," he protested, "you do me too much honour. I could never aspire to be your rival in any case. In this case the honour of your jealousy is so unnecessary. My relationship to Mrs. Sinclair puts any idea of a more intimate tie out of the question."

"What is your relationship to her?" Sir Ross asked bluntly.

Melville was on his guard at once. Acquiring information was one thing, imparting it another. If Sir Ross did not know, Mrs. Sinclair must have had her reasons for not telling him, and Melville was no marplot; he preferred to stand in.

"I am related to her by marriage," he answered vaguely.

"I knew the late Mr. Sinclair intimately," Sir Ross replied, "and I never heard of any relations of his named Ashley. However, it doesn't affect my point."

"I've a shocking memory for dates," Melville said. "How long is it actually since Mr. Sinclair died?"

"He died on Jubilee Day," Sir Ross answered shortly. "Mr. Ashley, I've been quite frank with you, and you will oblige me by giving me a specific answer to my question. Do you, now you know the facts, intend to observe my request that you will discontinue your very marked attentions to the lady who has done me the honour to accept my hand?"

"I think I must ask you to await Mrs. Sinclair's answer, for which you have called by appointment," Melville answered suavely. "You see, Sir Ross, this is her house, and I can only accept dismissal from it at the desire of its owner, who invited me to it. There is another point, too; my relationship to Mrs. Sinclair renders your apprehensions unnecessary, and I think it would be presumption on my part to do anything to suggest they were well founded."

"In short, you won't go?" Sir Ross asked, with suppressed fury.

"Thank you, no," Melville replied.

"Then I will," said Sir Ross, and rising abruptly he bounced out of the door, leaving Melville in possession of the field.

Lavender Sinclair, coming downstairs at that moment, met him in the hall.

"You're not going, are you?" she enquired. "I am sorry I've been so long."

"I was going," he answered, "but perhaps it may not be necessary. I've come for your answer, Lavender. Which is it to be?"

"Come into the dining-room," she said, "and have a cigarette. What do you mean?"

"Which is it to be?" he repeated. "I put you to your choice yesterday. Do you choose to dismiss Mr. Ashley or me?"

"How silly you are!" she said good-humouredly. "Fancy your still harping on that string! You needn't meet Mr. Ashley, need you?"

"I can't help it," Sir Ross retorted; "the brute's always here. I've been shut up with him now for the last half-hour."

Mrs. Sinclair laughed, though in reality she was a little annoyed.

"How foolish of Lucille to put you into the same room! But it shall not occur again. It was the merest accident."

"I don't know about an accident," Sir Ross growled; "it was a misfortune. Lavender, I meant what I said yesterday; you must choose between this man and me. Are you going to send him about his business?"

"No," said Mrs. Sinclair obstinately; "I am not. What is it you object to in him?"

"I object to everything," Sir Ross answered. "I don't like you having any man hanging about you so much, and I bar this particular one. That ought to be enough."

"I believe you're jealous," Mrs. Sinclair said.

"It don't matter what I am," Sir Ross said angrily, "if you're not going to take any notice of my wishes. Jealous or not, I'm in earnest. Which is it to be?"

"I can't affront people in this way," she replied. "What reason am I to give him?"

"I've done that for you," Sir Ross remarked. "I told him you were going to marry me, and that I wouldn't have him compromising you."

Mrs. Sinclair was irritated.

"You had no right to do anything of the kind," she said warmly. "What did he say?"

"He said he would go if, and when, you told him," Sir Ross answered. "Will you tell him now?"

"No," said Mrs. Sinclair; "certainly not."

"Then I will wish you a very good-day," he answered frigidly. "Pray do not trouble to come into the hall. You are keeping Mr. Ashley waiting."

"Good-bye," she replied with unconcern. "Come back when you're in a better temper. Won't you take your flowers?"

She held out Melville's offering, and it proved the last straw. Sir Ross controlled himself by a heroic effort, but vouchsafed no answer to this feminine last word. He departed in a frame of mind that was positively dangerous.

"He'll come back," Mrs. Sinclair said cheerfully to Lucille, who had been a witness of the baronet's exit, but the maid shook her head.

"I don't fancy he will," she said. She was sorry, for Sir Ross's title appealed to her imagination, and she had anticipated with satisfaction her mistress's promotion in the social scale. "I've never seen Sir Ross so put out before, and I don't fancy he will come back."

"Then he can stay away," Mrs. Sinclair replied; "but it's as well to begin as you mean to go on, and if he is so eccentric before marriage I don't suppose he'd be any better afterwards. Fancy his objecting to Mr. Ashley coming here!"

"I shouldn't think much of him if he didn't object," Lucille answered primly. "Any man who is a man dislikes another man paying attention to his young lady. Mr. Ashley brought those flowers, ma'am."

Mrs. Sinclair laughed; the philosophy of the remark amused her, and her mistake about the bouquet struck her as really funny. She looked at herself in the mirror, and put back a curl of hair that had strayed out of place. Then she picked up the flowers.

"How sweet of Mr. Ashley to think of them," she said. "I must go and thank him at once," and, still bubbling over with amusement, she went into the drawing-room. But, outside, Lucille still shook her head.

"It's a mistake," she said to herself, "and she'll live to regret it, I'm sure."

CHAPTER IX.

BIGAMY.

From the drawing-room window Melville watched Sir Ross prancing down the garden path, and then he turned to Mrs. Sinclair as she came in holding his flowers. He would have assumed a penitent demeanour if the situation had seemed to require it, but a glance at his aunt's face reassured him. The laughter in her eyes was infectious, and Melville laughed in response.

"Sir Ross looks a little put out," he said tentatively.

"He's in an abominable temper," Mrs. Sinclair answered. "You have a great deal to answer for, Melville. You are the cause of quite a serious quarrel between that excellent little man and myself."

"I'm sorry if you're sorry," Melville said. "He doesn't like me, I know, but I wonder why?"

"Is it so surprising?" she enquired.

"Well," said Melville candidly, "most people do like me, you know—barring the very good ones."

"I see," said Mrs. Sinclair. "The fact is Sir Ross thinks you are too attentive to me."

"So he told me," Melville answered. "He left me in no doubt as to what he wanted; he regards me as a sort of trespasser, and desired me to clear out and not come back."

"What did you say?"

"Oh! I suggested that perhaps it was rather your affair than his, and then he said that one of us had got to go, and we played a sort of nursery game—'twasn't me and 'twas you, don't you know—I didn't go, so he did. Am I really compromising you—aunt?"

"Of course you're not," she said laughing. "There's a perfect explanation of your coming here in our relationship, but I don't choose to produce the family pedigree on demand. In plain English, Sir Ross is jealous of you, and jealous people are capable of anything."

"So it appears," Melville said. "From the way Sir Ross waltzed down to the gate I thought the gravel must be red-hot. Only a very angry man could prance as he did. By the way, he asked me how I was related to you."

"Did you tell him?" she asked a little anxiously.

"Not I," said Melville. "I saw he didn't know, and inferred you hadn't told him, so I explained that we were related by marriage, and eased him off a point or two."

"That was quite right," Mrs. Sinclair said approvingly. "You should never gratify idle curiosity."

Melville assented, but decided mentally that his own desire for information was different from the idle curiosity of Sir Ross Buchanan, and resolved that it should be satisfied.

"It was unfortunate," Mrs. Sinclair went on, "that Lucille should have shown you both into the same room, but it must have been very funny to see you glaring at each other."

Melville expostulated.

"I didn't glare. I purred—positively purred, but it was no good. Sir Ross meant to lose his temper and he lost it. He doesn't believe in our relationship a little bit. He said he knew the late Mr. Sinclair intimately, and never heard of any relations of his named Ashley."

"That's quite true," Mrs. Sinclair said simply; "he did know him, but he doesn't know that I was married to Sir Geoffrey Holt."

Melville looked at her sharply. He could tell from her voice and from the way she spoke that she had no idea of the sequence of thoughts passing in his mind. Once more fortune was smiling on him. Sir Ross Buchanan's casual remark had opened his eyes to a possible fact. Mrs. Sinclair herself could corroborate it, and once more knowledge would give him power. His marvellous faculty of reading faces stood him in good stead. Criminal or fool, whichever she might be, this woman did not suspect him now of cross-examining her from any sinister motive. She assumed that he knew something which he did not know, but which, if he were careful, she would let him know.

"Mr. Sinclair died on Jubilee Day, didn't he?" he said, and Mrs. Sinclair nodded. For once in his life Melville was really puzzled, and puzzled because in his cool, calculating way of doing wrong he made no allowance for possible ignorance of the wrong. But it was evident that the woman in front of him scented no danger, and he played a bold game.

"Forgive me, Lavender, for putting things so bluntly, but tell me—was there really any Mr. Sinclair at all?"

"Of course there was," she answered, quite surprised.

"When did you marry him?"

"Five years before; that is, in ninety-two."

"But Sir Geoffrey Holt is living."

"Yes," said Mrs. Sinclair.

"And you were legally married to him, weren't you?"

"Most certainly I was," she said indignantly.

"Well, my dear lady," Melville said, raising his brows so that the eye-glass dropped from his eye into his hand outstretched to catch it, "I don't care as a rule for calling a spade a spade, but it's the simple fact that you have committed bigamy."

If Melville expected his hostess to recoil with the dismay not unnatural in a criminal suddenly unmasked, he was disappointed. For a moment Mrs. Sinclair looked at him in blank astonishment, colouring slightly, it is true, but from indignation, not from shame, and when she spoke again it was with the same obvious ignorance of guilt that she had made the statement which so much surprised Melville.

"Don't be preposterous," she remarked at length. "Bigamy? Absurd!"

"It's anything but absurd," Melville retorted. "It's an uncommonly serious matter."

"But I had left Sir Geoffrey ages before," Mrs. Sinclair argued, "and hadn't heard of him or from him for years and years. I didn't even know he was alive."

"Did you try to find out?" Melville asked curtly.

"Yes," said Mrs. Sinclair; "but I didn't succeed, and I never connected my husband with the baronet in possession of Fairbridge. Anyhow, I had heard nothing of him for ages, and everybody knows that if you lose sight of your husband or your wife for seven years, you can marry again."

Melville considered. Evidently Mrs. Sinclair was an ignorant sort of woman, and, as a rule, it is only ignorant people who can be influenced by fear. At any rate, he could try to frighten her into telling him the facts, and it would be his own fault only if he could not turn them to his own advantage. His part as accessory after the fact could be explained easily enough if the occasion should ever arise.

"I know there are people who labour under that delusion," he said, "but it is a delusion. Marriage once contracted is binding until it is dissolved by death or decree, and while Sir Geoffrey could, doubtless, get a decree now in the Divorce Court, it could only be after your conviction at the Old Bailey."

He spoke icily and deliberately, and his words had the desired effect. Mrs. Sinclair's eyes dilated, and, although she retained her self-command, her bosom rose and fell quickly, betraying the emotion within her, and the emotion was fear. Melville was satisfied. He turned to her with a pleasant, sympathetic smile which might have inspired confidence in the heart of the most suspicious.

"Tell me all about it, Lavender," he said gently. "Naked truth is always a little bit shocking. I suppose that is why you only get it in savage countries. But it is the naked truth that you have committed bigamy, and it looks to me uncommonly as if you contemplated doing it again. Tell me all about it. I don't suppose you have one disinterested adviser among all the people you know, and this is certainly a case where two heads are better than one. I won't give you away. What are the facts?"

His frankness completely took her in, as completely as his definition of her offence had satisfied her. She sat down in a chair, nervously beating a tattoo upon its arms with her plump fingers, and every now and then stealing a glance at Melville from underneath her lashes.

"I can't believe you are right," she said, "but perhaps I may as well tell you what did happen. I know I can trust you if—if I was wrong."

"Implicitly," Melville murmured.

"Well," she said hesitatingly, punctuating her story with little pauses as if in doubt how much detail to fill in. "I was very young and—and pretty, and desperately poor when I met your uncle, and he was—rather old, and well-to-do and very kind. And I married him. I thought everything would be comfortable, don't you know. But I couldn't stand it. He wanted to have me educated, and I wanted to go about and see life. It was like trying to boil a tea-kettle over a volcano. We had most frightful quarrels, and very soon I made up my mind to leave him. And one day I just walked out of the house and never went back."

The way she summarised what must have been a tragedy was pathetic, and Melville was able to imagine what that home must have been like when it was the theatre of such a conflict between passionate youth and determined middle age.

"Where did you go to?" he asked.

"A girl I knew had lately married, and I went to her. Her husband was manager of an old-fashioned hotel on the South Coast, and they gave me a home. I was useful to them, so there was no obligation on either side. I stayed there a long time, and it was there that I met Mr. Sinclair."

"Did you never hear of Sir Geoffrey?"

"Never. After I marched out of his house that morning I was frightened, and at least two years went by before I dared to ask anything about him. He had left the house we lived in and disappeared too. He may have tried to trace me, but a child is very easily lost, and I was only a child. Anyhow, he never found me. And when a long time afterwards Mr. Sinclair asked me to marry him, I thought that I was free, and finally I consented. I knew I had no claim upon Sir Geoffrey, and I honestly believed he had none on me. Are you sure I was not free?"

"Quite sure," Melville answered. "Tell me the rest."

"We were married, and got along all right, and he died," she replied. "It was just like hundreds of other marriages, I suppose. I don't know that I loved him particularly, but I was a pretty good wife, and he left me comfortably provided for, and—and that is the end of the story."

She gave vent to a defiant little laugh, and looked at Melville.

"Those are the facts," she said. "Now, if you are right and I was wrong, tell me the position."

"Honestly, it's a very unpleasant one," Melville answered. "You see, Sir Geoffrey being alive at the time, your marriage with Mr. Sinclair was quite invalid. Sir Geoffrey could divorce you on the facts and you would have no claim on him for alimony; and, on the other hand, you would forfeit all the income you derive from Mr. Sinclair's estate as his widow, which legally, of course, you are not."

There was an interval, during which the minds of both worked quickly.

"What am I to do about Sir Ross?" Mrs. Sinclair asked presently. "I suppose I shall have to say that, for reasons that have just come to my knowledge, I can't marry him, or something of the sort. But he is dreadfully inquisitive; and, besides, any man would want something more definite than that."

"What more definite reason can you give?" Melville enquired.

"I shall have to tell him about Sir Geoffrey," she answered.

Melville immediately foresaw the objection to this. Sir Ross Buchanan would almost certainly do his best to get to the bottom of the whole thing; he would go to Fairbridge, with the result that Sir Geoffrey would learn where his wife was living and in what comfort; the funds he had been giving to Melville for her assistance would be withdrawn, and Melville would thus be thrown upon his own resources once again.

"That will not do at all," he said decisively; "it would be most dangerous. Sir Ross must remain in ignorance of the whole affair. Why, just think! If this reached Sir Geoffrey's ears he would prosecute you for bigamy at once and obtain a divorce; you would lose the whole of your present income, and Sir Ross would certainly never make you his wife. No; this must remain a secret between you and me."

"I don't want to tell him," Lavender admitted. "He knew Mr. Sinclair personally, but even if Sir Geoffrey were dead I should not care for him to know that I'd been married twice already. That is why I've never explained how you are related to me, not because I thought there was any harm in what I'd done. Can we really keep it to ourselves, Melville?"

"Certainly," he answered. "You've proved that you can keep a secret, which is more than most women can do, and you may rely upon me. I am as safe as the bank."

"Sir Ross is so jealous of you," Mrs. Sinclair said. "He told me to-day that I must choose between you, and went off in a huff because I would not order you out of the house."

"I daresay it's just as well," Melville said indifferently; "you may be glad of a day or two to think things over in. There's no blinking the fact that this is serious. When Sir Ross turns up again let me know, and don't do anything without consulting me."

"I think you are right," Mrs. Sinclair said. "For the present I will say nothing to him about it, and if any difficulty arises—I mean, if he presses me to marry him at once, or anything of that sort—I will come to you for advice."

"We will leave it like that," Melville assented. "For the present things can go on as they are. Above all, don't get frightened and lose your head."

"I'm very grateful to you, Melville," Mrs. Sinclair murmured; her words were at once an expression of gratitude and an appeal, for, in sober truth, she was very frightened already. It was as if the solid ground had suddenly opened, and as if a bottomless pit were yawning before her feet.

Melville took her hands in his.

"That's all right," he said, smiling kindly at her. "Show your gratitude by playing the game like a sportsman. If there is any way out of the mess I'll find it for you. Keep a stout heart. Good-bye."

He walked away from the house apparently absorbed in thought, but when he was out of sight he fairly rubbed his hands.

"It's like a bally game of chess," he said with glee, "and the chess-board's like Tom Tiddler's ground; there's gold and silver for me on every bally square simply waiting to be picked up. Just now it's Sir Geoffrey sending me to the assistance of the queen, who's in a tight place: starving, if you please, on about a thousand a year; and if for any reason that source of revenue dries up, the queen can be driven into the arms of Sir Ross. More bigamy, unless Sir Geoffrey is translated to another sphere, and if he is it won't matter very much to me. If my polygamous aunt marries Sir Ross Buchanan at all I shall be able to draw a very respectable percentage of her annual income. Oh, these knights and ladies!"

But indoors, Lavender Sinclair, with a very white face, sat thinking, thinking, thinking, and the only thought which was really clear before her mind was how fortunate it was that she had met Melville Ashley when she did. In him, at any rate, she possessed one loyal friend on whom she could rely.

CHAPTER X.

LIGHT COME, LIGHT GO.

Lucille's forebodings were justified by the event. Days passed by and Sir Ross Buchanan neither wrote nor called; but while the maid was filled with real concern at this interruption in a love story of which she had been so sympathetic an eye-witness, her mistress regarded it with indifference. At first she even hailed it as a relief, for it did away with all possibility of her being called upon to give explanations for what she saw must be the definite postponement of her marriage with him. She lost no time in verifying Melville's statement about the invalidity of her marriage with Mr. Sinclair, and the more she considered her position the uneasier she grew. She was afraid to take a legal opinion upon it, and to her fear of losing the income she derived from a charge upon Mr. Sinclair's estate was added terror of the pains and penalties to which, in her ignorance of all legal matters, she thought her bigamous marriage had rendered her liable. That she had acted in good faith at the time afforded her but little consolation. She had done something punishable by law, and she was in terror of anyone else finding it out.

In Melville's discretion she had perfect confidence; it never occurred to her that the danger might lie upon his side. Why she should feel such security in the case of the only man who had any knowledge of her offence she would have been at a loss to explain. Anything like self-analysis was quite foreign to her temperament; probably she recognised in Melville Ashley some fellowship of nature and of habit, none the less real because undefinable. And yet in spite of this fellowship there was this vast difference between them, that he was a bad man, entirely unprincipled and utterly selfish, while she was not a bad woman. Her terribly ill-assorted marriage as a child with Sir Geoffrey Holt had been too great a tax upon her uncurbed nature, and she had put an end to it in the summary, reckless way that any savage child would do; yet had it been possible for that strange couple to bear and forbear with each other, a little time might have worked what then seemed a miracle, and the story of their lives might have been very different.

While, however, Lavender Sinclair regarded Sir Ross's temporary defection with equanimity, being indeed convinced that it was only temporary, and that when she chose she could whistle him back to her side, she felt that Melville Ashley's attendance was daily growing more necessary to her. To women of the type to which she belonged, the companionship of men is indispensable. But Melville, too, absented himself from The Vale. As a matter of fact, he was playing for big stakes, and had no intention of losing the game from any failure to give it due consideration.

His return from Monte Carlo and the few days of absolute impecuniosity, culminating in his so nearly executed idea of suicide, had marked a period in his career. Up to that moment he had drifted along in a happy-go-lucky fashion, enjoying himself when in funds, existing somehow when he was hard up, but always contriving in an irresponsible way to have what he called a pretty good time. But that night when he looked death squarely in the face had altered him. He vowed that such necessity should not arise again, and his evil genius had come to his assistance by placing him in possession of Sir Geoffrey Holt's old secret. In concocting the story of Mrs. Sinclair's destitution, Melville had not aimed solely at getting a single sum of money from his uncle. He determined to secure an annual subsidy to be paid to him on her behalf, and the negotiations were beset with difficulty.

At first Sir Geoffrey was in favour of the straightforward, common-sensible policy of a point-blank refusal to part with a shilling except to Lady Holt herself. He utterly distrusted Melville, and scouted the idea of appointing him his almoner. But the old man's pride was a factor in the problem which the young one had not under-estimated. He could not bring himself to face what he regarded as a scandal, although in all essential particulars it was only he who had been wronged. Thus Melville had only to reiterate his intention of observing his promise to Mrs. Sinclair not to betray her whereabouts, and take precautions against being shadowed by any emissaries from his uncle, and he could afford to wait until Sir Geoffrey should decide. As a matter of fact he had decided to submit to what was nothing less than blackmail, and was endeavouring to make arrangements for the payment to his wife of an income of four hundred pounds a year, to be given quarterly to Melville until it could be given direct to Lady Holt, and to take such precautions as the circumstances allowed against the whole of the subsidy being misappropriated by Melville for his own purposes.

But until the matter had been completed and put upon such a basis as to seem tolerably secure, Melville felt that his constant attendance upon his uncle was at least expedient. So his visits to Fairbridge became more frequent than they had been for several years past, and their effect upon the two establishments at the Manor House and The Grange was very marked. No hawk can take up his quarters in a dove-cote without causing a commotion in the farmyard, and this was what happened now.

Ralph was moody and suspicious; he avoided his brother as much as he could, and recognised his existence only so much as was inevitable if he would not be actually rude to his uncle's guest. Sir Geoffrey was always studiously polite to Melville, but on most occasions shut himself up in his library to commune with his own thoughts, and denied access to everyone, not excepting Gwendolen. She, indeed, was in the most invidious position of all, for her mother liked Melville, and made much of him, thinking that he was a rather misunderstood young man whose latent merits it only required a little sympathy and affection to evoke. And his music was superb. He kept his Amati at The Grange, and whenever opportunity offered would play to the accompaniment of Gwendolen, herself a musician of no mean order. The girl was divided between two emotions. Her love for Ralph would have kept her ever by his side to the sacrifice of everything and everybody else, but, since Melville's reappearance, Ralph was preoccupied and taciturn, avoiding The Grange when, as so often happened, his brother was there. On those many occasions Gwendolen was obliged to remain at home, and her devotion to her duty was always rewarded by hearing Melville play. His bow was a magician's wand, drawing music from the violin that stole into Gwendolen's heart and held her very soul spell-bound.

"No man can be bad who plays as divinely as he does," she often thought, and Melville, noting the rapt expression on her face and the moisture in her glorious eyes, would play as he had never played before, until the silence that followed the dying away of the last note was broken by an involuntary sigh from all who had the privilege of listening.

Thus it was that Melville forsook The Vale in favour of The Grange. But at last his business came to a satisfactory conclusion, and, provided with what he hoped and believed would be the first of a series of cheques, he returned in jubilant mood to town.

Invitations in plenty poured upon him, and he devoted himself to enjoyment. But with the possession of money returned the old insatiable desire for excitement that had always been his bane. All his good resolutions proved to be straws in the wind. Races and suppers and cards once more became the order of his days and nights, and among the set that lives—and dies—by its wits Melville resumed his place as leader. Like all confirmed gamblers, his faith in his star revived, and he could not believe that fortune would ever desert him finally. When things were at their blackest the goddess had given the kaleidoscope a turn and dazzled his eyes by the blaze of colours in the glass before him.

Thus it was with particular pleasure that he accepted an invitation to make one of a party at a great race meeting, and spick and span in new apparel, with glasses slung across his shoulder, he joined the coach at Hatchett's, and, sanguine as ever, mounted to his seat. His information was exclusive, the banknotes in his pocket book were new and crisp, and would be multiplied tenfold when he got back to town. A light rain in the early morning had laid the dust, and the roads were in perfect condition; high overhead thin wisps of clouds were blown swiftly across a grey-blue sky, betokening a breeze that would temper the heat of the summer day. With a jest upon every lip, and a plenitude of coppers for all the children shouting by the roadside, the party drove away.

But when the sun was setting behind them, and the team of bays was swinging into London, the smile upon Melville's face, in common with the others, was replaced by a look of utter dejection. The horses which, according to his information, were to do such wonderful things had, without exception, failed to fulfil his expectations; in every single race his fancy had gone down, not even succeeding in getting into a place; conversation was monosyllabic upon the coach; the guard proclaimed its coming by melancholy toots upon his horn instead of by selections adapted from "The Washington Post" and "The Flowers that bloom in the Spring"; there were no pennies for the children, no Japanese lanterns swinging from the seats. The whole party was sick and sorry. Melville finished the day, according to the programme, with dinner at his host's flat and a modest game of cards, yet even at that nobody seemed to win. And when, after a final flutter at petit-paquet and a tumbler of champagne, Melville let himself into his own chambers in the small hours of the morning, very little was left of the considerable sum with which he had left Fairbridge such a short time before.

CHAPTER XI.

MRS. SINCLAIR PAYS A VISIT.

Melville's absence from The Vale occurring thus simultaneously with Sir Ross Buchanan's defection made the time hang heavy on Mrs. Sinclair's hands, and, her other visitors being few, she suddenly found herself deprived of all companionship. It was not long before this solitude became intolerable to her, and as her repeated little notes to Melville remained without an answer she determined to go to call on him in person. He, of course, had duly received these several communications, but as none of them contained the news which he desired—that Sir Ross had resumed his visits—he did not think that any good purpose would be served by prosecuting his attentions to his aunt.

As a consequence of his disaster at the races he was obliged to economise again. For breakfast, followed by luncheon at his club or some good restaurant, he substituted a meal which would in France be termed déjeûner, but which he significantly labelled "brunch," as being neither the one thing nor the other, although compact of both. Then in the afternoon he lounged by the Achilles Statue, and played billiards if chance threw in his way any acquaintance with kindred tastes but less skill than his own. And in the evening he would dine alone at some one of the many cheap restaurants in Soho, or have a chop in solitude at home. The life was all right in a way, but aimless and not to his taste. Yet even he could not bring himself to make fresh demands upon his uncle until a more reasonable period had elapsed.

It was after one of these purposeless saunters in the Park that he went back to his rooms. The day had been very hot, and, after letting down the sun-blinds, Melville threw himself upon the sofa and idly blew rings of smoke into the still air. A pile of illustrated papers lay within reach, syphons and decanters stood upon a table at his elbow, and he was just falling into a doze when he heard a woman's voice, and in another moment his valet opened the outer door with his master-key and ushered Mrs. Sinclair in.

Melville jumped to his feet and greeted her effusively, checking her mixture of apologies and reproaches with admirable tact.

"It was a case of Mahomet and the mountain," she said. "You didn't come and didn't answer my letters—I never thought you could be so abominably rude, Melville—and I wanted to see you, so there was no help for it but to disregard proprieties and come here. Why don't you marry some charming girl, so that I can call without being compromised or compromising you? You would be a delightful husband."

"So I have been explaining," Melville answered, "but the charming girl has the bad taste to prefer somebody else. Get some tea, Jervis, and some strawberries and things."

Mrs. Sinclair settled herself in a comfortable chair, with her back to the light, and took stock of her surroundings.

"I wonder how it is that bachelors always have such delightful quarters? This room is an effective answer to the old sneer that no place can be quite comfortable without a woman's touch."

"Perhaps I'm a bit effeminate in my tastes," Melville replied. "Lots of musical Johnnies are, you know. How is Sir Ross Buchanan?"

He switched off the conversation from trifles to essentials with perfect ease, and Mrs. Sinclair showed no resentment.

"He hasn't been near me since the day you saw him," she answered. "That is the principal reason why I've called now. Sir Ross hasn't been to see me, nor have you, and I'm being bored to death. Why have you stopped away, Melville?"

"I've had some business to attend to," he said, "and it didn't turn up trumps. And now I'm a sick man—broke, and generally down on my luck."

"All the more reason for you to avoid your own company," she retorted. "Moping's no use to anybody. Come and dine with me to-night?"

"Delighted," said Melville, but without enthusiasm.

"I'll get a box somewhere, and we'll pretend we're going the pace. My show, you know," she added, thinking that the expense might be inconvenient to him.

Melville liked the little touch of camaraderie.

"You're a good sort, Lavender," he said approvingly. "What a pity you and Sir Geoffrey couldn't run together in double harness!"

A slight frown crossed her brow.

"If you mourn over the pity of everything you'll die of compassion," she remarked, "and that's a silly sort of end for any man to come to. How is Sir Geoffrey? Have you seen him lately?"

"No," said Melville, "but I am going to Fairbridge to-morrow."

"Take me," said Mrs. Sinclair impulsively.

"My dear Lavender!" Melville said aghast; "what on earth will you want me to do next?"

He was not only astonished but alarmed at the suggestion, for nothing could be devised more fraught with danger to his own schemes. Yet he did not know what a woman of Lavender's temperament might not be capable of doing. On her part, it is true, Mrs. Sinclair had made the suggestion on the spur of the moment, but, having once made it, she was fascinated by it. Possibly, unrecognised by herself, there was in her heart some remorse for the injury she had done Sir Geoffrey, some hunger to set eyes once more upon the man who, if old enough to be her father, had nevertheless been her husband; at all events, she insisted.

"Why should I not go?"

"You would save yourself an unpleasant interview if you gave yourself up to the police at once," Melville answered; "but, of course, you are not serious. Fancy putting your head in the lion's mouth like that!" and he laughed.

Mrs. Sinclair looked at him gravely.

"I've been doing nothing but think for a week," she said, "and, do you know, I'm really not sure that it would not be the best thing for me to go to Sir Geoffrey and tell him all about it. I don't believe he would prosecute me or even apply for a divorce. Of course, I should have to come to terms with the Sinclair lot, and Sir Geoffrey might have to see me through any difficulty with them. But if I did that, he's just the sort of man to take care that I should be no worse off afterwards than I was before. He always respected people who did the square thing. And as for the rest, he knows that if he fed me I'm not the sort of reptile to sting his bosom."

Melville grew more and more anxious, for this mood was a difficult one to combat. He affected to consider the point sympathetically.

"You may be right," he replied; "but that's not the Sir Geoffrey whom I know. He has always been most generous to me, but I've never seen the soft side of the man. He does respect people who do the square thing, but, on the other hand, he never forgives those who don't. And he's as proud as Lucifer."

"I know," said Lavender, and flushed.

Melville noted her heightened colour and drew confidence from it.

"After you left him, Lavender—that morning—all those years ago——"

"Yes?" she said, as Melville seemed to hesitate.

"Well, how do you suppose he took it?"

"I can't possibly tell," she replied impatiently, and Melville drove his advantage further home; he would work upon her imagination as much as he could.

"I can picture him so clearly," Melville said meditatively. "At first he was angry—frightfully angry, and only thought of how he would punish you when you came back. Then, as you stayed away, he began—more to save his own honour than for any other reason—to invent explanations of your absence, but all the time he was raging at having been made a fool of by the child whom he had honoured by marrying. Then he began to search for you, at first with the idea of saving you from going to the devil, but afterwards with the different idea that he might be able to divorce you and put an end to the whole miserable business. But years went by and you never came back, and the little nine days' wonder was forgotten and he inherited the title, and now he not only hopes but believes that you are dead. And if you crop up again you'll hurt him in his pride ten thousand times more than you did when you left him, because then he was nobody in particular, and now he's a baronet and the best part of a millionaire, with a big position and heaps of friends, all of whom suppose him to be unmarried. You will be his dead past rising up like a ghost and ruining him, and he will never forgive you. Sir Geoffrey never does forgive. No, Lavender, you will have to pay for what you've done; pay to the uttermost farthing!"

There was silence for some moments, and then the tension was broken by the valet bringing in the tea-things, which he placed by Mrs. Sinclair. Melville rose and heaped some strawberries on a plate, flanking them with wafer-biscuits.

"It's a nice little world as it is," he said, as if carrying on some trivial conversation begun before the servant came into the room. "People ought always to enjoy things as they are. That's not only good philosophy, but a much easier one to put into practice than is commonly supposed."

He drank the tea that Mrs. Sinclair gave him, and waited until the valet noiselessly disappeared.

"Well?" he said interrogatively.

"I suppose you are right, as usual," she answered, with some reluctance, and Melville breathed more freely. "I suppose it would be madness to confess. But can't I go with you to-morrow, all the same? You can take me on the river and leave me somewhere while you go to the house. I promise not to get in your way."

Melville did not care about the idea, but having carried the point that was most important, thought it might be politic to conciliate the woman upon whose docility so much depended.

"I will take you with pleasure," he said cordially. "We will get a boat at Shipton's, near the old lock, and row up stream to the Manor House. I will leave you somewhere near there, and after I've seen Sir Geoffrey we will drift down in time to catch a train at St. Martin's Hill."

"I'll take a luncheon basket," Mrs. Sinclair said, her usual cheerfulness returning, "and we'll make a picnic of it."

But when Melville had put her into a cab and regained his cosy room, he shook his head doubtfully.

"I don't like it a little bit," he said moodily. "Fancy my piloting that good lady up to Fairbridge of all places in the world! It would be just my luck if Ralph and Gwen were punting and spotted us, and Lavender gave the show away. Or Sir Geoffrey even might see her, attired in the latest thing in river costumes and looking as fit as a fiddle, when he fondly imagines she's dying of consumption in a garret in Hampstead. It's a jolly sight too dangerous to please yours truly. I hope to goodness it will rain cats and dogs!"

CHAPTER XII.

A PICNIC.

In spite of Melville's hope that rain might come to prevent the proposed excursion up the river, the following day dawned bright and sunny, and as he stood by the front door waiting for Mrs. Sinclair, who was to call for him on her way to Waterloo, he was conscious of the joy of mere existence that comes to men sometimes.

Punctual to the minute Mrs. Sinclair arrived, and before long the pair were at the boathouse by St. Martin's Lock. The boatman was apologetic; there was a regatta six miles up stream at Longbridge, and he could only offer Melville the choice between a Canadian canoe and a rather heavy boat; all his other boats were engaged for the whole day.

Mrs. Sinclair laughed.

"You'll have to work for once," she said. "I'm so sorry, but I cannot row at all, and I'm not going to trust myself, and my frock, and my luncheon to that canoe. We'll have the boat, please."

"Can you steer?" Melville asked.

"Not a little bit," she answered cheerfully; "it doesn't matter, does it?"

"There'll be a rare pack higher up," the boatman said to Melville, "but perhaps you'll not be going so far as Longbridge? If you do, and get into the crush, unship your rudder altogether. That'll be better than running any risks of being run into by any launches."

So the luncheon basket was transferred to the boat, and with easy strokes Melville sculled slowly up the stream.

"Better not try to steer at all," he remarked, as they zigzagged from one bank to the other. "Keep the lines by you in case I want your help, but while we have the river to ourselves I can manage better alone. Just tell me if there's anything coming down. So:" he fastened the rudder lines loosely on to the arms of Mrs. Sinclair's seat, and she, with a sigh of satisfaction, opened her parasol and resigned herself to the delicious spirit of idleness which makes a day up the river so enjoyable.

Nor could Melville fail to be glad that they had come; he possessed the faculty of getting the last ounce of pleasure out of whatever he had in hand, and a tête-à-tête with a charming and sympathetic woman in a boat on a summer's day was peculiarly to his taste. He resolutely put out of his mind all idea of possible complications if she should chance to be seen by Sir Geoffrey, and determined only to enjoy himself.

So he pulled indolently along, keeping under the shady bank, and lingering sometimes to pull a few wild flowers or to let his companion snatch at the round heads of the yellow lilies that seemed to evade her grasp with such intelligent skill; she insisted upon exploring every creek, however narrow, and the morning passed in laughing idleness.

In one of these little creeks, about a mile below Fairbridge, they found an ideal spot for luncheon, and, making the boat secure to the gnarled roots of a willow, Melville unstrapped the basket and carried it ashore. Mrs. Sinclair laid the cloth upon a level space of turf, while Melville spread the cushions from the boat to form easy couches for them. He surveyed the preparations with much satisfaction.

"You are a perfect hostess, Lavender. Chicken, and rolls, and, as I live, a salad! How has that lettuce kept so cool, I wonder?"

"As I have, by the simple process of doing nothing," she replied. "Stand that Moselle in the water, Melville, unless your thirst won't allow you to wait."

"I don't wonder the basket was so heavy," he remarked, as he obeyed her. "You've brought a full-blown luncheon—and trimmings. Silver spoons, by gad!"

"Well, you don't want to use tin ones just because you're eating out of doors, do you?"

"There are other things," he argued; "white metal, for instance. What is white metal?"

"I haven't the least idea," she said. "Mix the salad, and don't ask Mangnall's questions. The oil and vinegar are in those little screw-stoppered bottles."

"If you're ever hard up you can start a business to cater for picnic parties," Melville suggested; "Lavinie et Cie.," or something of that sort; "salads a specialite;" and you can patent a luncheon basket full of cunning little dodges like a dressing-case. Are you sure the salt isn't in your tooth-powder bottle now?"

"Quite sure," Lavender answered. "Fall to, good sir, fall to."

The al-fresco luncheon was a great success, and was supplemented by an early cup of tea, and afterwards Melville lay upon his back smoking cigarettes, while Lavender threw crumbs of bread to the fish that swarmed by the boat, and fought and leaped over each other in greedy haste to make the most of their unexpected treat.

It was very quiet in this creek, which was separated from the main stream by a tongue of land covered with trees and dense undergrowth. Upon the bank where Lavender and Melville reclined, ground ivy and white nettle grew in profusion, while willow-wort and meadow-sweet overhung the stream, and marsh marigolds flung back the sunlight from their glorious blooms; behind them flowering grasses and tufted rushes waved in luxuriance, and behind again there rose a screen of willows, flanked by silver birch and tapering poplars.

The place and the hour alike seemed to be pointed out for the exchange of tender confidences and happy day-dreams, but for the man, at any rate, the soft emotions had no charm. In the temple where money is enshrined as a god there is no welcome, and, indeed, no room, for love, and Melville Ashley's heart was such a temple. His interview with his uncle was impending, and the best use to which he could put this peaceful interval was to ascertain how Lavender Sinclair's own affairs were progressing.

He broke the silence which had fallen upon them.

"What is happening about Sir Ross Buchanan?"

Mrs. Sinclair threw the last handful of crumbs to the ravenous fish and leaned back with a weary sigh.

"Can't we forget everything horrid today?" she entreated.

"I can't," Melville answered; "besides, the real object of this trip is my visit to Sir Geoffrey, and—well, one thought leads to another, you know. Have you heard from Sir Ross?"

"I told you yesterday I hadn't," she replied; "but didn't we settle all this the other day? It was arranged that I should tell you anything he said when he said it, and in the meantime do nothing at all."

"I know," Melville said; "but a lot can happen in a few days. One thinks, for instance."

"Oh, yes! one thinks!" Mrs. Sinclair assented.

She seemed reluctant to pursue the subject, and Melville thought it might be well to give her a lead. As a general rule he refrained from making direct statements or asking direct questions, for anything straight-forward was foreign to his nature, but in the present instance the objection was lessened by his knowledge of his companion's story.

"Well, I've been thinking," he said, "and, among other things, thinking that perhaps you ought to meet Sir Ross half way."

"What do you mean?"

"Half way about me," Melville answered, avoiding her direct look. "If he objects so violently to my coming to your house I can be less constant in my attendance, and you won't be any worse off than you were before you wrote to me. I shall be, of course," he added politely, "but that is my misfortune. You needn't tell Sir Ross in so many words that you have ordered me off your premises, but he will think you have done so, and everything will be—as you were, don't you know."

He rolled a cigarette delicately between his long fingers, focussing all his attention upon the operation.

"That is impossible," she said coldly. "Sir Ross only presumed to dictate because he understood that I was engaged to him."

"Quite so," said Melville.

"Of course it's impossible that I should marry him now."

"Why?" Melville enquired calmly.

"Why?" she echoed in astonishment. "You told me yourself that my marriage with Mr. Sinclair was invalid because Sir Geoffrey was alive, and yet you ask me why I can't marry Sir Ross! I wronged one man—in ignorance—but I have no intention of wronging another deliberately. I may as well say, once and for all, that if Sir Ross applies to me again I shall tell him that our engagement is finally broken off."

"Why be so heroic?" Melville said. "Millionaire baronets don't grow on blackberry bushes."

"If they did I wouldn't pick them off, now that you have enlightened me," Mrs. Sinclair answered. "I'm not that sort."

"Sir Ross is an enormously rich man," Melville protested, "and is worth keeping; and, in addition, Sir Geoffrey is a very old man, which is another argument in favour of a less drastic policy than the one that you suggest."

"You seem very keen on my becoming Lady Buchanan."

"I am," said Melville. "Candidly, I think you will make a frightful mistake if you break off the engagement, when a little temporising would save the situation."

"Temporising won't go down with Sir Ross," Mrs. Sinclair said shortly; "I know him too well to try that on. It must be 'yes' or 'no' with him. It can't be 'yes,' and as he will want all sorts of explanations if it's 'no,' I shall get out of the difficulty by not being at home to him. If he writes, I will consult you."

Melville was annoyed, for with his aunt feloniously intermarried with Sir Ross Buchanan, her former husband being still alive, he would have been sure of a substantial revenue; he wished he had been a little less emphatic in his explanation of the law of bigamy, and he was vexed with himself for having made any mistake in his game.

"You're not such a clever woman as I take you for," he said, "if you can't manage Sir Ross better than that. Take my advice, and go slow. That's good advice ninety-nine times out of a hundred, and better advice the hundredth."

Mrs. Sinclair shook her head.

"It's no good, Melville," she said gently. "I've done harm enough as it is—wilfully, if you like, as a child, ignorantly as a woman. But I've got a conscience left, and I'm not going to do any more harm deliberately; and I don't intend to play fast and loose with one man on the chance of another man dying. I mean what I say. Now that you have explained what my engagement to Sir Ross Buchanan amounts to, it is 'o double f'; and now, don't let us talk about it any more."

She got up and began to pack up the luncheon basket. Melville got up, too, and busied himself about the boat, rearranging the cushions and getting things ready for their further journey up to Fairbridge. In reality, he was not a little disconcerted by the way his plans with regard to Mrs. Sinclair threatened to be upset, and he was piqued to think that he had not read her character correctly. Conscience was the last complication he had expected to run up against, but he was forced to recognise its existence in this most unlikely quarter. Well! it rendered his visit to Sir Geoffrey all the more necessary; if supplies were not to be forthcoming from the one quarter, they must be doubled from the other.

He stowed the hamper in the boat, and helped Mrs. Sinclair back into her seat.

"I'm quite sorry to leave this shady nook, for it's getting hotter every minute, but I must get on to Fairbridge now. Are you ready to go?"

"Quite," she answered, and Melville proceeded to back the boat down the creek, pulling it along with the boat-hook and by the help of the overhanging branches of the trees. In the main stream he got out the sculls and paused a minute before setting to work again.

"I shouldn't be surprised if there were a storm," he remarked; "have you any cloak or mackintosh with you?"

"No," said Lavender anxiously, "and my frock's a fair weather one. Oh! don't say it's going to rain."

"I won't, if you think that will make any difference," said Melville with a smile, and he began to row again.

There was no doubt, however, that a storm was brewing, although it was possible that it might break elsewhere; low down on the horizon the sky was inky black, merging through indescribable gradations of shade into a lurid coppery glare overhead; the breathless heat was oppressive, and Melville was bathed in perspiration before they had travelled a hundred yards.

"The sky is sitting on the top of my head," Mrs. Sinclair complained. "Isn't there any inn or cottage where we can put up, and where I can wait while you are with Sir Geoffrey?"

"I'm afraid there isn't," Melville answered, "but perhaps the storm will pass us by. That often happens on the river."

"Fancy having the river so entirely to ourselves," she said presently. "I don't think a single boat has passed us since we started, and I know we haven't met any."

"That is because of the regatta at Longbridge," Melville explained. "If I had known about it we might have gone there to-day and I could have seen Sir Geoffrey to-morrow; but, personally, I've enjoyed what we have done immensely."

As a matter of fact, he had heard of the Longbridge regatta with considerable relief, for it removed most of the probability of his being seen with Mrs. Sinclair by either Ralph or Gwendolen. Sir Geoffrey, too, was still fond of boating, and might quite possibly have seen them, which would have been nothing short of a disaster. As it was, both Ralph and Gwendolen would certainly be present at the regatta, perhaps competing in some of the events, and Sir Geoffrey, if he were upon the water at all, would be there as well. Nothing was happening to shake Melville's faith in his star.

The intense atmospheric oppression was beginning to tell upon Mrs. Sinclair, who relapsed into complete silence. Varying emotions were conflicting in her mind as she drew near the Manor House, of which she might have been the mistress, but which she dared not enter now. After the lapse of so many years she felt some remorse at the thought of how she had spoiled Sir Geoffrey's life, and she would have liked to be able to convey some message to him telling him she was sorry. But fear stood between her and confession, as it so often stands, and sealed her lips until it was too late.

Presently Melville drew the boat into the bank.

"There is the Manor House garden, behind those trees," he said, pointing to a row of splendid elms some hundred, yards ahead. "If you don't mind, I'll leave you here under this great willow. I'll fasten the boat so that it can't drift away, and you won't get wet, even if it does come on to rain."

He tied the boat up, bow and stern, with the painter and rudder-lines, and gave her the boathook to grapple to the twisted roots of the willow if she felt uneasy. She thanked him with a smile.

"Don't be longer than you can help, will you?"

"Not a minute longer," he replied, and turned to leave her. As he stepped ashore he felt for the first time that day a pang of anxiety at the risk he was running in bringing her so close to the husband whom they had both wronged so much. He hesitated, and looked at her searchingly.

"You will wait for me here, Lavender, won't you? You won't——"

"I will wait here all right," she answered, and Melville forced his way through the bushes that screened the meadows from the stream, and was lost to view.

CHAPTER XIII.

MURDER.

Sheltered by the leafy elms which Melville had pointed out to Lavender was an oblong inlet from the river, artificially constructed by Sir Geoffrey Holt to serve as a private bathing-place and as a landing-stage for the Manor House grounds. Here he had built a chalet in an ornate Swiss style, one half being devoted to the boats, the other containing two large sitting-rooms. The end room, which overlooked the creek on one side, the river on another, and the garden on a third, and which was surrounded on these three sides by a wide verandah, was a favourite resort of Sir Geoffrey's, and it was here that Melville hoped to find him this afternoon; if things went badly with him and the interview proved to be very quarrelsome, he would prefer to have it away from the house, where they would be less likely to be overheard.

His mind was quite made up. He knew that Lavender had been in earnest when she said she would not marry Sir Ross Buchanan, and he was mad with himself for having stood in his own light by preventing the marriage; had that been accomplished he could have drawn upon her jointure to a pretty tune. He knew, too, that Sir Geoffrey would not give him any more money for his wife so soon; it only remained for him to extort a payment on account for holding his tongue. His errand was blackmail, and it might not be an easy task to levy it. But he was determined to get money to-day, cost what it might.

Money! Never had false god so devout a worshipper, never had mistress so ardent a wooer as money had in Melville Ashley. He loved it; but as the spendthrift, not the miser. To scatter it broadcast with both hands was life to him, and he recked not how he came by it so that he had it in unfailing abundance; it meant gaiety and excitement and irresponsibility, music and wine and cards—everything that he summed up in the comprehensive name of pleasure. Honour and self-respect were a small price to pay for money which, in his opinion, could not cost too much. What was blackmail, after all? While Sir Geoffrey had a shilling left and desired the story of his marriage to remain untold, Melville would demand the shilling or trumpet forth the news for the delectation of a scandal-loving world.

And if Sir Geoffrey refused and bid him do his utmost? Where would the money come from then? The question framed itself in Melville's thoughts, and his brow darkened, but he dismissed it carelessly again, for as yet Sir Geoffrey seemed inclined to prefer being robbed to being exposed.

Melville gained the grounds and turned down towards the chalet. His rubber-soled canvas shoes were noiseless on the well-rolled paths, and he walked briskly into the boat-house, of which the wooden doors stood open. It was empty—punt and dinghy, pair-oar and canoe, all were gone. Evidently Sir Geoffrey, with customary good-nature, had allowed most of the servants to share in the amusement afforded by the regatta, and until dinner-time the Manor House would be in charge of some of the kitchenmaids. So much the better, if there was to be a quarrel in the house. But was Sir Geoffrey in the house, or was he here in the garden-room?

Melville walked along the verandah, treading softly. Overhead, the lurid sky grew more lurid, the still oppression more still and oppressive. A great drop of rain fell on the asphalte boat-slide, making a mark as big as a shilling; another fell, and, after an interval, another; the storm was going to break upon him, and he must hasten upon his business.

Through the window he caught sight of Sir Geoffrey sitting in a low wicker chair, with an illustrated paper in his hand. Melville's lips tightened as he marked the figure of his uncle, so unconscious of the presence of another person, so attuned to the atmosphere of this rich home of his. Sir Geoffrey's back was towards him, and Melville, with some idea of the fitness of making his entrance from the front, so to speak, walked quickly round the verandah, and, flinging open the French windows with both hands, stepped into the room. For a second the two men eyed each other, and then Sir Geoffrey spoke in a tone of studied evenness.

"So it is you, Melville. Have you come down for the regatta?"

"No," said Melville bluntly. "I want to see you."

Sir Geoffrey picked up the paper again and affected to be more interested in it than in the conversation.

"Want to see me, do you? On business?"

"Yes; on business," Melville answered, a little nettled by his uncle's nonchalance.

"Ah!" said Sir Geoffrey, and paused. "Whose business is it this time?" he enquired presently. "Are you principal or agent on this occasion?"

His affectation of being rather bored by the whole thing emphasised the affront and brought the blood to Melville's cheek.

"Principal," he replied laconically, and, unasked, sat down.

"That simplifies the issue," said Sir Geoffrey, laying down one paper and picking up another. "Go on, man; say what you want. You are not usually lacking in effrontery."

Melville was always conscious of his own meanness when he was in his uncle's presence, always found it difficult to face the steady eyes and honest scorn of the old man; it was characteristic of him, too, that he always felt at a disadvantage unless in a struggle of wits he was able to make his opponent, whoever he might be, lose his temper first, and he could seldom do this with Sir Geoffrey. He grew hot and angry now under the lash of the bitter sarcasm in the coldly spoken words, but they had the effect of bringing him to the point.

"I've come down again for some money," he said coarsely.

"What is the lie to-day?" Sir Geoffrey enquired. "Has Ralph been tapping you again? Don't strain your imagination too much."

"I won't," said Melville. "I want some more money for myself, and I think you will give it me."

"I shall do nothing of the kind," said Sir Geoffrey; "you presume too much." He closed his lips with a snap, but as Melville did not reply at once, he went on in the same even tone that exasperated his nephew so intensely. "I tell you what I will do, Melville, if you like. After all, if I am to pay the piper I have some right to suggest the tune. I will give you an allowance on condition that you stop away altogether."

"How do you mean?" said Melville.

"Give you an allowance to be drawn by yourself at regular intervals, so that you will be spared the trouble of making these irregular applications."

Melville was completely deceived by the way his uncle spoke. He considered the proposal seriously, as he believed it to be made.

"How much will you make it?"

"Ten pounds a month, to be drawn in person at, say, Botany Bay," said Sir Geoffrey, looking at him over the top of the paper.

Melville was furious, and only kept control over himself by an effort.

"You are pleased to be facetious," he replied, "but I warn you I am not in the mood to enjoy a joke to-day. Fortunately, I am in a position to suggest terms as well. I know something which you want kept dark. Having seen the lady, I'm not surprised at your desire to suppress the fact of her existence, for she is not an ideal ornament for the head of your table. I will accept a hundred and twenty pounds now, and hold my tongue about her while that lasts."

Sir Geoffrey betrayed no anger.

"Blackmail?" he said enquiringly.

"Yes," said Melville. "The word is of your own choosing. Indeed, I'm indebted to you for putting the idea into my head. But a man who holds his tongue when it would pay him to talk may not be a blackmailer, but is most certainly a fool."

"You are not a fool," said Sir Geoffrey, "but you are a knave. Now, since I last had the misfortune of seeing you I've had time to think, and the result of my meditation may be of interest to you. Do you wish me to speak plainly?"

"Pray do."

"Well," said Sir Geoffrey, "when you first told me that Lady Holt was alive I confess I was very much surprised. I believed she had died years before; I don't know what she may have said to you, but it is the fact that the marriage was unhappy. Nobody about here had ever heard of it, and I wanted to save myself from being a topic of common gossip. What did I do? I accepted your story, and gave you some money to relieve her from the immediate distress in which you allege you found her. I suppose she received that sum?"

"Of course she did," said Melville.

"You know I distrust you entirely," Sir Geoffrey proceeded. "I had—still have—my doubts about your story, and I saw at once that you intended to convert my natural wish to avoid a scandal into money for yourself. Now I have resolved on my policy; I ought to have resolved on it at first. If Lady Holt needs permanent assistance, she must apply to Mr. Tracy, who will have my instructions. Tell her that from me. She is my wife, and she need have no fear in applying to her husband or his solicitor. But she will never have another farthing from me through you. I don't trust you; and if I did, I still should not employ you in this matter. And as for the blackmail, Melville, you have made a mistake in your calculations. I don't intend to be blackmailed."

"You don't mind your marriage becoming known?"

"I won't pay you to keep it secret," said Sir Geoffrey proudly. "The marriage was a failure, but it was a marriage, and I have nothing to be ashamed of in it. I was a fool to hesitate when you were down here last, but now I hesitate no more. I don't care what you do. Talk if you like. Sell the news to The Fairbridge Mercury for half-a-crown, if you can; I won't give you five shillings to suppress it. And now, sir, go!"

His passion had been steadily rising, and as he shouted out the last word the old man jumped up from his chair and with outstretched arm pointed to the window. It was getting very dark, and suddenly the threatening storm burst in a torrent of heavy rain; it rattled on the zinc roof of the verandah with the noise of musketry, leaping up from the asphalte in white sheets and flooding all the gullies; then a blinding flash of lightning seemed to fill the room, and Melville sank back in his chair, hiding his eyes and waiting for the thunder, which swiftly followed like a roar of artillery. When the crash died away, Melville rose and faced his uncle, who had not moved a muscle.

"It's to be war between us?" he said.

Sir Geoffrey shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't fight with blackguards," he answered. "Do your worst; do what you please—but go."

Melville knew that he had lost; his second castle in the air was shattered and he could not hope to build it up again. Mrs. Sinclair had destroyed the first, Sir Geoffrey had destroyed the second, and Melville was once more face to face with ruin. Outside the wind had risen and the hail was beating into the room, streaming down the windows and blurring all the view. In horrible succession flash of lightning followed flash of lightning, silhouetting everything in the room for an instant before darkness, made more horrible by the deafening crashes of thunder, engulfed it all again. And swift as the lightning that blazed and then was gone, thoughts and schemes shot through Melville's brain. If only Sir Geoffrey were dead, struck by the jagged blades of flame that tore down from the storm-centre in the sky above them, everything would be well. He had made no will—he had said so—and if only he were dead there would be salvation for Melville—salvation in the share of his uncle's money which the law would give him.

Sir Geoffrey strode towards him.

"Storm or no storm," he shouted, striving to make himself heard above the din of wind and hail and thunder, "go. I disown you for the liar and swindler and blackmailer that you are. Not one shilling more shall you ever have whether for my wife or for yourself. Go!"

He seized Melville by the shoulder, and in an instant the men were locked together. Melville was taken by surprise, and even if he had not been he was not more than a match for his uncle, in spite of the difference in their ages. For one brief moment they swayed together, Sir Geoffrey wrestling to throw his nephew out, Melville wrestling to free himself from his uncle's grasp. Another roar of thunder shook the chalet, and even as it did so, the end came. Melville, twisted backwards by his uncle's weight, felt the pistol that he always carried hurt his side. Mad with passion he freed one hand somehow and struggled half an arm's length from the elder man. Before the thunder had fairly died away there was a barking report, a film of smoke rose between the swaying figures, and Sir Geoffrey threw up his arms and dropped. A smell of singed cloth seemed to fill the room, and on the white front of the old man's flannel shirt there was a burnt stain. Sir Geoffrey Holt was dead—shot at close quarters through the heart.

As Sir Geoffrey fell a sharp scream rang outside, and Melville, with wildly beating heart, looked across the room to the window through which he had caught sight of his uncle. A woman was clinging to one of the iron pillars that supported the verandah, and in the half-fainting form Melville recognised Lavender Sinclair.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE FINDING OF THE BODY.

Scared by the fearful intensity of the storm, all the people flocked away from Longbridge regatta, those who could manage to find room there hurrying in to the single inn the place possessed, while, of those who could not, some invaded the houseboats along the bank, and others, more bold, and in reality more wise, made the best of a bad business and started for home. Among these last were Ralph and Gwendolen. He wrapped her up as well as circumstances allowed, and then, cramming his cap upon his head and seizing his punt pole, began to work for all he was worth. Gwendolen did not speak. She was not a little frightened by the lightning, which appeared to flash backwards and forwards between the earth and sky, and there seemed every chance that the racing punt in which they were would be swamped; not that she could have got much wetter if it were; the rain was thrashing the river and flooding the punt and she was already drenched to the skin, but, at any rate, she was speeding towards shelter and dry clothes.

Behind her Ralph was straining every nerve. His thin cashmere shirt clinging damply to him showed every muscle on his chest and shoulders, and his arms, bare to the elbows, shone with the wet, the sinews standing out like cords. He, too, was nervous on her account, and breathed a prayer of gratitude as after each blinding shaft of lightning he found her still unhurt. With set jaws and stern eyes he used all his skill and strength, taking advantage of his thorough knowledge of the river to find the best course for the punt, and listening with a grim satisfaction to the water slapping underneath his feet.

He must have covered the three miles from Longbridge in record time, and of the crowd of boats that hurried down the stream but few succeeded in outstripping him. As he came to the Manor House he shot the punt dexterously alongside of his houseboat, and, jumping on to it, helped Gwendolen to alight.

"Don't be afraid, dear," he shouted, making himself heard with difficulty against a crashing peal of thunder; "run home and change your things at once."

"And you?" she called back to him.

"I will take the punt into the boathouse and wait there. I have plenty of dry things in the dressing-room. I'll change and come up when the storm is over."

He handed her down the gangway, and stood for a moment watching her as she sped across the lawn. Once at The Grange he knew she would be all right; a fond mother and devoted servants would have prepared a cheerful fire and warm garments for her as soon as they saw the persistency of the rain, and afternoon tea would soon restore her equanimity. Then he got back into the punt and took it round the bend into the creek.

He stepped ashore and, laying the soaked cushions under the shelter of the verandah, tipped up the punt to empty it of the water it had shipped, drew it up into the boat-house, and went into the dressing-room. It was a well-appointed place, with every convenience for men who take their boating seriously. In one corner stood a shower bath, and against it a full-size bath supplied with hot water by a lightning geyser. Divesting himself of his dripping flannels, he lighted the lamp in the geyser and employed the few minutes intervening before it should get warm by rubbing himself down. Then he had a bath, followed by a cold douche, and again rubbed himself with rough towels until he glowed with warmth. From a big press in another corner he took a clean shirt and socks and a spotless suit of flannels, and, finally, feeling splendidly fit and comfortable, turned towards the inner room, meaning to have a cigarette and some spirits, and wait there until the fury of the tempest should abate.

"Suppose Sir Geoffrey was here when the storm broke," he thought, as he saw the open windows, "and thought he would be safer in the house. It was careless of him not to shut the windows; those curtains are simply drenched!"

He closed the window overlooking the creek and turned to cross to those that opened on to the grounds, but as he walked round the table that filled the centre of the room a cry rang from his lips, for prone upon the floor Sir Geoffrey lay, and something in the utter helplessness of the posture of the body told Ralph that he was dead.

"Good God!" he cried, and in an instant dropped on his knees by the side of the still figure, conquering by an immense effort a feeling of positive repugnance against touching death. He felt his uncle's wrist to see if he could detect a pulse, and uttered another exclamation of horror when, on letting go the dead hand, it dropped with a thud upon the floor.

"Uncle Geoffrey!" he called; "Uncle Geoffrey!" but no answer came; there was not a quiver in the lids that bagged over the already glazing eyes.

Perhaps it was his own lack of skill that prevented him from feeling the pulse; there could scarcely be any room for doubt if he felt the heart. Sir Geoffrey was lying on his left side, and Ralph rolled the body on to its back and unfastened the flannel collar. Again the horror of it all shook him, and he turned his head aside as he slipped his hand inside his uncle's shirt. The body was quite warm, and Ralph's pluck was returning with his hope, when his fingers fell upon the little wound and became sticky with blood; in a frenzy of terror he tore open the shirt and forced himself to look. A sob shook his whole frame.

"It is murder! it is murder! Dear God, don't let him be dead!" but the singed flannel, the tiny hole in the centre of a ring of scorched flesh, and the absence of blood in any quantity, told a tale he could not but believe. Yet he must try to recall some glimmer of consciousness before he could leave the old man alone. He poured some brandy into a tumbler, and raising Sir Geoffrey's head put a little into the mouth that lolled open and gave the face an almost idiotic expression; but the brandy merely dribbled out from the corners of the lips, and there was no sign of meaning in the eyes. Not knowing what else to do, Ralph raised Sir Geoffrey's body to lay it on the bamboo couch, but, strong as he was, he only did it with the utmost difficulty, and in making the effort he smeared his sleeves and breast with blood.

"What can I do?" he kept on muttering, and yet, oddly enough, the idea of rushing to the house and sending for the nearest doctor never entered his mind. In a hopeless, incapable way he stared about him, wondering what else he could do to recall the life he yet felt sure had flown, and then, draining the tumbler which he had partly filled, he closed the French windows and went back to his dressing-room. He took off his blood-stained jacket and flung it down by the press, washed the blood from his hands, and found another coat; and then, locking the boat-house door, rushed out into the verandah, and so into the garden, and stumbled to the house.

Going into the library he rang the bell, and strode impatiently up and down until a servant came.

"Where is Martin? I want Martin. Send Martin here at once," he said rapidly to the maid who, to his surprise, appeared in place of the old butler.

She stared at him in astonishment and some dismay, for he was white as death himself, and all his wonted quietness of manner was gone.

"He's only just got back from Longbridge, sir," the maid replied, "and he's in his room changing his clothes; they've all got dripping wet."

"Tell him I want him at once—at once," said Ralph, and, eyeing him curiously, the girl hurried downstairs.

"Mr. Ralph wants you in the library directly minute," she called to Martin through his door. "He's rarely put out about something. Gracious! there's the bell again."

"Say I'll be up in a minute," Martin called back.

"But I daren't go back," the servant said. "I'm sure something terrible's the matter. He looks as white as white, and spoke to me as never was."

Martin would have delivered himself of a kindly admonition to the girl to mend her manner of speech, but yet another peal of the bell convinced him that something was indeed amiss, and giving a tug at his tie to make it assume some semblance of a bow, he hurried out of his bedroom and up the stairs, putting on his coat and waistcoat as he went.

"Beg your pardon, Mr. Ralph, for keeping you waiting," he began, but a glance at Ralph's face checked the apologies. "What is the matter, sir? Has there been an accident? Miss Gwendolen——?"

"It's Sir Geoffrey," Ralph replied, hoarsely.

"Not dead?" the butler cried, stepping forward with outstretched hands.

"Yes, dead," answered Ralph. "Murdered, foully murdered in his own home."

Martin reeled against the writing table and stared in horror at Ralph. Ralph, in his turn, gave way, and leaning his arm upon the mantelpiece hid his face and ground his teeth to keep back the tears. So they remained in silence, while the tall clock hammered out the seconds of the time that for its owner had ceased to be.

"Where?" whispered Martin.

Ralph jerked his head in motion to the window.

"In the boathouse," he said.

He seemed incapable of doing anything practical, and Martin rose to the occasion.

"You are sure it is—all over? Quite sure that he is dead?"

"Someone has shot him through the heart," said Ralph, in cold and measured tones.

Martin wiped his eyes.

"Perhaps there is a chance. God grant there may be! Will you run for the doctor, sir, while I go down to him? I'll just tell the housekeeper to get Sir Geoffrey's room in order and have the young servants out of the way, and I'll be at the boathouse with some of the men to carry him home. The poor master!"

Ralph did as he was bid, glad to accept a subordinate place, and Martin, with tears running down his cheeks, hastened to give his instructions to the housekeeper. Then, taking some cushions from the servants' hall, he hurried into the stables to summon help; a couple of long shutters were procured to serve as a litter presently, and in a few minutes the group of awestruck men reached the scene of the tragedy.

It was while they were waiting for Ralph to come with the doctor and bring the key of the boathouse that the necessity of calling in the police occurred to Martin.

"Run up to the police-station," he said to one of the stable boys, "and ask the inspector to come down with you sharp. Whether Sir Geoffrey is dead or not we won't lose any time in putting the police on the scoundrel's track. Go straight up and come straight back, and don't get talking to anybody else. We don't want all the town swarming down here."

The storm was dying. Rain still fell and thunder still rumbled in the distance, but the heavy atmospheric oppression was gone, and bird life was beginning to make itself audible again. In silence the men waited under the verandah for the doctor, from whose advent they still hoped for some relief. Presently he came, grave and with lips compressed, for he knew and loved Sir Geoffrey. Ralph came, too, even more haggard than before, and unlocking the door led the way into the inner room. But although the doctor seemed to the bystanders, in their anxiety, to take a long time over his examination, the first glance had in reality been enough to satisfy his trained eye that Sir Geoffrey was beyond all human aid. As he turned to Ralph and sorrowfully shook his head, the police superintendent walked swiftly and quietly into the room, and looked first at the body and then at the doctor.

"Is it all over, sir?"

"All over," said the doctor very sadly. "If I had been here at the time I could have done nothing. This is a matter for you, inspector."

The inspector looked at the tell-tale mark upon the shirt where the flame had scorched it, and then looked inquiringly at the doctor.

"Yes," said the doctor, understanding the unspoken question; "it is murder."

The inspector turned away.

"Who found the body?"

"I did," Ralph replied.

"Then with your permission I will come up to the house when I have just looked round and locked up the place," the inspector said, and Ralph went out with the doctor. Thus left in command, the inspector's manner changed. He cleared the room of all save Martin Somers, and carefully noted all the little details: the closed windows, the position of the furniture, the empty tumbler on the table. In the dressing-room he saw the water in the basin just stained with blood, and in the corner by the press the blood-stained shirt and jacket which Ralph had just changed, his wet sweater and blazer and soaked flannel trousers hanging upon the side of the big bath where he had left them to dry. Next, the inspector made a careful search all round the boathouse, but the almost tropical rain had obliterated all footsteps, and no clue remained outside. When he at length was satisfied, he summoned the stablemen, and, improvising a litter of the two shutters, lashed together across the boathooks from the canoe, they reverently laid Sir Geoffrey's body on it and bore all that remained of the fine old gentleman back to the beautiful home of which he had been so proud and beloved a master.

CHAPTER XV.

FLIGHT.

Had Ralph not lingered on the houseboat to see that Gwendolen crossed the garden in safety he must almost have taken his brother red-handed in what was tantamount to parricide. That fearful peal of thunder against the din of which he shouted to her to run quickly home, marked the point in time when Melville fired the shot that took his uncle's life. Great tragedies often take but seconds in the acting, and in this supreme moment in Melville's life of crime deed followed thought and thought followed deed as swiftly as the lightning shafts that burst from the riven sky and tore down into the bosom of the earth.

In a sense, he was conscious of a sort of elemental grandeur in his position that yet was wholly diabolical; it was as if all the spirits of evil had sped from the furthest confines of hell and, borne on the pinions of the storm, had foregathered at that lonely spot to become incarnate in him for one brief instant of concentrated passion; but, that brief instant gone, they had departed from him again and sped away, shrieking with fiendish glee at leaving him to reawaken to human consciousness, and face the fact that he was a murderer whose crime had been overseen.

That was the dominant fact in Melville's mind—Lavender had been a witness of the murder. What measures to take to secure her silence he must decide presently; the immediately urgent matter was to get away unseen. Casting one rapid, comprehensive glance all round the room to satisfy himself that he had left no damning trace behind him, and incidentally photographing the scene upon his highly sensitised brain, he stepped noiselessly out of the boathouse and grasped Lavender by the wrist.

"Come," he said curtly and incisively. She shuddered as she felt his touch, but relaxed her hold upon the iron pillar and looked fearfully in his eyes. "Come," he said again, and she obeyed him. Still holding her firmly by the wrist he led her to the far end of the creek and helped her over the ha-ha. As he did so, she dropped her handkerchief, and Melville, picking it up, put it in his pocket. "I'll give that back to you at Waterloo," he said with grim humour. "We can't afford to be so careless here."

Across the meadow they broke into a run, and, reaching the river bank, forced their way through the bushes and regained the boat. There Lavender collapsed, and breaking into nervous hysterical sobs, begged Melville not to push off into the open stream. She seemed, indeed, to have lost all self-control, and Melville hesitated, wondering if her condition would attract attention. But that was a smaller risk than for him to be found in the neighbourhood if the discovery of Sir Geoffrey's body were followed by an immediate and exhaustive search; so he contented himself with the assertion of his mastery of will, and for the moment tried to reassure her.

"There is no more danger on the open water than there is under these trees," he said, "if so much. See, I will move the stroke seat and row up in the bows. Then you can lie down and hide your eyes so as not to see the lightning." He made her as comfortable as he could, covering her with his coat and waistcoat; then he shoved off, and with firm, strong strokes lifted the boat along, while Lavender crouched down on the cushions and hid her face from the horror of the storm.

And as he rowed, his mind worked as methodically as his arms and legs, the measured thud of the sculls against the rowlocks seeming to have a soothing effect upon his excited imagination. Possibly it was due to something akin to demoniacal possession, but whatever its originating source might be there was not a little to compel admiration in the determined way this man could control his thinking powers, could face danger, however imminent, and utilise all his ingenuity in devising means of escape.

In the time required to row from Fairbridge to St. Martin's Lock he surveyed the whole situation. He reflected that the storm would break up the Longbridge regatta, that some of the inmates of the Manor House would find Sir Geoffrey lying dead in his summer room and raise a hue and cry, and that as soon as the first shock of the discovery was over they would telegraph for Mr. Tracy and himself. In order, therefore, to avoid having to invent any circumstantial story of his own movements, it was essential that he should, if possible, get into his rooms unseen, so that his wet flannels might not betray where he had been, and be there when the telegram arrived. Could that be arranged he might be able, if the worst came to the worst, to set up an alibi successfully, and the Fairbridge murder would be numbered among the unsolved mysteries of crime. As for Lavender, something would depend upon the severity of the storm in London. Provided she held her tongue as to her movements, suspicion was most unlikely to fall upon her, at any rate for some time, and the danger of her being sought for as Lady Holt was remote; and, if she were, she would certainly not be a consenting party to the identification, because of the consequent inevitable exposure of her bigamous marriage and the rupture with Sir Ross Buchanan which that exposure would entail.

Melville looked at his companion lying huddled at the bottom of the boat. Could he rely upon her not betraying him? What line should he take with her when presently the scene that had to be got over between them should begin? He could not quite decide; it was difficult to do so until he saw her face. But for the moment he was glad that she should cower down as she was doing; it rendered her chance of being recognised so much the less, and already boat-loads of soaked holiday-makers were passing them. Melville paused as a favourable opportunity offered, and surreptitiously dropped his revolver into the river-bed. If—anything—should happen, that must not be found amongst his possessions, for the bullet it had held would certainly be kept, and such a coincidence as his possessing a weapon which it fitted must be prevented. He kept his head down as he sculled and looked neither to the right nor to the left. To the lock-keeper from whom he had hired the boat he was a stranger, and all he had to do was to avoid being recognised himself by any acquaintance who might chance to be in the crowd that now was nearing the lock simultaneously.

He drew in to the left bank and let the lock fill up. The rain, which had been savage and relentless while they were on the river, was abating now they were within easy reach of shelter; the intervals between the peals of thunder were lengthening, and, most noticeable of all, the terrible oppression was relieved. Melville hooked the boat on to the stakes below the lock and backed her gently up the stream until he came to a spot where they could land easily.

"Sit up, Lavender," he said softly, but peremptorily.

She raised herself on one arm and looked round. Hopelessness stared from her large eyes, but Melville saw with relief that the insane terror had departed from them; he was anxious to get her into the train without exciting remark, and it was something that she had regained her self-control. That her frock was dripping wet and stained red from the cushions would not attract attention here where everyone was wet, and before they reached Waterloo she would not look so deplorable, however cold and uncomfortable she might feel.

"We won't go through the lock," he said. "I'm going to pay the man for the boat and say he'll find her here. Pull yourself together as much as you can before I come back. If we are quick I think we can just catch a train, and we shall get away before all the people get out of the lock and crowd up the station. Do you feel better now?"

"Yes," she answered dully.

"I can depend upon you until we get home?" he asked, with some anxiety.

She nodded a vacant assent, and with that he had to be satisfied. He got out of the boat and went to the lock to pay for its hire and tell the man where to find it. Meantime, Lavender, realising that whatever the future might have in store for her, no good could be done by a scene at St. Martin's Lock, made an effort to pull herself together, and tried to readjust her bedraggled costume. With one of the napkins from the hamper she dried her face and hands, and wringing some of the water from her skirts and rubbing her patent shoes, she succeeded in making herself a little more presentable. Melville was pleased. They hurried to the station and were fortunate enough to catch an up train and secure an empty carriage.

But as soon as the train moved away his manner changed. Even if they were left alone during the whole journey they only had fifty-five minutes in which to arrive at an understanding, for he was quite clear he could not go back with her to The Vale. He took the corner seat immediately opposite to her.

"Why did you leave the boat at Fairbridge?"

The question sprang sharply from his lips, insisting on an immediate reply.

"The storm was so awful—so appalling," she said faintly. "It was like the end of the world."

It was obvious to Melville that she was frightened of him, and he was content that it should be so, for only by terrorising her could he hope to maintain his ascendency over her; any woman might be nervous at being shut up in a railway carriage with a murderer, but it was not of that precisely that she was afraid, for she stood in no fear of violence at his hands. There was something despotic about him that compelled obedience, and even if she had not been naturally as truthful as she was she would not have attempted to prevaricate.

"Now tell me," Melville rapped out in the same peremptory way, "did you hear what we were saying in that room?"

"Some of it," she replied; "enough, at any rate, to know what you have been doing to get money."

"You don't know what my position was," Melville said. "You remember my leaving Monte Carlo—ruined?" Lavender nodded. "I went down to see my uncle a few days after I got home and he refused to help me. I don't know why. He had always been lavish to my brother, and had never refused me anything before. I was in absolute need of shillings, and had to get them somehow. After I heard of your marriage with him, I told him I knew and got something from him."

"But you got it on the ground that I was in need of it," she said indignantly.

"It was the only way I could get it at all," he retorted.

"It was an outrage," she said, with suppressed passion. "I resent that as much as anything else. After all the years I never touched a penny of his money for you to tell him I was starving and pocket the money for yourself is a thing you can't expect me not to be mad about."

Her eyes blazed from her white face, and Melville grew apprehensive.

"What do you think Sir Geoffrey's answer was?" he asked.

"What?"

"He gave me ten pounds as an act of charity, and said if you needed any more you could apply to the people you'd been living with all those years. So you see, if you had been starving, you need not have looked for much help from him."

A flush shot over her neck and cheeks and ebbed again.

"It only makes it worse that your villainy provoked such a message—such a gratuitous affront. Oh, what an incredible fool I have been! But I am beginning to see you in your true colours now."

Melville looked at her, shading his eyes with his hand; it might not be so easy to silence her after all.

"What are you going to do?"

"How can I say?" she protested. "I must have time. I can't even think yet."

"You must think," he retorted curtly. "You must make up your mind between this and Waterloo, and stick to it afterwards."

"I can't," she repeated. "What's more, I won't try." Her thoughts flashed back from themselves to the dead man. "Why did you do it?" she sobbed. "Why, in the name of heaven, did you do it?"

For just one moment a pang of remorse stabbed Melville's heart.

"Only the devil knows," he groaned; but the train was travelling rapidly, and this was no time for vain reflection. "You must assure me, Lavender. I must know that I can have confidence in you. After all, we're in this thing together."

A look of fear came into her face, to be noted instantly by him.

"What have I to do with it?" she said defiantly.

"Nothing," he answered swiftly. "I want your oath that you know nothing of it."

She threw out her hands with a pathetic gesture.

"I can't give it. I'm not sure of myself. I can't live and be sure of not betraying it. I shall never sleep—never know peace again."

"I want your oath," Melville said doggedly. "After all, you stand to gain more by Sir Geoffrey's death than I do."

"What do you mean?" she asked, surprised.

"You are free to marry Sir Ross."

She looked at him, not quite grasping the purport of his words, but even as he said them they gave him confidence. If she was recalcitrant, he might threaten her.

"Except yourself, no one can ever throw light upon Sir Geoffrey's death. You must swear that you will throw none on it."

She did not answer, but sat like a statue of despair, as white as marble and as motionless. Already they were drawing near to Clapham Junction; ten or twelve minutes were all that were left for him to get the oath he must obtain.

"Think," he said swiftly. "Think what it might mean if a living soul knew that you were at that boathouse to-day. You—Sir Geoffrey's wife—living on money derived from a man whom you had feloniously married, engaged to be married again to a man who is twice a millionaire! What would be said? That you had everything to gain by the death of Sir Geoffrey Holt, supposing your identity became known, as it must be then: that you could hope for no help or forgiveness from him, and that as the wife of Sir Ross you would be rich beyond the dreams of avarice—and safe. They would find there motive enough for the crime, and would say that your hand fired the shot. And if you told the truth, and swore I did it, why should they believe you? Why should I, who have lived all my life upon Sir Geoffrey's bounty, kill the man upon whom I actually depend for my daily bread?"

Lavender stared at him with increasing horror. Could he possibly intend to shift suspicion on to her, or was he only putting into words what would be the general opinion if her presence at Fairbridge that afternoon became known? Melville read the doubt in her mind, and, with his fiendish cleverness, allayed her first uncertainty. To let that rankle might be to goad her too far, but he must appeal to her self-interest too.

"If it got to that, of course that would be the end of me," he said, "for I should have to confess that the deed was only mine, and I could not be taken alive. But think what you stand to lose: the income you have, the fortune you may have, your name, your reputation, possibly your freedom. You would be so involved in a scandal of bigamy and murder that in self-defence you would have to disappear. Lavender, it isn't only for my sake that I'm putting it all like this; I'm not asking you to do anything. I'm only imploring you for both our sakes to do nothing. Will you give me your solemn promise to hold your tongue for ever about to-day's work? Will you swear not to say one word of where we have been, or anything else, to any living soul? Will you, Lavender—will you?"

In sheer despair she retired from the unequal contest.

"I promise," she said. "I will be silent."

Melville could not repress a sigh of relief. It never occurred to him to doubt her reliability. She would keep her promise, he knew, and he would be safe. But there was no opportunity for further converse. They were at Vauxhall, and the man who collected their tickets got into the compartment and travelled with them to Waterloo.

At the terminus Melville put Lavender into a hansom.

"Don't write to me or call," he said. "I must go home at once, and I shall probably have to go down again to Fairbridge. They are sure to send for me. I will write to you as soon as I can and fix up an appointment."

She looked at him in wonder. He had courage of its kind, and courage of any kind appeals to women.

"You need not be afraid," she murmured. "I will keep my promise," and as he told the cabman where to go, she leaned back and closed her eyes in utter exhaustion.

Left by himself, Melville, too, could have collapsed; there was a physical reaction that left all his joints weak, and he shivered with cold. But danger was not over yet; much would depend upon his getting into his rooms unnoticed. So he hailed another hansom and drove to Piccadilly Circus.

"What sort of storm have you had here?" he asked, as he paid the cabman.

"Bad, sir; very heavy about four o'clock."

"Ah, well," Melville said, "it's good for your business, I daresay."

He walked round the corner into Jermyn Street erect and steady, although he felt so excited. How would things work out? The street was almost empty, for London was dressing for dinner, and the commissionaire was not standing by the front door of the chambers. A swift glance into the office showed Melville that that was empty too, and rapidly he walked along the thickly-carpeted passage. Opposite the lift he paused to scan the names upon the letters stuck in the letter rack, and his heart leaped as he caught sight of the orange envelope of a telegram addressed to himself. So it had come! He put out his hand involuntarily to take it, but checked the impulse and silently ran up the staircase and gained his rooms. Once there he tore off all his clothes and hung them in a wardrobe, which he locked. He changed his linen, dried and brushed his hair, and then, putting on a pair of flannel trousers and a smoking jacket, rang the bell and lay down on the sofa, a cigarette in his mouth, a paper in his hand.

After an interval the bell was answered by the manager.

"Where's Jervis to-day, then?" Melville asked pleasantly.

"Went off duty, sir, at twelve. He'll be back at eight. Can I do anything for you?"

"I wanted some tea," said Melville. "I'm ashamed to say I've been asleep."

"I'll bring it to you," the manager said.

"Thanks," Melville answered. "You might see if there are any letters for me," and he rose and stretched himself.

Tea arrived, and on the tray there lay a couple of letters and the telegram. Melville tore it open, and an exclamation of surprise and horror broke from him.

"When did this come?" he asked. "Half an hour ago! Oh, why wasn't it brought up to me at once?"

"I'm very sorry," the manager said, "but I really didn't know you were in."

"I've been in all the afternoon," said Melville. "Who would go out in such a storm if they could help it? But, in any case, I think someone should bring up telegrams to see if I am at home. It's awful—awful!"

"Bad news, sir?" asked the manager.

"Awful," said Melville again. "Sir Geoffrey Holt is dead. I must go down at once."

CHAPTER XVI.

AN UNEXPECTED WILL.

That Sir Geoffrey's violent end should have an almost paralysing effect upon the household that loved him so much was, of course, only to be expected, but it is impossible to tell beforehand how great grief will manifest itself in different people. Thus Ralph, who enjoyed a reputation of being bright and frank and open-hearted beyond the common, became morose and even sullen, nursing his wrath against the unknown murderer and allowing the iron to enter into his soul. Melville, on the contrary, hitherto self-centred and indifferent to the happiness of others, seemed to be softened by the tragedy, and in many little ways displayed an eagerness to comfort the rest and a regard for their sorrow that was very winning. The inquest which was held two days after the outrage was ineffective: a verdict of wilful murder was returned against some person unknown, and the case was recommended by the coroner to the attention of the police. So far they preserved a sphinx-like silence, and although conjecture was rife in the neighbourhood it received no assistance or corroboration from the detectives engaged.

The evidence given at the inquest was little more than formal; the doctor's testimony was brevity itself, Ralph's was concise to the point of curtness, and the police inspector had no suggestions to offer; the facts were self-evident, and of the only details that seemed to promise any interest, namely, the bloodstains upon Ralph's jacket and in the water in the basin, his explanation was so obviously simple that comment was superfluous. Yet upon the people in the court Ralph's manner had an effect not wholly favourable. He appeared to resent their natural curiosity, was brusque, and even in bowing to the coroner, when that functionary gave expression to the sympathy felt by his court for Sir Geoffrey's relatives, did not err upon the side of graciousness. But if Ralph thus failed to maintain the family traditions of courtesy, Melville atoned for it. He was merely asked whether he could throw any light upon the crime by suggesting any motive which might have prompted it, and this, it is needless to say, he could not do. But his quiet dignity in this moment of sorrow and his air of engaging candour won all hearts, and he quitted the scene in full possession of the sympathy of the audience.

There followed two most miserable days, during which Ralph smoked in solitude upon his houseboat, and Melville, for the most part, idled at The Grange. Music fits every mood, and there was no disrespect to the uncle by the nephew turning to his Amati for comfort in this dark hour, and so he played—played as if inspired by Saint Cecilia—and stole a little further into Gwendolen's heart.

It was with a sense of genuine relief that the two brothers returned to the Manor House after the funeral. There was a certain restraint between them and an odd embarrassment as to their mutual attitude in the small matters of daily life; thus Sir Geoffrey's chair at the head of the table was left empty by consent, but it stood as a constant reminder that for one of them it symbolised possession, and now that its late tenant was laid to rest with his fathers, the question as to which of the two should sit in it by right was about to be decided.

With the closing of the inquest Melville's first fears of detection were allayed, and his mind was engaged almost exclusively with the problem of his future. He took it for granted that his uncle had died intestate, and the only complication he could foresee in the division of the estate was brought about by the existence of Lavender, of which he believed he was the only person who knew. Mr. Tracy might know, and if he did, Melville supposed that half the estate would be held, pending Lady Holt's instructions, and that the other half would be divided between his brother and himself without undue delay. What action he should take with regard to Lavender it was too early to decide, but in a vague way he was beginning to incline to the policy of persuading her never to come forward, which he was confident he could do, and, by-and-bye, her share, too, might be obtainable for himself, or, at any rate, half of it.

The brothers were standing in the hall, both feeling rather aimless and self-conscious, when Martin joined them.

"Mr. Tracy mentioned that he had to return to London soon after the funeral, so I have taken some luncheon into the library. I thought, perhaps, you would have business to do before he left."

The butler directed his remarks diplomatically between the two young men. He assumed that the Manor House would be left to Ralph, as being the elder, but he did not wish to make any invidious distinctions between them at present. They looked at each other and went into the library, where they found Mr. Tracy contemplating a substantial pie as if wondering what description of animal food it might contain. The old lawyer looked up at them with a smile, and settled all difficulties of precedence by sitting down in the nearest chair, which happened to be at the head of the table. He knew the utility of a meal as a preparation for an unpleasant discussion, and although as Sir Geoffrey's solicitor he was only the mouthpiece by which the dead man's disposition of his property was to be communicated, he felt uncomfortable.

"I'm not ashamed to say that I am particularly hungry," he remarked. "With your permission, I will discuss this pie before discussing business," and he proceeded to make an excellent luncheon, talking all the while of everything except that which was uppermost in all their minds.

But, luncheon disposed of, his manner changed.

"I have had two copies of Sir Geoffrey's will prepared," he said, "and perhaps you would like to look at them while I read the original. It is not a long document, but the technical phraseology may, perhaps, seem confusing to the lay mind."

He turned to a table in the window, where he had placed a bag containing his papers, and so did not observe the slight start of surprise which Melville could not repress. So there was a will after all! Was fortune about to play him a scurvy trick after he had dared so much? He lighted a cigarette and sat down in a chair where the light would not fall upon his face.

"In its main features," continued Mr. Tracy, who seemed to be taking an unconscionable time fumbling in his bag, "the will, as I have said, is sufficiently simple, but it contains at least one element of surprise. I will read it without further comment, and you can follow from the copies," and, giving a type-written copy of the will to Ralph and another to Melville, he read the original clearly and distinctly.

Beginning with legacies to the servants, ranging from a year's wages to the youngest maid to life provision for Martin Somers, the will ordained that a charge should be made upon the estate sufficient to give an annuity of four hundred pounds a year to the testator's widow, Dame Lavinia Holt, to be paid quarterly to her in person, on application at Mr. Tracy's office, the first instalment to be paid upon her first making such personal application, and not necessarily to accrue from the date of her husband's death; subject only to these legacies and this one charge, everything real and personal was bequeathed to "my dear nephew, Ralph Ashley," for his uncontrolled use and enjoyment. Of Melville's name no mention whatever was made.

Mr. Tracy folded up the document and waited. The silence grew painful. Ralph did not know what to say, and Melville could not trust himself to speak. He was white with mortification and rage, and could have cursed himself for having with his own hand destroyed his last chance for the future. He cleared his throat and tried to speak, but the words would not come. Ralph looked enquiringly at the solicitor.

"I suppose there can be no mistake," he said; "but this lady—who is she? I have never heard until this minute that my uncle ever married."

"I can throw no light upon the mystery," Mr. Tracy said. "Sir Geoffrey was not the man to give confidences. He drafted this will himself, less than a month ago, and all I have done is to engross it and procure his signature. I should like to say that I ventured to ask certain questions and even make certain suggestions, but they were received with unmistakable disapproval, and, of course, I could not pursue the matter."

"It is iniquitous," said Melville hoarsely. He rose abruptly from his chair and faced his brother. "This is your work, you scoundrel! For years you have left nothing undone to estrange Sir Geoffrey from me. You have schemed and plotted for this, and at the last minute, curse you, you have succeeded. Well, you may be hugging yourself now, but I swear you will live to be sorry."

Mr. Tracy tried to pacify him, but in his heart he was not a little sorry for him. It must be a terrible shock to find himself thus ignored by the uncle from whom, for all the lawyer knew to the contrary, he had every right to expect munificent provision. And the lawyer spoke the truth when he said he had ventured to plead Melville's cause with Sir Geoffrey, although he reduced to the lowest possible terms the substance of the old man's answer to his pleading; yet even at that interview, when Sir Geoffrey might reasonably have been expected to confide entirely in the lawyer engaged to give legal effect to his last testament, he had refrained; his native pride forbade him to dilate upon his story, and kindly, but quite firmly, he declared his intention not to swerve from the course which he had chosen. Now that the thing was done, however, Mr. Tracy preferred that the possible quarrel between the two young men should be deferred until after his own departure, so he reverted to the matter immediately in hand.

"Subject to your approval," he said, addressing Ralph, whom alone it was now necessary to consult, "I will take steps to ascertain Lady Holt's address. Sir Geoffrey told me he knew she was alive, but did not know where she was to be found. I rather inferred that she was in London, and in poor circumstances."

"Act as you think right," said Ralph. He was so surprised by the revelation that he was impatient to learn the whole story. "Make all possible enquiries, and if they fail, why not advertise a reward for information about her? Why should Sir Geoffrey's wife be in poor circumstances at all?"

"Perhaps she was misrepresented to her husband," Melville said bitterly.

"Well, I will see about it," said Mr. Tracy, "and let you know the result. Now I must really hurry away. I ventured to ask the butler to order a conveyance to take me up to the station. Good-bye, Mr. Melville. I quite understand your very natural disappointment, and I do not hesitate to say I am sorry about it. If I can be of any service to you at any time do not hesitate to command me."

Ralph walked to the door with Mr. Tracy.

"I'm all at sixes and sevens for the minute," he said, "but I should like to see you again soon. Uncle Geoffrey may have left Melville nothing, but he has made no conditions in leaving me so much. You can, doubtless, advise me what would be the best thing to do about my brother."

"I shall be particularly glad to do so," the old lawyer replied heartily. "Give me time to confirm any appointment, as I am very busy just now, but, within reason, I can come here or see you in the Fields at any time."

"I suppose I'm in for a quarrel with Melville," Ralph continued seriously, "so I should just like to add this. He's not likely to agree to accept anything from me, but if he turns up later on to consult you, can't you let him have a hundred or so without saying too precisely where it comes from? You can make it right with me afterwards."

"Of course I can," said Mr. Tracy. "Very delicate of you, I'm sure. I shall be delighted to take part in so amiable a conspiracy," and, shaking the new master of the Manor House warmly by the hand, he got into the carriage and drove away.

Ralph watched the carriage disappear, and turned back into the house with a sigh. How was he to deal with his brother in this moment of humiliation, which Melville would with difficulty be persuaded was not due to him? Although they were brothers and so nearly of an age, the difference in their temperaments was such that Ralph felt certain beforehand that he could not hope to appeal successfully to the better part of Melville's character, which surely must exist. If Sir Geoffrey, with all the authority of age and wealth, could not control his younger nephew, how could Ralph hope to succeed? He lingered in the hall, reluctant to open what would be a painful interview, and as he looked at the familiar things, with their evidence of wealth and cultured taste, and realised that they were all his, he became conscious for the first time of the duties and responsibilities which he had inherited with his rights and privileges. There was no mental reservation in the inarticulate expression of regret at his uncle's death that escaped him. Even if it had come in the ordinary course of nature, he would fain have postponed the day, and lived content and happy with the dear old man, as he had done for so many years; but for the end to come so tragically, so treacherously, increased the bitterness a thousandfold, and Ralph's first emotion as he looked upon his goodly heritage was one of unmitigated grief at having thus entered upon his own.

But after a little while he raised his head with a new expression of peace and high purpose on his face. He would strive to be as good a master of the fine old Manor as Sir Geoffrey had ever been, and the moment to begin his duties had arrived. He must offer the hand of brotherhood to Melville, and enlist his help in tracking their uncle's murderer to his doom. More hopefully he went slowly from the hall to join his brother in the library; but as he opened the door a feeling of chill disappointment stole over him, for Melville, too, had shirked the interview and the room was empty. As Ralph turned to the window with a sigh he saw his brother, looking tall and slight in his sombre mourning, moving slowly over the sunlit turf and making evidently in the direction of The Grange.

CHAPTER XVII.

AN ARREST.

It was the fact that Melville shirked a conversation with his brother immediately after the reading of the will; the mental strain had been so great that he could not be sure of his temper or judgment, and that being so, common prudence dictated a delay which would enable him to consider the new situation in all its bearings before risking a final rupture with the new lord of the Manor. He sought a temporary refuge at The Grange, where he knew he would receive commiseration upon his terrible disappointment, and where he might derive some sardonic satisfaction from the knowledge that his presence by Gwendolen's side would involve Ralph's absence from the same desirable spot. Mrs. Austen was quite frank in her condemnation of Sir Geoffrey's action.

"Whatever Melville may or may not have done, it is unfair to allow a young fellow to grow up without any profession or occupation, in the belief that he will inherit a considerable fortune, and then to ignore his existence in this way."

Gwendolen agreed with the abstract proposition, but could not believe that Sir Geoffrey would have taken such drastic measures without good reason; she hinted as much, but her mother would have none of it.

"I dare say Sir Geoffrey had plenty to put up with from Melville," she said, "but that is the penalty of having children, whether they are your own or adopted by you. What makes this will so inexplicable is that it was made such a little while ago, for just lately Melville seemed to be on better terms with his uncle than he had been for years. I'm sure there is some mischief-maker at the bottom of it all, and if it had not been for this terrible murder Sir Geoffrey would have got at the rights of the story, whatever it was, and made a new will."

"Melville is fortunate in having such a brother as Ralph," said Gwendolen; "it isn't as if the money were left to strangers. I don't suppose there will be any difference really."

"What nonsense!" said Mrs. Austen testily. "Ralph is a very charming young man, and I'm delighted you're going to be his wife, but I have a very warm place in my heart for Melville, and I think it's quite possible he has been misjudged; and your most excellent Ralph goes about with the cheerful expression of a professional mute whenever Melville comes down. Lately, for instance, since Melville has been here so frequently we haven't seen half so much of Ralph."

Gwendolen sighed. She had not failed to observe the fact, but she could throw no light upon the reason of it. Ralph resembled Sir Geoffrey in being very taciturn where his private feelings were concerned; she remembered the day when Sir Geoffrey said he had a bone to pick with Ralph. The discussion ended satisfactorily, but she connected the slight trouble in some way with Melville, who, as she afterwards learned, had seen his uncle the previous night, and Ralph's championship of his brother's cause had been discontinued from that time; since then, indeed, he never talked about him. It was all very puzzling and sad.

In the meantime, Melville forsook the neighbourhood. He accepted Mrs. Austen's hospitality for a couple of nights, and then, frankly confessing that the proximity of the Manor House with its associations was intolerable to him in his present frame of mind, returned to London, outwardly calm enough, but inwardly consumed by a raging fire of evil passions. As he paced his chambers, secure from prying eyes, hate and fear, chagrin and lust for revenge swept across his pallid face, and sometimes, as he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, he thought the whole world must be able to read his secret in the careworn lines, which in reality it ascribed to laudable grief and natural disappointment. It is a kind-hearted place, this same world of ours, provided its patience and generosity are not unduly taxed, and just now it laid itself out to make things easier for Melville. He accepted the proffered sympathy gratefully, and won a new sort of popularity by his quiet pluck and his gentle air of resignation. Old people thought he was chastened by his trouble; young ones thought he was to be pitied; and Melville made the most of this occasion to make new friends among the children of this world.

But he did not forget his vow that Ralph should live to be sorry for having contributed, however indirectly, to his disinheritance, and wherever he went he sowed scandal with both hands. It is an invisible seed, of which the fruit is more deadly than the upas tree, and in sowing it as he did it is possible that Melville himself had no idea of what the harvest would be. Society knew little of Sir Geoffrey, who lived a comparatively retired life in his fine old Surrey home, but the mystery attaching to the unknown Lady Holt tickled its palate, and the murder of a man who was one of its order was not lightly to be forgotten. Thus at many a dinner party, where the subject was delicately broached, and at many a little luncheon in the clubs, where the conversation veered upon the question of undetected criminals, remarks were made—no one could afterwards precisely say by whom—which went to direct the general suspicion towards one point.

"What is the good of all this parrot-talk about motives," he said on one occasion. "When once you set to work imputing motives you need never stop. Anybody can tell you that half the murders in the world are due to drink or jealousy. Neither comes into this case. And England isn't like Sicily or Corsica, where vendetta is an institution. Sir Geoffrey could not have had an enemy in the world, so you may rule out revenge as well."

"How about the lady?" someone suggested, but Melville disposed of the idea.

"She can't have got her knife into him, or she would not have lain so low all these years. Besides, it looks as if Sir Geoffrey believed her to be dead, for he made some funny arrangements about her annuity. Anyhow, all that is pretty certain to come to light, for I believe there is a big reward offered to anyone who will produce her. No; I don't see much use in fooling after motives."

That was as far as he allowed himself to go then, but elsewhere, and to another audience, he took a different line and seemed interested in hearing the general opinion on this same subject of motives. He sat silent until the end of the conversation, when he appeared disinclined to endorse the verdict of the rest.

"It's too jolly dangerous," he said gravely, "to go about suggesting people who might commit a crime, and then inventing reasons why they should do it. It's very easy to vary the amusement, until you begin to believe you have found the motive and the man by a process of exhaustion. Why, Sir Geoffrey once told me he had made no will; is there sufficient motive there for me to kill him so that I might benefit under an intestacy? On the other hand, my brother knew he had made one, though I don't suppose he knew its tenour. Is there sufficient motive there for him to kill the old man on the chance of coming in? The thing is absurd on the face of it. We were both dependent on him, and I venture to say that no two fellows were ever fonder of their father than we were of our uncle."

It was not often he was as precise as that. For the most part he contented himself with the vaguest remarks, all harmless individually, but totalling up to an incredible strength when put together by skilful brains; and skilful brains were doing it, brains owned by men who, in spite of all detractors, are marvellously shrewd, and who do not often have to confess themselves beaten in the end, although they may sometimes take a long time upon the journey, and even make errors by the way. Whose business it was to gather these rumours and carry them to the detectives engaged upon the case, it matters not to enquire; popular opinion is no evidence, but it is often useful as indicating where evidence may be found, and, Melville's expressed opinion notwithstanding, all lawyers attach importance to motive in arguing for or against the criminality of individuals. At any rate, they agreed in the advisability of making an arrest upon suspicion, and their selection of the individual was partly influenced by some of these random and irresponsible remarks.

The Manor House was looking its best in the mellow light of an ideal summer evening. It had been one of those days when it is impossible not to feel delight in life, and Ralph awoke to full consciousness of the fact that he had youth and love and wealth to comfort himself withal. He spent the morning at The Grange, and after luncheon punted Gwendolen up the river, arranging for Mrs. Austen to join them at the Manor House. There was no flaw in his happiness that day, and, perhaps because of the violent contrast between its morning and its night, it always stood out afterwards with particular distinctness in his memory. Returning from Longbridge, he put on his evening clothes and went to The Grange to fetch Gwendolen and her mother; they strolled leisurely down to the Manor House and lingered over dinner, discussing idly many little plans for alterations to be made in the old place for the fuller satisfaction of its new mistress.

Martin hovered about them, anticipating their every want, and when at last they left the dining-room they resumed the discontinued custom, and decided to have their coffee brought to them on the houseboat. It seemed to mark the closing of a tragedy and the resumption of the pleasant routine of their country life.

And as on that evening—which now seemed so long ago—when the last of the guests, summoned to congratulate them on their betrothal, had departed, and Sir Geoffrey and Mrs. Austen joined Ralph and Gwendolen, so now the sound of music was borne to them from other houseboats on the river, so now a stray punt was poled swiftly down the stream, and the swans floated out from their nooks under the willows and rocked gracefully in its wake. Everything goes on just the same, although the best and greatest of us die.

Mrs. Austen was dozing comfortably in her chair, and Ralph sat close to Gwendolen, smoking in perfect content. Both were seeing visions of the future, a future of unbroken peace and happiness spent in each other's company, and the interruption of their waking dream by the sound of footsteps coming on board was not unwelcome, as it only suggested another little touch in the picture of material prosperity of which they themselves furnished the human interest.

Martin deposited his tray in the kitchen in the tender, and came up to Ralph.

"May I speak to you for a moment, sir?" he said almost in a whisper.

Ralph looked up surprised.

"What is it, Martin? Anything the matter?"

"I should like to speak to you alone, sir, if I may."

Martin followed him to the top of the ladder.

"A gentleman has come—in connection with the murder," he said, an odd look of embarrassment upon his face, "and he says he must see you at once; he won't be denied."

"Of course I must see him at once," said Ralph. "Why should he be denied?"

The look on Martin's face was pitiful.

"I can't tell you what I mean, Mr. Ralph," he said, "but I'm sure there is some hideous mistake. I think—I think he thinks you know something about it."

Ralph stared at the old servant in blank astonishment, utterly failing to comprehend his meaning.

"Where is the gentleman?" he said, but the question was answered for Martin. A tall figure was standing at the foot of the stairway, and bowed to Ralph as he reached the bottom step.

"Mr. Ralph Ashley?"

"At your service," Ralph answered pleasantly. "I understand you want to see me about this murder. Have you discovered anything?"

"I am sorry you have company, Mr. Ashley," the officer said in a quiet tone, so that his words might not be overheard upstairs. "I am a detective, and I hold a warrant for your arrest in connection with the murder of Sir Geoffrey Holt."

"My arrest?" cried Ralph.

"Yes, sir," the officer replied. "You understand, of course, that I am only acting in accordance with my instructions, and it is my duty to remind you that anything you say will be available as evidence."

Ralph's first impulse was to laugh, but the grotesque horror of the situation was too much for him. He drew himself up with dignity.

"I will come with you at once," he said. "Excuse me for a moment. I must tell my guests that I am compelled to bid them good-night."

The detective hesitated, and Ralph flushed as he understood.

"By all means come upstairs," he said, with cold hauteur. "You will, doubtless, excuse me if I refrain from introducing you to the lady who is going to do me the honour of becoming my wife." He went upstairs again, but his native instincts of a gentleman reasserting themselves in the brief interval, he turned to the detective as they gained the roof. "I beg your pardon for saying that," he said, with wonderfully winning courtesy; "perhaps you will oblige me by allowing me to present you to Miss Austen. Your name is——?"

"Anstruther," the man answered.

Ralph went up to Gwendolen.

"I'm sorry to cause you a minute's distress or anxiety, darling," he said, "but this gentleman, Mr. Anstruther, requires my attendance in the matter of Uncle Geoffrey's death."

Gwendolen started up.

"Requires——?"

Ralph stroked her hand.

"I would rather you knew it from me, since you must know it. Mr. Anstruther is instructed to detain me on suspicion of being somehow implicated." He looked imploringly at the detective, who came gallantly to his rescue.

"Merely on suspicion, Miss Austen," he said, in a full rich voice that conveyed confidence somehow. "I am more sorry than I can say that it falls to me to come on such an errand, but I fancy you would be the last to wish me not to do my duty."

Ralph kissed Gwendolen, who clung to him.

"We must show a brave front, Gwen," he said. "It's horrible to think that anybody can suspect me of having had a hand in the dear old man's death, but since somebody does, the only thing now is to clear myself before the world." He turned to Mrs. Austen. "If I should happen to be unable to come home to-morrow, I wonder if you would mind taking up your quarters at the Manor House? I should like to think that you and Gwen were there, and it might be well if someone was available to help Mr. Tracy if necessary."

"Of course we will if you wish it," Mrs. Austen said. She was boiling over with indignation at the outrage, but controlled herself admirably, partly for her daughter's sake and partly from a natural pride which forbade her to betray emotion. Indeed, they were all wonderfully self-possessed.

"A thousand thanks," Ralph said gratefully. "Martin will see you home and will come on to get me anything I may want. Good-night, Mrs. Austen. Good-night, my darling."

He pressed his lips passionately upon her mouth, and she returned him kiss for kiss. Then, with head erect and a proud look on his frank and boyish face, he led the way downstairs, followed by the detective; while, on the houseboat, Gwendolen, clasping her mother's hand, strained longing eyes upon his figure until it was lost to sight amid the shadows of the trees.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A FAITHFUL SERVANT.

For Ralph, in the period of forced inactivity that followed, existence became a nightmare; the charge against him being one of murder, bail was not granted, and his innocence, instead of making his incarceration tolerable, added to its horror. He felt stifled, and raged at being shut up within the four walls of a cell in this glorious summer weather, when, but for the crass imbecility of some over-zealous detective, he might have been luxuriating in the sunshine with Gwendolen on the Thames. By degrees, too, a morbid nervousness took possession of him. When brought before the magistrates he was astounded at the weight of evidence that seemed to have been piled up against him in the interval; what a clever counsel for the Crown might make of it all he was afraid to think, and talking about it to Mr. Tracy afterwards, frankly admitted that he was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

"If I'm committed for trial," he said, when, instead of being discharged as he expected, he was remanded for a week, "I shall feel that I am half way to the gallows. These lawyers are the very devil, and I don't believe a saint would emerge from cross-examination with a rag of character left."

Mr. Tracy reassured him then, and Gwendolen cheered him up by her loving sympathy.

"Mother and I have seen Melville," she said, "and we will not leave a single thing undone to put an end to this horrible blunder with the enquiry before the magistrates. I can't believe that it will be possible to twist facts into evidence enough to justify your committal. It will be all right next time, and I shall insist upon being married to you by special licence directly you are discharged, as a sort of vote of confidence in you."

She would not allow him to guess how anxious she was, and spared him all knowledge of how strongly the tide of public opinion was running against him; but at the Manor House, when alone with her mother, she broke out into a storm of indignation against her neighbours.

"It shakes one's faith in human nature," she said passionately, "that anyone can be found to believe such a preposterous charge. Of course Ralph knew he would be Sir Geoffrey's heir, and to suggest that he would commit murder to antedate his possession by a few years is absurd. And then all this haggling about minutes! Of course any man would change his clothes before bothering to get himself a whiskey and soda. If there hadn't been such an awful storm, Ralph would not have discovered the murder at all; he would have gone straight up to The Grange without looking into Sir Geoffrey's room."

For it was upon the time spent by Ralph in the boathouse that the police were at present chiefly relying to substantiate the charge against him; they showed that the moment suggested by the doctor as that when the fatal shot took effect must have synchronised with Ralph's arrival in the boathouse, and there was absolutely no evidence to show that anyone else had been there at all. Mr. Tracy's suggestion that the murderer would scarcely be so foolish as to leave his blood-stained garments lying on the floor was heard politely, but not accepted as sufficient to warrant a discharge, and the request of the police for a remand, pending further investigation, was acceded to without dissent. So for another week they were obliged to possess their souls in patience.

But while upon Gwendolen Ralph's arrest had only the effect of increasing her love and developing her mental activity on his behalf, upon Lavender Sinclair its effect was very different.

When she reached home, after parting from Melville at Waterloo on the evening of the murder, she broke down physically. During the row from Fairbridge to St. Martin's Lock she contracted a bad chill, which compelled her to keep her bed. This, indeed, she was only too glad to do. In her darkened room she lay with her throbbing head buried in the pillows, as if to exclude from her sight the daylight that only served to remind her of the work going on in the world; it would be someone's work to trace the man who fired the shot, of which the sound still rang in her ears, and when he was found——. She fought against her illness, which was real enough. If she became delirious she might talk, and part of her penance for the future would be the guard that she must ever keep upon her tongue. She almost feared to sleep, lest an only partially unconscious brain should prompt her to babble of that which she had seen. Gently, but firmly, she insisted upon being left alone, and in her solitude she struggled to be well.

At first she kept aloof from all news of the world outside; would see no papers, and checked Lucille's inclination to chatter, but soon this mood was replaced by one of feverish desire to know what had happened at Fairbridge; at any rate, she must not be taken unawares, and every day's delay was a day's respite. In one of the weekly papers she read an account of the tragedy and of the inquest that followed, and derived some vague assurance from the frank admission of the police that they were absolutely without a clue.

This relaxed the tension of her nerves, and when the next morning dawned, she felt less ill and better able to resume her ordinary life. She drew up the blinds and threw open the window; presently she would go for a drive and let rapid motion through the fresh air banish the last traces of the headache that had tortured her since—then. If only she dared she would call at Jermyn Street, but her promise not to write to or call on Melville must be kept. If she had kept her former promise to remain in the boat how much agony she would have escaped!

She turned away from the window and looked round her room; she had means to gratify all reasonable desires, and she was cat-like in her fondness for warmth and soft rugs and cushions. All down one wall of her bedroom was a broad settee spread thickly with down pillows and covered with magnificent opossum rugs. Curtains, draped tent fashion from the ceiling, screened this divan from every draught, and Moorish lanterns, filled with scented oil, illumined it by night. An inlaid Syrian table stood near at hand, and there was a suggestion of Oriental luxury about the place that seemed to bar anything not conducive to repose. From a hanging wardrobe Lavender took a comfortable peignoir, a French creation of billowy chiffon and lace and ribbons, and leaving the windows open, stretched herself upon the divan and pulled up the rugs breast high; and while she lay there waiting for her maid to come to her, her thoughts wandered to what she stood to lose if any change occurred in her life other than the one she might voluntarily make by marrying Sir Ross Buchanan.

Except Melville, no one knew she had ever been Sir Geoffrey's wife, and she might rely upon his respecting her wish for the secret to be preserved now that she was in possession of this terrible secret of his. Sir Geoffrey had held his peace about the past in which she had figured, and it might be buried with him in his grave; the fear of prosecution for her bigamous marriage with Mr. Sinclair, which Melville had conjured up so vividly before her, was removed as well, and she could continue her indolent existence as his widow at The Vale, or burst forth into a period of splendour as the wife of the Scotch millionaire. No one knew of the picnic up the river, and the procrastination, in which she had acquiesced through terror and physical illness, had proved the safest and wisest policy after all. Of such an offence as being an accessory after the fact in any crime, Lavender, in her rather uneducated state, had no idea; if she had ever heard the phrase, it conveyed no meaning to her. She would acquiesce in a policy of absolute silence—forget her individuality as Lady Holt, and resume her ordinary life as the widow of the estimable Mr. Sinclair, who had provided for her maintenance on a scale that coincided so accurately with her desires.

Lucille tapped gently at the door and opened it softly in case her mistress should be still asleep, but when she saw the open window and the vacant bed she came in briskly, pleased to know that Lavender must be better.

"I am glad," she said with a smile, "you are better?"

"Much better," said Lavender; "well, and more than ready for some breakfast."

"That is good," the maid replied, and disappeared to return with an inviting tray, which she placed on the table by Lavender's side; and while Lavender, reclining on the divan, enjoyed her breakfast thoroughly, Lucille busied herself about the room and chatted pleasantly of trifles.

Presently Lucille removed the tray, and, sitting on a low chair by Lavender's side, began to brush out her mistress's hair, while Lavender leant on one arm with her face turned towards the wall.

"I didn't like to mention it to you while you were so ill," Lucille remarked, "but have you heard the sad news about Mr. Ashley's uncle? Shot in his own summer house!"

"Yes," Lavender replied; "I read about it yesterday." She spoke steadily; she had better get accustomed to hearing the crime talked about, but still she was glad her face was averted.

"There's some more about it in the papers to-day."

"Is there?" said Lavender sharply. "Have they found out who did it?"

"Oh, no," said Lucille; "there doesn't seem to be any clue at all."

Lavender drew a deep sigh of relief; she could not be sufficiently grateful for the extraordinary presence of mind which Melville had displayed throughout that awful journey from Fairbridge. If he had not seen the handkerchief which she dropped by the ha-ha they might both be under arrest already. But other thoughts were passing through Lucille's mind.

"There's nothing about the murderer," she said, "but there is an advertisement saying that if Lady Holt will apply to some solicitors she will hear of something to her advantage. Did I pull your hair?"

For Lavender started perceptibly.

"Where is the advertisement? I should like to see it."

"I thought it would interest you," Lucille replied, "for the first time Mr. Ashley called here you told me he might ask for Lady Holt, and that if he did I was to come and let you know. Is Lady Holt a friend of yours?"

"Let me see the advertisement," said Lavender again, and Lucille went to fetch the morning paper. While she was gone, Lavender considered as rapidly as possible what she had better do. For ten years Lucille had been with her, a companion rather than a servant, the trusted and trustworthy recipient of all her confidences; and Lavender, on her part, had played the friend rather than the mistress to this otherwise friendless woman, had made her life bright and happy, and reaped the reward of being served with fidelity and devotion. Never once had Lucille presumed upon her relations with her employer, and in believing that she placed her mistress's interests above her own Lavender judged rightly. Lucille returned and gave the newspaper to Lavender, who read the paragraph with trembling eagerness; she must give some explanation to Lucille, and the true explanation was also the politic one to give. She turned round and looked the other woman in the eyes.

"It is for me, Lucille," she said in a low voice. "I was once Sir Geoffrey Holt's wife."

Lucille gasped.

"That is your husband that's been murdered? Oh, you poor dear! What an awful thing!" But her sympathy was not commensurate with her curiosity. "And you divorced him, I suppose, and he repented and left you some of his money, and now they want to know where you are so that they can hand it over to you. That's the something to your advantage, I suppose. Will you go and see about it to-day?"

The rapidity with which Lucille invented an entire story to fit in with her views of probabilities bewildered Lavender.

"Oh, no," she said; "that isn't it at all. They must never know where I am. They must think I am dead, as I always thought he was when I—married again."

A glimmer of comprehension dawned in Lucille's face.

"You thought him dead when you married Mr. Sinclair, and he wasn't?"

Lavender nodded assent.

"I ran away from him and heard nothing of him, and thought he must be dead or he would have found me out and compelled me to go back to him again. And after seven years I thought I was free to marry again, and I married Mr. Sinclair. It was only the other day I learned that I was not free and that my marriage with Mr. Sinclair wasn't really any marriage. And now if they find out that I am Lady Holt, I may be prosecuted for bigamy; in any case, there will be a frightful scandal, and as I was never legally Mr. Sinclair's wife I shall lose all the money he left me and be ruined as well."

"Oh!" said Lucille slowly. "Of course they must never know."

"You won't betray me, will you?" said Lavender piteously.

"Betray you, my poor dear?" cried Lucille. "Whatever are you thinking of to suppose that I would betray anything that could do you harm?" She stroked Lavender's hand with fond tenderness, and Lavender turned upon her face and cried; the womanly sympathy was just what she needed at this moment, and scarcely any sympathy is so generous and full as that bestowed upon us by faithful and loyal servants. "No," said Lucille, "it's only because you've been run down and ill that such a thought could get into your head. You are safe so far as I am concerned. Besides, now both your husbands are dead, what affair is it of anybody's who or what you are? They'll never find you out after all these years. They wouldn't advertise if there were any other way of getting at you, and as for the something to your advantage, if you don't choose to go after it I don't suppose this Mr. Tracy will raise any objections; at least, he'll be unlike most of the lawyers I've ever heard of if he does."

By degrees Lavender was comforted and reassured, and under Lucille's ministrations recovered much of her former health and cheerfulness. Attended by Lucille, she spent the next few days driving and idling in the little garden before her house, and reverted practically to her mode of life before she first asked Melville to call upon her at The Vale. The horror of the tragedy was even beginning to fade from her mind; she could never forget it, but she might hope to hear no more about it. She was almost beginning to think she never would, when one day, as her carriage was turning into Hyde Park she caught sight of the newspaper posters fastened against the railings, blazoning forth the sensational news of the arrest of Mr. Ashley.

CHAPTER XIX.

IN THE PARK.

Lavender was alone at the time, and the shock caused by the sight of the poster was so violent that her carriage had nearly completed the circuit of the Park before she fully recovered consciousness. She very naturally assumed that the Mr. Ashley referred to on the poster was Melville, and his arrest would almost inevitably involve her own. But as she was driving from the Marble Arch down towards Hyde Park Corner the desire to have some certain knowledge became quite irresistible, and stopping the coachman under the trees by the kiosk she got out of the carriage and walked across to the gate to buy some of the evening papers which had been the first to get the news. She was afraid to look at them until she got back into her carriage, in case she should find mention of her own name and betray her identity by some access of emotion; so folding them up she recrossed the Row and sank back amongst her pillows. She ordered the coachman to move away from the throng of carriages waiting to greet the Queen, and he walked his horse up to the bandstand, where no people gather so early in the day. And there, with tumultuously beating heart and nervously shaking hands, Lavender opened one paper after another and devoured all the news about the Fairbridge mystery.

Her first feeling was, perhaps not unnaturally, one of relief when she discovered that it was Ralph and not Melville who had been arrested. If the police were capable of trailing off on such a particularly wrong scent, they were capable of anything except detecting the real culprit. There was, too, something especially grotesque in their suspecting Ralph, who, according to Melville, was a paragon of all the virtues, instead of Melville, who, according to the same authority, was not. But to her first sensation of relief there succeeded another sequence of thoughts that filled her with a different emotion. The report of the proceedings before the magistrates was all too brief for anyone so vitally interested in the matter as Lavender was, but, womanlike, she read between the lines and jumped to conclusions with feminine accuracy.

Ralph had evidently gained the boathouse at almost the same moment that she and Melville left it; he had lingered with luxurious leisureliness over his toilet, and the police were bent upon proving that he had had time and opportunity to commit the murder. They would find a motive for the crime in the fact that under this recent will he inherited practically everything, and even if they could not bring sufficient evidence to hang him, they would, by inference and by circumstantial evidence, weave such a net around his feet that he could scarcely look to go free again. It meant, in short, that an innocent man would be condemned, and there was only one thing could save him—for Lavender herself to come forward and tell the truth, so bringing about Melville's death and her own ruin.

That, in a nutshell, was the actual state of affairs. Ralph's life was in her hands, but if she saved it she could be under no misapprehension as to what the cost would be. Whatever she did now, one of those two brothers—her own husband's nephews—would have to die at the hands of the common hangman.

Lavender read again the personal paragraphs about the suspected man, to which the halfpenny papers always give so much prominence. She tried to picture him as he must be in the flesh, with that crisp, curling hair, that straightforward expression which seemed to be his chief characteristic, and that lithe and muscular frame. There was the girl, too, to be considered, this Miss Austen, to whom Ralph was engaged; her happiness, like her lover's life, was in Lavender's hands to save or to destroy. Which pair was to be ruined—Melville and Lavender, or Ralph and this other girl?

For the man suspected of a foul crime, of which he was entirely innocent, Lavender felt nothing but pity, but the thought of the hapless girl who loved him did not touch her so nearly; if anything, it rather hardened her heart, although there was nothing cruel in her nature. The conflict of interests was so deadly, its issue fraught with such tremendous consequences, that she could not be wholly blamed for her indecision as she sat in her carriage under the trees and tried to weigh the facts in a true balance. Her immediate surroundings increased the difficulty of realising the actual value of the facts until the difficulty became an impossibility.

Yet absolute inaction was no less impossible. She had promised Melville neither to write nor call, but she must ascertain what he was doing in view of this new complication. She knew he had attended the inquest, and could imagine something of his relief at the verdict, but she did not know him well enough to forecast his behaviour in face of this extraordinary perversity of fate. Hitherto she had regarded him as a well-bred, entertaining man about town, well endowed with means, cultivated, and generally charming, one of many sparkling bubbles in the great bumper of the world's wine. The fragments of conversation she had overheard at the boathouse proved conclusively that her opinion of him was ill-founded; he was an unscrupulous adventurer, capable of lying, meanness, blackmail—of any treachery, if that was the easiest way of getting money to squander on himself. Beneath his mask of resourceful self-possession, too, there lurked a reserve of passion that, as she had seen with her own eyes, could on occasion burst out with volcanic fury and kill whatever obstacle barred the way to the goal of its desires. The actual murder might have been unpremeditated, done in a moment of maniacal anger, but now that that moment was past and his normal ingenuity and resourcefulness were able to have free play again, how would Melville deal with the problem of saving his brother without incriminating himself? She must find out.

Lavender had the carriage turned, and took her place in the long queue of vehicles facing the great gates. She liked to see Society, although she was not of it, and many of the people sitting on the grass were well known to her by sight. Since Mr. Sinclair's death, at any rate, she had had a very good time, and had followed fashion to its usual haunts at the several seasons of the year, with the result that she picked up a good many bowing acquaintances, if no intimate friends, among the class of people, part of whose business it is to be seen in the Park between four and seven o'clock. And presently she caught sight of Melville himself talking to a Duchess, whose love of music was only one of many claims to the gratitude of London. Here was the opportunity of learning something of what she was so nervously anxious to know without breaking her promise to him. She caught his eye, and pretended not to observe the obvious look of annoyance which crossed his face as he raised his hat.

"Who is your friend?" the Duchess asked. She, too, observed the frown and wondered what the reason of it was, for her brief, but adequate, survey of Lavender assured her practised eye that Melville's acquaintance was dressed with perfect taste, and if not presented was presentable.

"A very charming woman," Melville answered, "and a very good one, too, but I won't ask permission to present her to you, Duchess."

"Just as you please," said Her Grace good-naturedly. "She wants to talk to you, so you are released," and Melville, of course, had no alternative but to join Lavender.

She leaned towards him as he approached the railings.

"I have been wanting to see you so much," she said eagerly.

"That is very good of you," he said in conventional tones, for the benefit of the coachman. "I should have been delighted to call, but I have been out of town, and otherwise very much engaged."

If the coachman could hear the words he could not see the meaning glance of warning flashed from Melville's eyes; Lavender understood it perfectly, and again was conscious of the man's indomitable will. She accepted his warning, but insisted too.

"I want your advice," she said. "Where can you see me this afternoon?"

"I hardly care to offer advice in the Park," he replied; "there are so many distractions, are there not?"

Lavender almost lost her temper. She leaned nearer to him and spoke softly, so that only he could hear.

"I mean to have a talk with you about—this," and she laid her hand upon the newspapers by her side. "Will you come for a drive with me now?"

"Not now," said Melville, "but could you not be put down at Kensington Gardens? I will join you there in an hour."

Lavender looked at him searchingly.

"You will be there, really—without fail?"

"Yes," he said, and moved away, seemingly nonchalant, but in reality cursing the mischance of running up against her there. He had a particular object in being seen in the Park that afternoon; his presence there would be interpreted as indicative of perfect serenity of mind so far as he himself was concerned, and of complete confidence in his brother's innocence of the monstrous charge preferred against him. But Lavender was the last person whom he desired to see, although in their casual meeting there was probably no element of danger.

However, the discussion, if likely to be futile, could not be avoided, so at the expiration of the hour he reached the railings dividing the Gardens from the Park, and found Lavender awaiting him.

"What are you going to do now?" she enquired anxiously.

"I think you are recklessly imprudent," Melville said, ignoring her question. "Why must you of all people choose the Park for your drives just now?"

"Why shouldn't I?" she retorted indignantly.

"As you have been perusing the papers so exhaustively," he replied, "you have, doubtless, seen an advertisement suggesting that you should apply to some solicitors?"

"That Lady Holt should," she corrected him. "My name is Sinclair. There is no connection between the two people."

"I am very glad to hear it," he said grimly, "but I adhere to my opinion that you might choose some other locality than Hyde Park if you wish to take an airing."

"And I adhere to mine that there is no necessity for doing anything of the sort. Except yourself, not a soul here knows me by any other name than Lavender Sinclair, and if they took any interest in me at all, which they don't, they would fail to understand why Mrs. Sinclair should desert Hyde Park because Lady Holt has inherited money."

She spoke sarcastically and bitterly, and Melville did not pursue the point; indeed, it was just possible that she was right, and any marked variation from her usual habits might excite more comment elsewhere and be more dangerous.

"What are you going to do now?" she repeated.

"Nothing," he answered.

"But you can't allow your brother to be punished for something he never did?"

"There is no question of anything of the kind occurring," he said shortly. "Local policemen are bound to do something to justify their existence, and they have been inspired to arrest Ralph on suspicion. But nothing can be proved against him, and he will be released at the end of the week."

"And then——?"

"And then, for their own reputation's sake, they will quietly drop the whole thing, in case they make themselves still more ridiculous."

His coolness amazed her more each time he had occasion to display it; he had a way of making the most wildly improbable events seem probable, of ignoring the existence of peril until it was upon him, and then of moving placidly aside and letting it pass him by as if it were all of no account. And this marvellous confidence was, to a certain extent, infectious. Alone, Lavender might fret herself ill and quake before the visions her fancy painted in the darkness, but in his company the nightmare vanished and she reproached herself for her hysterical fears. If only Melville's abilities and personal magnetism had been directed towards good ends he might have achieved greatness, but his cleverness and charm, utilised as they were, constituted him a living danger to society.

"Do you really think that will happen?" she said; "really believe it is even possible?"

"I really do," he answered. "Look here, Lavender. I've thought about it all—anticipated every move; there is only one thing one cannot foresee, and that is the crass stupidity of people one doesn't know—in this case some Fairbridge constable. As it happens, even that is working in my favour. Ralph was at the boathouse some time before he saw—Sir Geoffrey, and he has inherited everything. Therefore, according to this fat-headed policeman, Ralph did the murder. But what's good enough to arrest a man for, is not enough to convict him, and there not only isn't any evidence against Ralph, but there can't be. He will be discharged with a halo of injured innocence round his brow; and, as I said just now, everybody will be only too glad to drop the whole thing."

For the moment he actually satisfied her and lifted a load of anxiety from her heart. Then he broached an idea which he had been pondering for some days.

"Why don't you go out of town for a bit, or, better still, out of England? I suppose, in any case, you would be going soon."

"You want me out of the way?" she said interrogatively.

"I think it very desirable that you should be, certainly," he answered. "You're in a horribly nervous condition, which is perfectly natural, and goodness only knows what might happen if any fresh trouble came upon you just now in connection with your marriage to Mr. Sinclair. There would be all sorts of litigation, and I can't imagine that you contemplate giving up what you've got from him for the sake of having less from somebody else, leaving alone all considerations of the scandal."

It was neatly put, but she was sceptical about his regard for her interests. She flushed as he told her of the annuity Sir Geoffrey had left her, and of the conditions under which it was to be obtained, and he regretted having laid any emphasis upon the humiliating nature of those restrictions, for she keenly resented having been so unnecessarily subjected to this implied affront. Badly as she might have treated her husband, she had at least been proud enough to refrain from asking him for help, and that pride would have endured, however poor she might have become subsequent to her desertion of him. Melville's duplicity angered her, and she refused to acquiesce in his wish that she should run away, and turned a deaf ear to his further arguments in favour of that course.

"No," she said doggedly, "I won't go," and for the time he gave up trying to persuade her.

"Tell me," she said, as at last he got up to go home, "how am I to communicate with you if I want to see you?"

"I don't suppose it will be necessary," he answered.

"I must know what to do if I consider it necessary," she persisted.

"Well, the only imperative thing is to refrain from writing," he said. "Whatever else you do, don't write anything definite or indefinite which can be twisted into having reference to this miserable business. Send a verbal message by someone whom you can really trust, to be delivered only to myself in person, saying you want to see me and where, and I will come. If the messenger doesn't know what you want to see me about, and doesn't start gossiping to the servants at my chambers, I don't suppose any harm can be done."

"Very well," Lavender replied, "that will do, and you may be sure I won't worry you unless I think it is necessary. Only remember, if I do send for you, you must come."

"That I promise," said Melville. "Whom will you send?"

"Lucille," she answered.

"Is she reliable?" he asked.

"Absolutely," she replied. "It was she who showed me the advertisement of Mr. Tracy wishing to know my whereabouts."

"Why on earth did she suppose that would interest you?" he exclaimed. "Does she know——?"

"She knows I am Lady Holt," said Lavender.

"Good God!" cried Melville, and a look of fear came into his eyes.

CHAPTER XX.

MONEY MAKES A DIFFERENCE.

However preposterous the charge against Ralph might appear to those who knew the man, the magistrates decided that a primâ facie case had been made out against him, and at the end of the adjourned hearing fully committed him for trial on the capital charge at the next assizes. To this disaster it is possible that his own demeanour contributed, for throughout the proceedings he exhibited an impatient indignation that went far to alienate the sympathy of those who, within their own limitations, were striving to discharge their duty faithfully. Mr. Tracy on several occasions had difficulty in restraining his client's temper, and, at a final interview with him after his committal, implored him to control himself more effectually at the assizes.

"But they are such hopeless imbeciles," Ralph protested. "Thank goodness, the decision won't rest with any Justice Shallow next time! If it did, I should inevitably hang."

Mr. Tracy quieted him somewhat, and Gwendolen, who also was permitted to see him before he was removed, did much to restore his faith in human nature, but everybody at the Manor House was oppressed by a sense of impending calamity. Innocent men have met death upon the gallows before now, and faith is such a different thing from proof. In the meantime, however, there was an interval during which it might be possible to get upon some other trail, and all Ralph's friends swore to leave no stone unturned to prove his innocence.

As a first step, Gwendolen determined to enlist Melville's active co-operation, and with her mother called upon him at his chambers, having previously let him know he might expect them. Melville was sympathy incarnate, and, although he confessed that he did not see in what way he could be of use, promised to be unremitting in his enquiries and to spare neither time nor trouble to bring about the acquittal which he desired as much as they did. What he had said to Lavender in Kensington Gardens he repeated now to Gwendolen, and with very similar effect, so that she went away cheered and hopeful and full of gratitude to him.

The cab containing them had scarcely driven away before another visitor arrived in the person of Mr. Tracy. The old gentleman was evidently unaware that the Austens had just called upon Melville on the same errand, and Melville did not enlighten him; the least suggestion of mystery had an odd fascination for him, and from the possession of exclusive information, however trifling in itself, he always derived satisfaction and a sense of power. In presence of the solicitor his pose was different; he resented the stigma cast upon the family name, was not free from apprehensions about the issue of the trial, and agreed with Ralph in denouncing the stupidity of the police; but he had no practical suggestion to offer, and again did not see in what way he could be of use. He rather inclined to the idea that excess of activity might be construed to his brother's disadvantage.

"You never know what these criminal lawyers may not make of trifles most praiseworthy in themselves," he said. "If I were to be seen all over the place trying to pump everybody they would as likely as not protest that I was trying to suborn evidence for our side; whereas, if I keep myself aloof and lead my usual life it will, at any rate, show that I'm confident of Ralph's innocence and feel no anxiety."

"But you must feel anxiety," said Mr. Tracy irritably. "Your brother is in a deuced ticklish position, Mr. Ashley."

"I know," Melville answered, with a far-away look upon his face. "I wouldn't be in his place for a million of money." That was almost the only absolutely sincere remark he made upon the subject. "Look here, Mr. Tracy," he said suddenly, "in confidence, do you really think Ralph might swing for this?"

"I think it's quite possible," the lawyer said. "It's a capital charge, and if the jury bring in a verdict of guilty the sentence must be death; there's no alternative. Whether it would be carried out or commuted to penal servitude is another matter, as to which I have formed no opinion."

"No jury can convict," said Melville obstinately; "there's no evidence."

Mr. Tracy would not argue the point. That would be done exhaustively by-and-bye; his present business was to stimulate Melville into activity, and it was not progressing as he liked.

"What we have to do at the present time," he said, "is to make all possible enquiries and follow up any possible clue, however shadowy it may seem at first. I want you to exhaust the neighbourhood of Fairbridge; you know everybody there. Go round the inns and little shops and the locks, and encourage the people to talk. You may hear of some stranger having been seen about there at the time, hanging about the bars or the towing-path, or something of that sort; if you do, follow it up."

"But all that means time and money," said Melville. "I can't afford either."

Mr. Tracy was surprised.

"My dear sir," he said, "you must make the time, and as for the money, that is my affair, as the solicitor for the defence. I will pay a hundred into your account this afternoon, if you will tell me where you bank."

"That simplifies things for me," said Melville, imparting the necessary information without too much alacrity, but yet making sure that Mr. Tracy should make no mistake as to which branch of the bank he honoured with his custom. "I don't see why I shouldn't confess to you that I am hard up, and Sir Geoffrey's will was like a blow between the eyes."

"It was an amazing business," Mr. Tracy admitted. "About this Lady Holt, Mr. Ashley; had you any idea of her existence?"

"Not the faintest," said Melville unblushingly.

"Nor why you should be excluded from the will? Pardon me, if I seem to be asking too much."

"The whole thing was like a bolt from the blue," Melville replied. "As a matter of fact I had been on particularly good terms with my uncle just lately, which makes it all the more incomprehensible to me. By the way," he added, with the charm of manner which he knew so well how to assume upon occasion, "I hope you will forget what I said to Ralph after you read the will that day. I was horribly mortified, and I daresay I said more than I really meant."

"Whatever you might have said I should have attributed to a very natural disappointment," Mr. Tracy said pleasantly. "That is all forgotten, so far as I am concerned, and I know I may call upon you now with confidence."

"With perfect confidence," Melville answered. "If you think I may be able to find out anything by pottering about Fairbridge, I'll go down and begin operations to-morrow, but I'm not sanguine."

"At any rate, your evidence will be valuable to show the terms on which your brother stood with your uncle. They were always particularly good friends, weren't they?"

"Yes," said Melville moodily. "Ralph was always Sir Geoffrey's favourite."

"And he was delighted, I know, about your brother's engagement to Miss Austen," Mr. Tracy continued, unconsciously rubbing salt into Melville's sores. "It was his intention to make most handsome settlements, which would have rendered the young couple quite independent."

"I daresay," said Melville. "Well, there it is. I am quite ready to testify that Ralph was always like a very affectionate son to Sir Geoffrey, and that, as far as I can see, there was not only no reason why he should commit such a crime as he is alleged to have committed, but every reason why he shouldn't. Ralph and I have never been very chummy, but nobody would do more to clear him of this preposterous charge than I would. That goes without saying. What makes me want to kick myself is that I can't do something that seems more practical than simply go into court and say what everybody knows already."

"It will all help," said Mr. Tracy; "and, after all, the burden of proof rests on the prosecution."

"Quite so," said Melville. "That was my point at the start. I don't see how evidence can be manufactured, and unless it can be, Ralph is bound to be acquitted. Still, I'm your man, Mr. Tracy, and as you suggest that I might pick up some clue from local gossip I'll be off to-morrow, and report progress as soon as I make any."

He spoke heartily, and Mr. Tracy shook his outstretched hand, well content with the result of his call.

"It's an ill wind that blows no one any good," he thought as he descended in the lift. "If one result of this magisterial blunder is to make those two fine young fellows better friends, it won't have been all wasted; and as for the trial I don't suppose there will really be any miscarriage of justice."

Sir Geoffrey had appointed Mr. Tracy executor of his will, and the old fellow travelled to Fairbridge every evening, and dined and slept at the Manor House. He found the arrangement a very pleasant one in many ways, and incidentally it enabled him to do Gwendolen good by employing her as his secretary in dealing with the mass of business involved in the settlement of so considerable an estate, and thus distracting her thoughts from her terrible anxiety for at least a portion of the twenty-four hours. He felt confident that he would sooner or later come across some documents relating to the mysterious marriage, and he carefully perused all the letters which Sir Geoffrey had preserved. There was, however, no trace of any correspondence between the husband and wife. It was, of course, possible that they had not been apart after their marriage until the final separation came, but still it was singular that among so many letters as Sir Geoffrey had kept there should be none from this particular person—not even letters written during the period of courtship.

It was in this direction that Mr. Tracy had turned Gwendolen's especial attention, desiring her, also, to look carefully among a rather large assortment of photographs and miniatures for anything that might conceivably be a portrait of Lady Holt. He was anxious to trace the whereabouts of the widow for reasons quite apart from his obligation to carry out Sir Geoffrey's testamentary instructions in every particular.

Questions would certainly be asked about her at Ralph's trial, and his professional pride was piqued at his present entire ignorance of the story.

After leaving Melville's chambers he went back to his office in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and issued another advertisement to the Press, offering a substantial reward to anyone who would give him information as to the whereabouts of Lady Holt.

"It is only her business to apply to me for her own advantage," he reflected; "it is anybody's business to tell me where she is if it's made worth their while," and convinced that the money spent on this advertisement might prove to have been well spent, he went down to Fairbridge in an equable frame of mind.

He was surprised when Gwendolen told him she had seen Melville that afternoon.

"I wonder why he did not mention it," he said, but although his training inclined him to be suspicious, his suspicions on this occasion were easily dispelled, especially as his impressions of Melville's good disposition towards his brother tallied with those formed by the two ladies.

"I consider that he behaved in a very gentlemanly and straightforward fashion," he said, and Mrs. Austen cordially agreed. "He was diffident as to his power to help, but directly I suggested something I thought he might do, he undertook it with alacrity. That is quite the proper spirit."

And privately, to his own mind, he admitted that Melville could not explain to Mrs. Austen how his financial position would have hampered his activities, but for that little cheque on account of out-of-pocket expenditure, and he was filled with admiration of Melville's delicacy and tact as well. He had no doubt but what Melville Ashley was a deeply-injured man, and resolved to interpret Ralph's instructions liberally, and pay in another hundred pounds to Melville's account at the bank.

Later in the evening, Gwendolen came to him in the library and laid some photographs in front of him.

"I found these in an old bureau," she said. "Do you think one of them might be Lady Holt?"

Mr. Tracy looked at them eagerly; two of them he laid aside, but the third he kept in his hands.

"Those two I am pretty sure I recognise; they are old photographs, but the faces are familiar to me, though I cannot put names to them at the moment. This one is different. Taken at Norwich, I see. If the photographer is still there we may ascertain whose likeness it is. I will make enquiries at once, and hope something may come of it. Thank you, my dear. This may be exceedingly useful," and after examining it earnestly, as if to impress the picture on his memory, he put it carefully away with the other papers relating to Sir Geoffrey's last will and testament.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE RESULT OF THE TRIAL.

If fate was playing a joke upon Ralph Ashley, her humour erred upon the side of grimness. His friends met with no success in their endeavours to find some other possible culprit, and, on the other hand, a succession of small incidents occurred, all of which seemed to lead him on inevitably a little nearer to the gallows. Of these, the most important was the finding of a revolver in the gun-room at the Manor House and a quantity of bullets similar to that which had penetrated Sir Geoffrey's heart. At the trial this seemed to be the most conclusive point in the case for the Crown. There was no indication that it had been recently used, but the same remark applied to all the weapons in the little armoury, all of them being kept in perfect condition. The explanation of its existence was given frankly by Ralph and corroborated by Melville; it was one of two given years before by Sir Geoffrey to his nephews, but to which of the two it properly belonged neither of the brothers could declare; both averred they had not used them for a very long time, and the damning fact remained that the other pistol was missing. It had been thrown away, the prosecution suggested, after the tragedy, and that all the ammunition had not also been destroyed was due to that oversight of which every criminal is capable, and but for which many more murderers would escape conviction.

Ralph was haggard and pulled down by confinement and by want of sleep; if he were a criminal, he was, at any rate, no actor, and his obvious nervousness was interpreted by many as symptomatic of a guilty conscience. He listened attentively to the entire proceedings with visibly increasing consternation and dismay, and it was not until Melville took up his position in the witness-box that any gleam of hope appeared upon his face.

Melville once more engrossed the sympathy of a court; he was so distressed upon his brother's account, so anxious to testify to his integrity of character, so ready, and yet so concise, in his replies, that he made an ideal witness.

"Ralph was always my uncle's favourite," he said again, with a rather pathetic smile; "they were just like father and son." No, he had never heard of any difference of opinion between them, and was convinced they had never had any quarrel. It was impossible, he protested, that Ralph could or would have committed such a crime. His generous indignation warmed Ralph's heart, and was subsequently commented on with approbation by counsel for the Crown in his concluding address to the jury, although, as that great lawyer pointed out, it did not affect the issue. What was more important was the admission he was rather skilfully beguiled into making that on one occasion he had known his brother to be embarrassed by want of money. An apparently trivial question had been put as to his knowledge of Ralph's financial position, and Melville answered it candidly; both of them were absolutely dependent on Sir Geoffrey's bounty, both received a liberal allowance, and on one occasion Sir Geoffrey had paid a considerable sum in which Melville himself was indebted. Presumably, therefore, he would have done the same for Ralph, to whom he was, by common consent, more attached.

"In short, you are not aware that your brother has ever been in want of ready money?"

Melville hesitated, coloured, and was lost. Reluctantly, and only as the result of a long series of skilfully worded questions, he let out the fact that Ralph had once applied to him for an immediate loan of a hundred pounds. He was at Monte Carlo at the time, and Ralph wrote from Fairbridge. Yes, he supposed that Ralph might have applied to Sir Geoffrey, but it did not follow that he had done so and been refused. The inference was unwarrantable, he declared warmly, but his protest failed to have effect, and the harm was done. In reply to a few further questions, he accounted moodily for his own time on the day of the murder. He had gone out for a walk after a late breakfast, and in the afternoon had remained at home, owing to the storm. The telegram announcing his uncle's death was not brought to him at once, as his valet was off duty. The manager of the chambers brought it up with some letters when, on waking up from a doze, Melville rang for tea. He was obviously downcast by the information previously extracted from him, and when he finally left the box, it was felt that he had slipped the noose around his brother's neck.

Of the rest of the proceedings Melville had no knowledge at first hand. His nerves, strong and finely tempered as they were, could not stand the tension, and he hurried to the hotel, where he had engaged a private room. There he paced up and down like a caged beast, unable to think coherently, and only waiting with horrible anxiety for the verdict. In the still silence of the court, Gwendolen sat motionless, her whole attitude a prayer, and downstairs Ralph waited, glad to escape the observation of the hundreds of curious eyes. But to neither of them, to whom the verdict meant so much, did the time seem so appallingly long as it seemed to Melville, nor was their anguish any thing like his.

Three hours dragged by, each one composed of sixty minutes of agony, and then the waiter brought a note to him. He tore it open, afraid to read its contents, yet unable to endure another second of suspense. The jury had been unable to agree, and the case was sent back to be tried again.

Melville groaned. So it all had to be gone through again, all the examination and cross-examination and re-examination, all the hypocrisy and ingenuity and deceit, and at the end perhaps another murder, or perhaps suicide; for Ralph's conviction would be equivalent to the one, and his acquittal might be procurable only by the revelation of the truth, which would involve the other. Melville had honestly expected his brother's acquittal, had been quite sincere in his words of encouragement to Gwendolen; and now there was this miserable, ineffectual conclusion to the solemn farce.

White lipped, wide eyed, with furrows scored across his brow, he turned to the waiter and forced a smile.

"Well, that's the end of it to-day. Order a fly to take me to the station. I'll go up by the next train," and writing a note to Mr. Tracy to say he could be got at at once in Jermyn Street if required, he presently returned to town.

In the cells below the court Mr. Tracy found a very different man awaiting him from the one he had last seen in the dock. The intolerant indignation with which Ralph had listened to the various suggestions of the prosecution, and the scorn with which he had heard the address to the jury, with its denunciation of his supposed ingratitude and treachery, were all gone. He was pale and exhausted by the long day in the crowded court, but he was also dignified and self-possessed. He turned to the solicitor with a whimsical smile.

"I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Since some of the twelve good men and true were not convinced of my innocence, I suppose I ought to be grateful that things are not worse than they are. Did I behave myself better to-day?"

"Much better," Mr. Tracy answered. "You know," he added seriously, "the circumstantial evidence was very strong, and although, as I have maintained all along, the probabilities are always against a miscarriage of justice, you are not out of the wood yet. Mr. Ashley, if the jury had convicted you we should only have had a matter of three weeks in which to discover new facts. I think you ought to be grateful that we have three months."

"That is true," said Ralph soberly. "But what a three months for me! Is there no chance of bail?"

Mr. Tracy shook his head.

"No. You must go through with it, but a great deal may happen in three months, and it won't be for want of trying if I don't get you out long before then. Now, Mr. Ashley, I have two questions to ask you. First, do you know who this is?"

Ralph looked at the photograph which Mr. Tracy showed him.

"To the best of my knowledge I've never seen this before, and I'm certain I don't know the original. Who is it?"

"I have an idea it is Lady Holt," Mr. Tracy answered, "but I dare say I shall find out soon. It is curious how everything seems to be in a conspiracy against you. The man who took that photograph retired from business a few years ago and is now dead. I hoped I might find out the name of the lady from him, but he's dead and the books can't be traced. Now the next point. The hundred pounds you asked your brother to lend you; what about that?"

Ralph's brows contracted.

"I asked him for it," he said curtly. "That's true enough; but I didn't get it."

"That don't matter," Mr. Tracy retorted. "The fact that you asked for it did you a lot of harm to-day."

"I don't see why Melville should have referred to it at all."

"Perhaps he couldn't help himself," the solicitor said. "Some of those fellows are marvellous at making you say more than you mean to say. Why did you ask him for it?"

"Because I was a silly ass," Ralph answered viciously, "and didn't like to ask Sir Geoffrey. I never did ask him for a sovereign in my life; goodness knows he gave me enough without that. Do you remember selling out some railway stock for me a little time ago?"

"Yes," said Mr. Tracy, "and advising you not to do it, but you would not listen."

"That was the time," Ralph said. "I had bought a yacht for Gwen and didn't want to give it to her not paid for, and you were slower than usual, and I was cleaned out, and only just engaged. And I asked Melville to lend me a hundred till you settled up. Of course, Sir Geoffrey would have given it to me if I had asked him, but he would have insisted on its being a gift, not a loan, and I wanted the boat to be my present to Gwen, not his."

"Well, I'll see that some of that comes out next time," said Mr. Tracy. "I could see that it made a very bad impression to-day."

"There's a continuation to the story," said Ralph, with a hard look in his eyes, "and since Melville has chosen to reopen it, I don't see why I should not tell you the rest. He did not answer my letter, did not send me the money."

"Well?" said Mr. Tracy.

"He came back from Monte Carlo broke to the world and fetched up at Fairbridge. I happened to go away that night and just missed him, but he saw Sir Geoffrey and asked for some money. Sir Geoffrey said he wouldn't give him another sixpence, and asked what he had done with two hundred and fifty pounds he'd had six weeks before. I'm blest if Melville didn't produce my letter and say he'd lent me a hundred of it."

"Oh!" said Mr. Tracy; "and what happened then?"

"The dear old chap begged his pardon and paid him the hundred pounds for me. If ever there was a rank swindle that was one. When I came home next day he began to pitch into me for asking Melville instead of him for help, and, of course, the whole thing came out at once."

"Yes," said Mr. Tracy. "What did Sir Geoffrey say?"

"He said rather a lot," Ralph answered grimly. "He was going to instruct you to take proceedings against Melville for getting money under false pretences, but I persuaded him to let me repay him the hundred pounds and take the matter up myself. He agreed—rather reluctantly—and that was the end of the matter, except that I had a bit of a rumpus with Melville, who owes me the money to this day."

Mr. Tracy was much more interested than he allowed Ralph to perceive; the story let in a flood of light upon much that he had not been able to understand.

"Then your brother is extravagant, I suppose?"

"Money runs through his fingers like water through a sieve," Ralph answered. "Just six weeks before that Sir Geoffrey wiped off all his debts, as he admitted to-day; he gave him two hundred and fifty pounds, and told him to go to the deuce; Melville blew the lot at Monte Carlo, came home, got that extra hundred out of Sir Geoffrey, and went away. And the very next day he turned up again at Fairbridge, had a long session with the old chap, and got round him so far that he stayed a week at the Manor House and began to tap him again, just as casually as ever. I couldn't understand it then, and I can't now. Sir Geoffrey never talked about him after we had that palaver about my supposed debt, but I am quite clear it was because of that swindle that Melville got himself disinherited. Sir Geoffrey didn't like his gambling, but he liked the other thing less—and I don't wonder."

"Why didn't you tell me something about this on the day of the funeral," Mr. Tracy asked, "when I read the will?"

"Oh, well," said Ralph, "I'm a slow-witted chap, you know, and you were in a hurry; and, besides, it's not a pretty story. I wouldn't have mentioned it now, only Melville brought it up so unnecessarily. You had better know the rights of it since you think what he said did me harm to-day."

For the time being, Ralph forgot the position in which he actually stood, and turned as if to accompany Mr. Tracy to the door when he rose to leave, but the sight of the warders, who had retired to the far end of the room, re-awakened him to the fact that he was a prisoner, and he flushed as he put out his hand.

"I'm awfully grateful, sir, for all you have done and are doing for me. If you succeed and clear my name, I may be able to show my gratitude practically."

"When I succeed, you mean," Mr. Tracy corrected him smilingly. "I must say good-bye now, but next time I come I hope I shall have good news for you. Don't brood over your grievance, Mr. Ashley. That may seem a counsel of perfection, but try to act up to it, if only for the sake of that charming young lady who is waiting for you. Faith in God and a clear conscience can make even prison tolerable, and nobody can rob you of those."

He put his bag down upon the table while he shook both Ralph's hands violently. Then he blew his nose with equal violence, seized his bag, and hurried away, scolding himself inwardly for being so upset by so commonplace an incident as an interview with a client. Not until he was in the railway carriage and on his way to town did he recover his usual equanimity. With his characteristic stare of mild surprise he surveyed the bag which reposed on the seat opposite to him, but the only remark which escaped his lips was when at length he removed his eyes from it, as if he had ascertained what was in it by some mental adaptation of the X ray process. His remark was brief and pregnant: "Well, I'm hanged."

CHAPTER XXII.

MR. TRACY BECOMES ACTIVE.

Melville's faculty of reading character did not err when it satisfied him that he might rely upon Lavender Sinclair keeping faithfully any secret which she had passed her word not to betray. There are plenty of women of whom the same might be said, all the gibes of all the cynics notwithstanding. But it also told him that he might be ill-advised in leaving her too much alone, especially just now, when the papers were so full of the trial and of speculations as to her own existence and whereabouts. The morning after the abortive trial, therefore, he determined to pay her an early visit, and donning a new suit of mourning, and an expression suited to the part he was being compelled to play in the Fairbridge tragedy, he walked out of his chambers as soon as he had finished his customary "brunch."

Thus it happened that he was not at home when a few minutes after his departure Mr. Tracy, who capriciously elected to walk upstairs without enquiring of the commissionaire whether Mr. Ashley was within, or troubling the lift attendant to convey him to the top floor, knocked at the outer door of his self-contained suite of apartments. Jervis opened the door.

"Mr. Ashley has only just gone out," he said, "and he gave me no instructions as to when he would return."

Mr. Tracy was visibly distressed; he was also elderly, and rather out of breath from scaling so many stairs.

"It is of the first importance that I should see him to-day. You have no idea where he has gone—whether I might find him at his club, for instance?"

Jervis could not say. Mr. Ashley was a member of several clubs, but it was scarcely likely that he would visit any of them so early in the day. Could not the gentleman leave a card and call again?

The gentleman would much prefer to wait on the chance of Mr. Ashley's returning, but Jervis seemed so disconcerted by the suggestion, and so much at a loss for a civil way of getting rid of the visitor, that Mr. Tracy took pity on him.

"In point of fact," he said, "I am Mr. Ashley's family solicitor, and you may have heard of the melancholy affair at Fairbridge Manor. I must see Mr. Ashley immediately, in order to prepare for the new trial that is now necessary."

No servant could fail to recognise the paramount importance of such a visitor, or take the responsibility of sending him away without explicit orders to that effect, and Jervis admitted Mr. Tracy. He did more, influenced perhaps by the transference of two new coins, a sovereign and a shilling from the lawyer's pocket to his own.

"I come of an old-fashioned school," Mr. Tracy said with a smile, "and must insist upon your accepting the shilling as well. There's a sentimental difference as well as a pecuniary one between a pound and a guinea, and I never cease to regret that guineas are coined no more. No thanks, I beg. I am really excessively obliged to you for allowing me to come in and await Mr. Ashley's return."

So Mr. Tracy gained his point, and Jervis never suspected that for more than half an hour he had been waiting in the tailor's shop opposite, watching for Melville to emerge before climbing the steep staircase to the little bachelor flat.

"Mr. Ashley always takes a very late breakfast," Jervis remarked as he proceeded with his work of clearing the table. "May I get you some luncheon, sir? I am sure it would be Mr. Ashley's wish that I should ask you."

"'Pon my word now, that's very obliging of you," Mr. Tracy answered; "very obliging indeed. I always breakfast very early myself, and I am distinctly hungry. If I shall not be causing anybody any inconvenience I should be uncommonly glad of some luncheon."

So Jervis relaid the table, and after several colloquies with the chef, conducted through the medium of the speaking tube outside, produced a meal which did great credit to the establishment, and which Mr. Tracy, to use his own language, found "vastly appetising." And while he gave proof of his appreciation of this vicarious hospitality by satisfying an appetite which would have been creditable to a young fellow of twenty, he entertained the valet with a chatty, circumstantial account of the famous murder trial, in which he knew he must be interested. Men of the old school, to which Mr. Tracy prided himself on belonging, are not prone to hold such animated conversations with other people's servants as Mr. Tracy held with Melville's valet now. Jervis was probably unaware of this, but, in all the circumstances, it is not surprising that he should be completely satisfied of the visitor's good faith, and chat as freely as the visitor did himself; which was precisely according to Mr. Tracy's anticipations, and was the sole reason of his going there at all.

"I daresay Mr. Ashley is very much upset by the suspicion attaching to his brother," Mr. Tracy said, as he attacked a second kidney.

"I don't doubt he is," Jervis replied, "but he's not the sort of gentleman to show it."

"Not given to showing his feelings, you mean," said the lawyer; "his uncle, Sir Geoffrey Holt, was just like that. But it doesn't follow that those very self-possessed people feel things less than the others do. You don't agree with me, eh?" for Jervis looked doubtful.

"I don't think Mr. Ashley minds things as much as I should if I were in his place," the valet answered; "that is to say, not some things."

"Little things, perhaps," Mr. Tracy suggested.

"Well, not what I should call little things," said Jervis, who was by no means disinclined to criticise one of his gentlemen, as he termed the several tenants of the chambers whom he had the privilege of valeting. "For instance, if his breakfast don't please him, or his boots don't shine enough, you'd think the house was on fire by the way he rings the bell, but in what I should call vexations he doesn't even begin to seem worried, when I should be off my head with scheming and devising."

Mr. Tracy laughed.

"To have the power of not being worried by worries must be a great blessing sometimes, but the word has such different meanings for different people. A man like Mr. Ashley, with comfortable quarters and first-class attendance, and well-to-do people belonging to him, can't have real anxieties."

"I don't know about all that," Jervis said sententiously. "Nobody can see very far into anybody else's life. What I should be rich on, Mr. Ashley may be poor on, but I've known lots of times when he's been in difficulties, so to speak, and never turned a hair. Those are poached eggs on spinach, sir."

"Thanks, I'll take some," said Mr. Tracy, who would have gone on eating until dinner-time if only so he could have prolonged the conversation; "but what do you mean by difficulties?"

Jervis laughed a little in his turn.

"Of course, all this is quite between ourselves? It would never do if Mr. Ashley knew I'd remarked upon it, but people can't help seeing what goes on under their noses if they're not blind, and gentlemen's gentlemen see more than other people, to say nothing of their having to do with it in a manner of speaking. Well, there was one time I remember particularly, because it seemed so funny—the sort of thing nobody but Mr. Ashley would have thought of, yet it came quite natural-like to him. It was last time he came home from Monte Carlo, where he'd been making money for the bank. I don't believe he had a penny piece to call his own, and he was going out in the evening. 'Jervis,' he says, 'put out my dress clothes early; I'm dining out to-night.' So I went to do it, but couldn't find any shirts in his portmanteau. When he went away I'd sent all his linen to the laundry, and they wouldn't send it back without he paid the bill, which was a pretty long one. 'Have you any shirts, sir?' I asked, and he took me up, vexed-like. 'How the devil am I to know?' he says; 'find some.' Course I had to tell him about the laundry, and he colours up and says he'll be hanged if he writes them a cheque."

"How did you manage?" Mr. Tracy enquired.

"I didn't manage at all," Jervis announced; "that's what I'm telling you. It worried me at the time, although it wasn't me who was going out, but Mr. Ashley takes it all as a matter of course. 'Go over to the Burlington Arcade,' he says, like a lord, 'and tell my hosiers to send over three dozen and put them down to my account.'"

"Did they do it?" Mr. Tracy asked.

"Do it?" said Jervis scornfully; "of course they did it. Seems to me people will do anything in this world if you only bluff them enough. Still, there's a case to show what I mean. I should never have thought of getting three dozen shirts on credit because I couldn't pay my laundry bill, but to Mr. Ashley it was the natural thing to do."

Mr. Tracy was really amused, but he thought it a most illuminating anecdote, and followed up the vein it opened.

"So Mr. Ashley plays at Monte Carlo, does he? Well, one wants a long purse for that game. Does he entertain much here? He very well might where things are so well done."

Jervis appreciated the compliment.

"Only a very occasional supper," he answered. "I'm sure I'm sorry he doesn't have company oftener." Jervis's regret may, perhaps, have been due to financial considerations, but he hastened to admit that Mr. Ashley's failure to receive his friends in Jermyn Street made the work lighter for his attendants. "Of course, it makes the place an easier one for me," he said, "and I will say that, although there are times when for weeks together he doesn't know where to lay his hand on a shilling, Mr. Ashley is very considerate and very free with his money when he's got any. Often and often he's thrown me over a couple of sovereigns and said I might find them useful if I knew anybody who would like to go up to Hampton Court or have an afternoon at Kempton—which I do."

He became anecdotal, and Mr. Tracy found it a not very easy matter to get him back to the subject of Melville's habits without making his purpose too apparent, but he did it at last.

"No," said Jervis, in reply to some indirect question, "Mr. Ashley hardly ever has ladies here. There was two called the other day, and one came to tea once."

"The two were the Austens, I expect," said Mr. Tracy. "Miss Austen is engaged to be married to Mr. Ashley's brother."

"Is she?" said Jervis, with interest; "poor young lady! Do you think Mr. Ashley—our Mr. Ashley, I mean—is going to marry the other lady? She's the only one I've ever known come here alone."

"I don't know, I'm sure," Mr. Tracy answered. "I don't even know who she was."

"Her name was Sinclair," Jervis said. "She was a lady, anyone could see, and beautifully dressed. She must know him very well, because I heard her call him Melville. It was the very day before the murder at Fairbridge that she called and took tea with Mr. Ashley."

"The day before, or the day it happened?" Mr. Tracy asked.

"The day before," said Jervis. "The day of the murder Mr. Ashley didn't go out. I know that because he happened to say he would be going out and he wouldn't want me. So I went to Hendon, but when I got back Mr. Ashley had been telegraphed for, and the manager told me he was in a terrible way because he had stopped at home after all, owing to the storm, and the telegram wasn't brought up to him at once."

With all this, and much more, did Jervis entertain Mr. Tracy, in whom, as Mr. Ashley's family solicitor, he felt he might place entire confidence. He removed the luncheon, set the room in order, and attended to his various duties in Melville's bedroom, brushing his dress clothes and laying them out in preparation for the evening, but still Melville did not return. When the clock upon the mantelpiece chimed half-past three Mr. Tracy began to show signs that even his patience was becoming exhausted.

"I am afraid that after all I shall have to give it up," he said, with evident reluctance. "If you will still further oblige me with writing materials, I will leave a note for Mr. Ashley, asking him to give me an early appointment."

Jervis produced the necessary tools, and Mr. Tracy wrote the little note.

"I have told him how attentive you have been," he said to the valet, "and perhaps you will allow me——"

Another guinea changed hands, and Jervis was profuse in his expressions of gratitude; none the less he seemed a shade uneasy.

"Of course, anything that I have said," he began, but Mr. Tracy cut him short.

"Absolutely between ourselves, I assure you; ab-so-lutely between ourselves," and, with a sagacious nod of the head, the old fellow began to take his departure. At the door he hesitated a moment, for a card tray caught his eye. "Some of these young men are terrible sticklers for etiquette," he said, scrutinising it closely; "perhaps I ought to add my card to these," and while fumbling in his pocket for his card-case he contrived to get a glimpse of Mrs. Sinclair's card, which Jervis had brought up the day before the tragedy. He had not time to see the number of the house, but The Vale, South Kensington, was quite enough for his immediate needs, and as he turned into Piccadilly Circus he gave utterance to a little sound, half grunt, half chuckle, expressive of the utmost satisfaction.

"It's cost me two guineas and a wholly unnecessary suit of clothes, but I shall be very much astonished if it doesn't prove a good investment. Still, if it doesn't, the estate can bear it. 'Pon my word, if my name weren't Tracy, I should think it must be Slater!"

Well pleased with himself, he climbed on to the top of a Putney omnibus, and employed the time occupied in the journey to South Kensington Station in arranging his mental notes. He had already heard enough to verify the impression gleaned from Ralph that Melville was an inveterate gambler, and that was quite enough to explain Sir Geoffrey's hitherto incomprehensible action in disinheriting his younger nephew.

"It only shows how even an experienced old lawyer like myself can be taken in by a plausible young rascal," he thought with much humility. "I dare say he is a waster, who tired Sir Geoffrey out. It will be interesting to try to ascertain presently how much he did have out of the old man in the last year or two. Three hundred and fifty pounds in six weeks isn't bad to begin with, and I don't think there can be any doubt of his having had that."

Assuming Ralph's story to be accurate in every particular, there yet remained one point which puzzled Mr. Tracy. If Sir Geoffrey had resented Melville's fraud in the matter of the alleged loan to his brother so hotly as to be within an ace of prosecuting him for getting money under false pretences, why had he relented so suddenly and given unquestioning hospitality to an extravagant gambler and swindler whom, even prior to the last fraud, he had formally discarded and renounced? What was the method which Melville's ingenuity had devised to overcome Sir Geoffrey's expressed determination? At present, Mr. Tracy could not conjecture, but already he knew enough to make him want to know more, and in journeying, as he was now doing, to see what manner of place The Vale, South Kensington, might be, he was acting on reason rather than impulse, albeit the reason was hard to define precisely.

At the station he descended from the omnibus and walked into the Fulham Road, finding it necessary to ask more than once where The Vale was to be found; it is, indeed, not an easy spot to discover, although the ground occupied by the several houses and their gardens is so considerable. Just as he had lighted upon the archway forming the entrance to the place, an empty carriage emerged, and Mr. Tracy asked the coachman if he knew which was Mrs. Sinclair's house.

"Number five," the man replied. "I was to have driven her out to-day, but she's ill and can't go."

"Are you her coachman?"

"Oh, no," the man said. "Mrs. Sinclair doesn't keep a carriage, but hires pretty often from our place."

"Thank you," said Mr. Tracy; "perhaps I had better postpone my visit to another day," and, noting with admiration the shady lawns and bright gardens lurking so unexpectedly in this busy part of the town, he turned again into the street, after making sure that he could find the place again without difficulty. A dairy on the other side of the road, looking delightfully clean and cool with its green and white tiles, polished marble counters, and gleaming milk cans, invited him, and sitting down at a little table he ordered a large glass of milk and soda, and drew the girl behind the counter into a gossipy conversation.

"Yes, it's a sweetly pretty place," she said, referring to The Vale, "and nice people live there; carriage people mostly. We serve them all."

"Do you know Mrs. Sinclair?" Mr. Tracy asked. "I was calling upon her to-day, but am told she isn't well."

"I'm sorry," said the girl. "Oh, yes, I know her very well. She is so nice and civil-spoken, and always so beautifully dressed. Don't you think she's very good-looking? Not pretty, you know, but handsome and distinguished looking."

"I haven't seen her for some years," Mr. Tracy answered, "but still I daresay she hasn't changed much. Women can always remain any age they please."

The girl smiled, as in duty bound.

"I always envy Mrs. Sinclair," she said. "She has everything a woman can possibly want—except, perhaps, a husband."

So there was no Mr. Sinclair. Possibly Jervis was right, and Melville hoped to make good the want in this lady's scheme of things.

"Do you think a rich widow's is really the happiest lot of all?" Mr. Tracy enquired.

"Depends upon the husband, I should say," the girl replied; "but Mrs. Sinclair is going to have a husband again."

"Is she?" said Mr. Tracy. "Gad, I'm glad I got wind of the fact before seeing her. Women never forgive you if you don't know that sort of thing, do they? Who's the happy man?"

"Well, he's not much of a man," the girl replied, with some disdain, "but he's got a title, and heaps and heaps of money, so perhaps the other doesn't matter, specially to a lady who has been married before. You can't expect to be in love twice in one life, can you?" and she heaved a prodigious sigh as she thought of her own first ardent passion, still burning brightly.

"Not much of a man, isn't he?" said Mr. Tracy, amused. "What sort of a title has he by way of compensation?"

"I don't know exactly what he is," she answered, "but his wife will be My Lady, anyhow. She's engaged to Sir Ross Buchanan. Do you know him?"

"I know of him, of course," the lawyer said, "but I never met him. He's one of the richest men in the three kingdoms."

"Is he?" said the girl, with awe and admiration. "Well, there's no end to some people's good luck."

Mr. Tracy paid for his refreshment, and awaited an omnibus which should take him to the less savoury purlieus of the law.

"A remarkably good day's work," he said. "I must devise some excuse for calling upon the fascinating widow, if only out of curiosity. Anyhow, it isn't matrimony that she is contemplating with Melville Ashley. Sir Ross Buchanan stops the way."

But if his enquiries that day opened his eyes to the possibility of Melville having less ground of complaint against Sir Geoffrey than he had hitherto supposed, his investigation into the financial transactions that had taken place between them surprised him still more that night. He went carefully through Sir Geoffrey's bank books, and comparing the entries therein with the counterfoils of the cheques and the neatly docketed receipts in Sir Geoffrey's writing table drawers, worked out a little sum in addition that astonished him beyond expression. The cheques to tradesmen marked "a/c M.A.," the details in the various accounts, and the individual cheques made payable to Melville, amounted to a total quite appalling to so simple-minded a man as this old-fashioned solicitor. If he had been inclined at first to think that Ralph exaggerated in his description of Melville's extravagance, he now had evidence more than sufficient to prove that such was not the case. No terms were too strong to condemn Melville's wanton and wicked waste of money; no further reason was required to explain why he had been disinherited by his too long-suffering uncle and guardian.

Mr. Tracy sat up late that night revolving the whole matter in his mind, and when at last he went to bed it was with the firm determination of having a personal interview with Mrs. Sinclair on the very first opportunity.

CHAPTER XXIII.

SIR ROSS IS QUITS.

For some little time, however, no opportunity arose, and Mr. Tracy was, in addition, conscious of a certain diffidence in calling upon a lady to whom he was utterly unknown, simply with the object of making a fishing enquiry into the manners and morals of one of her friends. Melville wrote him a polite note, expressing regret at having missed him, and privately gave Jervis a wigging for allowing anybody to have the run of his rooms for a couple of hours. He could not, however, display great anger, and the effect of what he did say was only to seal Jervis's lips as to the conversation that had passed between Mr. Tracy and himself. Moreover, it was so reasonable that Mr. Tracy should call upon him in the immediate circumstances that Melville scented no danger, and continued in a peaceful and equable frame of mind.

It was a disturbing fact that Ralph should not have been acquitted, but there was, undoubtedly, some compensating advantage to be derived from it, inasmuch as if the evidence was so strong against him it was so much the less probable that any would be diverted to the real criminal, and Melville still consoled himself with the reflection that his brother would certainly be acquitted next time. Actually, it worried him scarcely at all, and to his brother's discomfort and anxiety he was quite callous.

Upon Lavender, on the contrary, the idea of an innocent man being in such dire peril had an effect quite paralysing. Fear of discovery as Lady Holt was eclipsed by fear for Ralph, and she would have risked all, so far as she alone was concerned, if only so she could have set Ralph free. But Melville acquired an influence over her against which she was unable to rebel; it was not only the influence exerted through his own personal magnetism, undeniable as that was; he did not shrink now from working on her over-wrought nerves to reduce her to a state of physical and mental prostration, in which he could mould her entirely to his will. He even conveyed to her an impression that under desperation he might become dangerous, and more than once there was a look in his eyes that frightened her. Thus, under the pressure of these combined emotions—horror of what she had seen, fear of Melville, apprehension for Ralph, and anxiety about her own future—Lavender became a wreck. Unable to sleep, she dosed herself with narcotics to numb her sensibilities, and unused to the narcotics she grew ill and a shadow of her former self. At night she lay awake in fear of the silence, and by day she kept awake in fear of every sound. To the few casual acquaintances who called she was not at home, although her prolonged solitude was prolonged misery. Yet she could not make up her mind to do what Melville persistently advised, and go abroad until the crime and the mystery of Sir Geoffrey's will ceased to occupy public attention.

Lucille attributed her mistress's illness only to dread of prosecution for bigamy, and more than once attempted to reassure her.

"If you don't choose to answer the advertisement," she said, "there's nobody to answer it for you; and as for this reward that's offered now, you say that nobody but me knows you ever were Sir Geoffrey Holt's wife. What's two hundred and fifty pounds compared to a home where a person feels she's liked, besides being well paid and comfortable? Of course, if you can't trust me, there's no more to be said."

Then Lavender would protest that she had every confidence in her maid's devotion, and for a few minutes would be less hysterical; but the greater evil, of which Lucille had no knowledge, was too great for the improvement to be maintained, and with each re-action Lavender's condition grew more deplorable.

As ill-luck would have it, Mr. Tracy made up his mind to call one day when, Lavender being in rather better spirits, Lucille had gone out for a couple of hours. In answer to his ring, the door was opened by the cook who was by no means well versed in the art of admitting or of getting rid of visitors. She declared, it is true, that Mrs Sinclair was not at home, but something in the manner of her declaration induced Mr. Tracy to persist, with the result that he effected an entrance into the drawing-room, while the woman took his card upstairs to see if her mistress would make an exception in his favour and receive him.

Lavender read his name with sickening terror, and the expression on her face alarmed the cook.

"The gentleman said he was a friend of Mr. Ashley's," she explained in self-defence "and wanted to see you on business. He wouldn't take 'no' for an answer."

Lavender tried to pull herself together.

"I don't know the man from Adam," she said, "and I feel much too ill to see anybody on business. Go down and say I am sorry but I can't see anyone. Tell him I've been ill. Tell him anything you like. Only get rid of him."

And when the cook went reluctantly downstairs, Lavender stood with blanched cheeks and beating heart by the window, counting the ticks of the clock until this awful visitant should go. Hiding behind the curtains she watched him walk slowly down the path, and some time after he had disappeared she remained with hands clenched upon the back of a chair, watching with nervous apprehension in case he should return and make another attempt to see her. She showed his card to Lucille on her return.

"It can only mean that he suspects that Mrs. Sinclair and Lady Holt are one and the same person," she said despairingly. "It is the end of everything," and her hysterical collapse was pitiful to witness.

That first visit, indeed, marked a point when Lavender's illness became serious. She refused to see a doctor, and this refusal Lucille made no great effort to combat, knowing that freedom from worry and plenty of rest were all that were necessary to restore her mistress to health, and that although any physician might prescribe these two remedies, no one could provide them. For the present, therefore, the faithful woman contented herself with never leaving Lavender, and with taking control of the establishment in a manner that was as effective as it was silent and undemonstrative.

When next Mr. Tracy presented himself at The Vale, Lucille received him.

"Mrs. Sinclair is really very ill," she said, "and unable to see anybody; but more than that, she told me the other day that she did not know your name and would not see you on business without knowing something about it beforehand. If you like to write to her, I daresay she will make an appointment to see you when she comes back."

"Comes back?" said Mr. Tracy.

"Yes," Lucille replied; "from abroad. She goes to-morrow, if she's well enough, but she will certainly go this week."

And Mr. Tracy had nothing left but to murmur some polite good wishes for her complete restoration to health, and go away again.

"The good lady is determined to avoid me," he thought. "Well, it can't be helped. The clock won't stop for poor Ralph Ashley because Mrs. Sinclair wants to go abroad, and I am determined to get to the bottom of all I don't know about the family before it is too late. Mrs. Sinclair has reasons, either of her own or of Melville Ashley's, for not wanting to see me. Perhaps her fiancé will be more accommodating. I will beard the bold Sir Ross in his den."

Without further delay he set about the business. Sir Ross was in the habit of standing much upon his dignity, and felt inclined at first to refuse admission to this stranger who presented himself at his door without any previous advertisement of his coming; but his curiosity was aroused by the message that the stranger desired to see him in connection with Melville Ashley. Whether Sir Ross scented a battle from afar, or whether it was a less heroic form of curiosity, does not matter much; at all events, he acceded to Mr. Tracy's request for an audience, and with the proud air of a man who is not only a millionaire but a patrician, he entered the room where his visitor was awaiting him. With a magnificent gesture he motioned him to a seat.

"You are—er?" was his intelligent enquiry.

"I am the family solicitor to the Ashleys and to the late Sir Geoffrey Holt," said Mr. Tracy, "and I am very anxious to enlist your help in a matter of considerable delicacy. May I throw myself upon your mercy, Sir Ross, and beg you to help me, if you can?"

"I shall be glad if I can be of any assistance," said Sir Ross stiffly, "but I quite fail to see how it is likely that I can be. Is it in connection with the murder that you think I may be of use? Sir Geoffrey was—er—one of us."

"Not perhaps directly in connection with the murder," Mr. Tracy replied, "but there are several things in the story which are puzzling. What more natural than that I should come to a man of the world like yourself and say, 'I have no right to trouble you with my difficulties it is true, but of your charity help me from your superior knowledge of men and of affairs?'"

Sir Ross concealed his delight with difficulty.

"But why choose me? There are other men of the world whose names, I should have thought, would have suggested themselves more naturally."

"I had one primary object in venturing to come to you first," Mr. Tracy answered. "Sir Ross, I am speaking as if in the confessional?" Sir Ross bowed. "Well, then, I want you to tell me what you know of Mr. Melville Ashley."

The slowly dawning look of cordiality died again from the little baronet's face, and his dignity was icy.

"I know—and I desire to know—practically nothing at all about Mr. Melville Ashley."

Mr. Tracy hastened to explain.

"As I said just now, I throw myself upon your mercy. My visit may seem an impertinent intrusion, but it is not prompted in any degree by love or regard for Mr. Melville Ashley." He proceeded to explain how he had been led to make some enquiries into that individual's mode of life, and with what result. "You know everybody, Sir Ross. Is it common knowledge that Mr. Ashley plays high?"

"The first time I ever saw him was at Monte Carlo," Sir Ross replied, "and on that occasion he took advantage of the viaticum to get home, so he played, at any rate, until he had nothing left to play with. Over here I don't know much about him personally, but I could not afford the points which his set affect."

Mr. Tracy shrugged his shoulders.

"Thanks; that is quite enough for my purpose. The fact is, I was at a loss to account for various sums of money which have passed through his hands, and the cards seemed the only possible explanation. I don't think he drinks or has other vices."

"Gamblers never do drink," said Sir Ross vindictively; "they press the liquor on the other side. Frankly, Mr. Tracy, I think Mr. Melville Ashley is the devil incarnate, and I should never be surprised to hear any villainy of him."

The vigour with which the little man delivered himself of this outburst surprised the lawyer considerably, but he trimmed with superlative skill.

"He is one of those curious people who lead several different lives simultaneously. In my capacity of Sir Geoffrey Holt's executor I wanted to ascertain why his uncle disinherited him—which he has done—in order that I might know how far to encourage or restrain his brother's impulse to make provision for him by deed of gift."

"What's the brother like?" enquired Sir Ross.

"A fine fellow," said Mr. Tracy warmly; "white all through. As different from Melville as it's possible to imagine."

"Must be," grunted Sir Ross. "If it weren't that you say he's been cut off without a shilling, I should say that Mr. Melville Ashley shot his uncle and shifted the suspicion on to his brother by some vile trickery." He paused a minute, and then in his turn sought the information which he had failed to obtain elsewhere. "You are the family lawyer, so you will probably be able to tell me this. What is the relationship between Mr. Ashley and Mrs. Sinclair?"

"Do you mean the Mrs. Sinclair to whom you are engaged?"

"To whom I was engaged," said Sir Ross, flushing; "that is whom I mean. I am told there is some relationship by marriage between her and the Ashleys. What is it precisely?"

"I am not aware of any," said Mr. Tracy, feeling horribly uncomfortable. "I know they are acquainted."

"I knew Mr. Sinclair intimately," said Sir Ross, "but I never heard of any relations of his named Ashley; yet when I had occasion to object to Mr. Melville Ashley's very constant attendance on and very marked attentions to Mrs. Sinclair, an attempt was made to over-rule my protest on the ground that they were so closely related by marriage that my objections were absurd. What is the relationship?"

"Really you embarrass me very much," said Mr. Tracy pathetically. "If Mr. Ashley alone had alleged it I should have said he was mistaken, but if the lady corroborated it there must be something in it, although it is news to me."

"There was so much in it," said Sir Ross, with fine sarcasm, "that I required the lady to choose between us, and as she declined to give Mr. Ashley his congé I retired from the apparent rivalry with a person whom I detest, and my engagement to Mrs. Sinclair is cancelled."

"Not many women are so unmercenary," Mr. Tracy replied, "and not many men get such proof of having been loved for themselves alone and not for their wealth and position."

He meant the remark to be in the nature of an emollient, but it failed to have that effect.

"I am not sufficiently sentimental to appreciate the value of being loved for myself alone," Sir Ross responded drily, "if the upshot is that I am to be jilted for somebody else. The essential thing is that I, although one of Mr. Sinclair's intimate friends, have never heard of any relationship between his family and Mr. Ashley's; neither have you, although you are the solicitor to Mr. Ashley's family. It merely corroborates my previous impression that the alleged relationship is all my eye."

He blew out his cheeks, which were purple with just indignation at the recollection of the affront offered to his intelligence, and glared fiercely at Mr. Tracy, who represented his hated rival's house; but Mr. Tracy remained as gentle and unmoved as ever.

"I am unable to explain, Sir Ross. I have never met the lady, nor indeed heard of her except as your future wife. What is she like?"

Sir Ross looked round the room; the photographs of Lavender, which once were numerous, had been removed immediately after the rupture of the engagement, and he had to open a bureau in a corner to find some. There, however, he found plenty, framed and unframed.

"There she is," he said, and heaved a sigh as he saw the counterfeit presentment of her superb womanhood.

But Mr. Tracy's forehead was all wrinkled and his eyebrows were drawn together as he stared at the photographs and tried to fix in his memory where he had met this woman, and under what cognomen; it must be long ago, and yet the face was familiar to him. At last his mind responded to the effort, and putting his hand into his inner pocket he withdrew a letter-case, and opening it produced the photograph of the unknown lady which Gwendolen had given to him at Fairbridge. He laid it on the table by the others, and motioned to Sir Ross to examine it.

"Yes, that must be an early photograph of Mrs. Sinclair," the baronet exclaimed. "How do you come by that?"

Mr. Tracy hesitated to disclose the chain of his thoughts. To do so might cause much pain to the worthy little Scotchman, who, at least, had been sincere in his affection for this woman, and Mr. Tracy shrank from doing that. Yet, so much might be at stake!

"It looks like an extraordinary freak of fortune, but of course I may be wrong. I found that photograph among a lot of papers, and did not know whose likeness it was. You are sure it is Mrs. Sinclair?"

"Morally certain," said Sir Ross. "What does it all mean?"

"Possibly nothing," Mr. Tracy answered; "possibly a great deal, including an explanation of that alleged relationship. You can help me more than I thought, though, perhaps, at the cost of suffering to yourself. I believe that this is a picture of Sir Geoffrey's widow, Dame Lavinia Holt. If I am right, it will prove at least that Mr. Melville Ashley has committed perjury in one important particular, and it may prove God knows what else."

"What else?" thundered Sir Ross. "That Mrs. Sinclair shot Sir Geoffrey Holt?"

"The Lord forbid!" said Mr. Tracy very earnestly; "but I have to rescue an innocent man. Whoever did that murder, it was not Ralph Ashley, as I mean to make clear before the world. If I can prove that this"—and he laid his hand upon the portrait found by Gwendolen—"is a picture of Lady Holt, I can save my man. That done, I'll gladly leave the rest to God and to the Crown."

CHAPTER XXIV.

MRS. SINCLAIR RESOLVES TO GO AWAY.

Lavender never ceased to regret the impulse which had prompted her to persuade Melville to let her accompany him on that fateful visit to Fairbridge. Missing the constant attendance of him and of Sir Ross Buchanan, after their unfortunate meeting in her drawing room, she became bored with her own society, and was really only influenced by that, and perhaps by some little idle curiosity, when she called upon him at Jermyn Street and induced him to give her the innocent pleasure of a picnic up the river. It seemed too cruel that her simple want of something definite to do on that one day of her life should have involved her in such an appalling catastrophe. She had never known a moment's peace or happiness since then. Had it not been for her lack of occupation and for her natural terror of the thunderstorm, she would not have gone to the Manor House at all, would not have been a witness of the tragedy, would not have had this burden on her soul. Were it not for her knowledge whose hand took Sir Geoffrey's life she could have faced the world with a clear conscience on the subject of that crime, could have awaited the issue of Ralph's trial with comparative equanimity, and have received Melville with no reservation of mistrust or horror of the blood upon his hands.

That single impulse had rendered this impossible. She did know who the real criminal was, did know that it was an innocent man upon whom suspicion had fallen, did know the injustice of it all; and yet her lips were sealed and she was dumb. From the moment of Ralph's arrest until the moment at the assizes when the jury failed to agree upon a verdict, she had remained in London, unable to tear herself away from the dreadful fascination of his danger. She had confidently anticipated his acquittal, and the relief she would have experienced at knowing that an innocent man would not suffer death, would have been the saving of her own life and reason. But although she had endured the torments of suspense so long, her strength was exhausted and she could endure no more. If, next time, Ralph were convicted, Lavender felt sure that the horror of his impending doom would drive her mad. It was better if he had to die that she should not know it, should only learn of it long after it had happened. She must go away, and at once.

That was the conclusion at which she arrived immediately after the abortive trial, and Mr. Tracy's visits to The Vale only confirmed her resolution. She was satisfied that his object in calling was to identify her as Lady Holt, and that identification only meant the substitution of one disaster for another. So, after his second visit, she determined to do what her maid had professed she was upon the point of doing, and leave for the Continent that week. Had it not been for the necessity of seeing Melville, she would have made an effort to start the following day, but she could not leave without making some arrangement with him for the communication of urgent news, and this involved the settlement of some definite route to which she must adhere, and also the invention of some code, under the seeming innocence of which the most startling information might be sent to her without attracting attention.

Moreover, houses cannot be casually left in London, unless, perhaps, by the very rich, who have servants to whose care they can entrust everything just as it is at any moment; and Lavender had all the house-pride and affection for her goods and chattels that makes English home life so indicative of English character. Having decided to go away, she set about doing the thousand things that must be done ere she could lock all the doors and windows, and abandon her house to the formal custody of the caretaker.

She stood in the drawing-room buttoning her gloves, and looked around her. All the silver ornaments, the ivories and needlework were put away, and the place wore a cheerless look. She would be glad when the morrow came and she turned her back upon it for an indefinite time. If only she could leave her misery behind as well, with what a different feeling she would start upon her journey! But that could not be; only death could bring her that emancipation.

Leaving Lucille upstairs to finish packing, Lavender went round to the tradesmen to pay their several books and give instructions that they should not call for orders until they heard from her again. She completed her round of visits with an odd sense of having come to the end of a period in her existence, and was walking listlessly homewards, when the thought struck her that she must lose no time if she wanted to be sure of conveying a message to Melville before he left home, as she knew he generally did after his mid-day meal. It was to be a verbal message, given by Lucille to him in person, and it must be carefully worded, so as to arouse no speculations in the servant's mind. She walked briskly back and called Lucille.

"I want you to go to Jermyn Street at once," she said, "and take a message to Mr. Ashley. His chambers are on the top floor, and you can go up to his door without telling the hall porter whose rooms you are going to. Say you must see him himself, and when you do, give him my compliments, say I am going abroad to-morrow, and ask him if he will take me out to dinner to-night, and tell you where and when I shall meet him."

"And if he isn't in?"

"Don't deliver the message to anybody but Mr. Ashley. If he isn't in you must go again later on, but you will see him if you go now. Take a cab, so as to make sure."

Inwardly Lucille was a little surprised, for she had seen much less of Melville lately, and hoped that his great intimacy with Lavender was diminishing. She looked forward to a time when Sir Ross Buchanan would pick up the dropped threads of his courtship and draw her mistress into a safe haven of matrimony, from which Mr. Ashley, with all other disturbing influences, would be permanently excluded. That very morning, when packing, she had hesitated as to whether she should or should not put into one of the portmanteaux the large silver-framed photograph of the little baronet, which always stood on Lavender's dressing-table, and she had only decided not to do so because on this occasion she was anxious to take nothing which might remind her mistress of the immediate past. But of all this the good creature made no sign. She donned her hat and gloves, and, selecting a hansom with a likely-looking horse, soon arrived at Jermyn Street.

Acting upon her mistress's instructions, she walked upstairs and knocked at Melville's door. It was opened by Jervis, who looked at her approvingly.

"Is Mr. Ashley at home?" she enquired.

"Yes," said Jervis. "What name shall I say?"

Lucille hesitated; it might be advisable not to mention her mistress's name to the valet, and her own surname was not known to Melville.

"Miss Lucille," she said at last, and Jervis smiled.

"French," he thought. "Query, French maid. Gad, I'm beginning to think I gave Mr. Ashley a false character to the family lawyer, and that the circle of his female acquaintances is larger than I thought." He invited Lucille to walk in, and bestowing upon her another smile of cordiality and approval, of which she took no notice whatever, went into the bedroom where Melville was dressing.

"A lady to see you, sir."

"A what?" said Melville, looking at the clock; an odd time, he thought, forgetting for the moment, with characteristic casualness, the urgent reasons several women might have for ringing him up at any time. "Who is she? What does she want?"

"Don't know, sir," Jervis replied; "haven't seen her before; gave the name of Lucille—Miss Lucille."

"Oh! ah! of course," said Melville quickly. "That's all right. Tell her I'll come in a minute, and then I shan't want you."

"Thank you, sir," said Jervis, and giving the message to Lucille, he left the flat, and, substituting a smart coat for his linen jacket, he arranged himself upon the staircase to await Lucille's reappearance, holding a feather brush in his hand to avoid any air of being out of work.

Lucille criticised the room in which she was, and sniffed.

"Ladylike," she remarked, and the epithet was a happy one. The open piano, the violins, and a basket-tray of cut flowers, just delivered by a neighbouring florist, gave an impression that the occupant of the flat was a woman rather than a man. She rose as Melville entered.

"Your mistress has sent me a message?" he said curtly.

"Yes, sir!" she answered. "She desired me to give you her compliments and say that she is leaving for the Continent tomorrow, and to ask whether you could take her out to dinner this evening."

Melville frowned; he had an appointment for the evening which he was unwilling to cancel, but experience had shown him that Lavender would not trouble him unnecessarily, and if she was at last about to gratify him by going out of the country, she deserved this small gratification in return.

"I shall be delighted," he said, without a spark of enthusiasm. "Am I to come to The Vale?"

"Mrs. Sinclair said if you would tell me where you thought of dining, and at what time, she would meet you at the place," Lucille replied. "Her house is all dismantled, as she starts early to-morrow."

"Quite so," said Melville. "Well, ask her to join me at the Café d'Autriche in Pall Mall at a quarter to seven. Do you think that will be too early for her?"

"Not at all," said Lucille. "I daresay she will prefer not to be home late."

"Very well," said Melville, and as he held open the door for her to pass out, Lucille could not fail, much as she disliked the man, to be conscious of his fascination of manner and perfect breeding.

Jervis stood on the next landing and waved his feather brush in the direction of the lift.

"Mayn't I take you down in the lift, Miss—er—Lucille?" he suggested amiably.

"Thanks, no," she answered; "I don't like elevators."

"Elevators?" said Jervis. "Are you American? I made sure you were French."

"Did you?" Lucille remarked, withholding information on the point, but an amused look on her face belied the coldness of her tone.

"Tell me," Jervis persisted, "where do you live, Miss Lucille?"

"Geneva, when I'm at home," she answered.

"A perfect cosmopolitan," said Jervis, with admiration. "French name, American language, and Swiss home. I suppose you would not care to be English by marriage, would you?"

"Is that an offer?" Lucille enquired, looking at him so frigidly that his genial smile was frozen on his face.

"Well," he stammered, "I am engaged, you know, but——"

"Poor girl!" said Lucille, and continued her progress downstairs, leaving the valet short of repartee. He flung the feather brush down in the passage, and returned disconsolately to Melville's rooms.

Melville stood with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, thinking hard. He had been counting out his money that morning, and the operation took a disgustingly short time in the doing; he had a balance of thirty-seven pounds in the bank, and a five-pound note, three sovereigns and some silver in his rooms: a total of something under forty-six pounds left from Mr. Tracy's little payment on account of out-of-pocket expenses on Ralph's behalf. The result of the expenditure of the other fifty-four pounds was difficult to define, but if it did not benefit Ralph it benefited Melville as little. They were gone, though whither Melville had no clear notion. Mr. Tracy might be good for another hundred later on, but certainly not at once. The evening engagement which, by arranging to dine early, Melville did not find it necessary to cancel, might result in an addition to his funds, for its primary object was cards, but, on the other hand, it might not. The barometer of his luck had fluctuated from fair to stormy of late. Where should he go for an appreciable sum—if not to Lavender? And why not to Lavender? The necessity had arisen sooner than he anticipated, but from the first he had seen her potentialities as a source of revenue for himself, and he had no squeamish reluctance in availing himself of any means of assistance which fortune dropped in his way. The opportunity of asking her was created by herself, and, in view of her departure from England, might not arise again.

He wrote an open cheque for thirty pounds and called Jervis.

"Go round to my bank and cash that cheque for me. Take it in five-pound notes; I have enough change on me."

And when Jervis presently returned, Melville put the banknotes in his writing table drawer, lighted a cigarette, and went out for his usual gentle constitutional in the streets frequented by the best sort of idle man-about-town, as calm and free from worry as the idlest of them all.

CHAPTER XXV.

MRS. SINCLAIR GOES AWAY.

The pleasant anticipation of her trip abroad, and the little mild excitement promised by her prospective dinner at a restaurant, among well-dressed people and brightened by lights and music, went far to rouse Lavender from her recent long spell of depression; there was much of the old sparkle in her eyes, much of the warm colour in her cheeks, as she finished dressing that evening and looked at her reflection in the mirrors while waiting for Lucille to bring her opera cloak.

Some caprice impelled her to desire to look her very best to-night, and she was magnificently dressed in champagne crepe-de-chine, worn over a foundation the tint of apricots. Regardless of the general superstition she had chosen opals for her jewels, and they burned in a myriad fantastic colours upon her splendid neck and bosom, and crept like a flaming serpent up one of her finely moulded arms. Few women could wear magnificent gems as easily as Lavender Sinclair, and, imperial as she looked to-night, there was no suggestion of ostentation or of bad taste in her appearance. Here was the splendour that compels homage, not the lavish display that challenges criticism.

Lucille surveyed her with proud affection ere she dropped the long opera cloak lightly over her shoulders, screening the glowing opals and covering the delicate gown. There was no need for Lavender to ask if she looked well; the least vain woman in the world, the most vain one as well, would have been satisfied by one glance at the image reflected from the depths of the full-length mirrors. Reluctantly Lucille extinguished the candles that stood in branching candelabra over the mirrors, and went downstairs to unroll the carpet from the hall door to the gate, where the hansom stood in readiness.

Lavender stood in the doorway and looked at the fair exterior of the small domain where for the last five years she had led so luxurious an existence. The sound of the traffic outside was subdued in here, and The Vale was like a green island in the great river of London life; all of the houses were creeper-covered, and in the flower-beds in the lawns were brilliant geraniums and petunias and giant sunflowers. Lavender's own garden was as pretty as any of them, with ribbon grass and flaunting lilies, and a gnarled wistaria stretching brown arms over the porch. It seemed a pity to be leaving home when it was all so sweet and dainty, and yet August had never before found her in London.

She got into the cab, and, smiling a farewell to Lucille, told the man to drive to the Café d'Autriche. It was a lovely evening, and already, early as it was, the stream of cabs and carriages was setting in the direction of the great hotels and restaurants. Lavender leaned back in her seat and watched the familiar scene with the keen interest of the intelligent Londoner, but as she travelled along the Brompton Road a wistful look stole over her face. Good as her lot had been until these later days, it might have been better still if as a child she had been taught more self-control. If Sir Geoffrey had been more patient with his impetuous child-wife, and she herself had been less self-willed and passionate, she might now be driving through the town, not as a practical adventuress masquerading under a name to which she had no right, but as the wife of an honoured and honourable old man—not as a supposititious Mrs. Sinclair, but in her true guise as Lady Holt.

They had got nearly to the end of the road when suddenly, with a deafening rattle and clanking of chains and a throbbing pulsation of machinery, a heavy traction engine, drawing a trolly laden with an enormous cylindrical boiler, came panting towards them. At the same moment the horses attached to an omnibus, between which and the pavement Lavender's cab was passing, shied and swerved, the axle of the hind wheel forcing the cab against the curb. Startled by the slight collision, and terrified by the hammering din of the ungainly locomotive, the animal behind which Lavender was sitting—a wiry Irish mare—threw back her ears, and, letting fly with her heels at the splash-board, dashed madly forward, jerking the bit between her teeth and getting absolutely out of hand.

A spasm of fear gripped Lavender's heart, and then, sitting bolt upright with hands pressed against the two sides of the cab, she braced herself to await the catastrophe. Even in the wild rush of the moment she noted with admiration how the driver managed to keep some semblance of control over the terrified mare, guiding her, he certainly knew not how, past cabs and omnibuses. But foolish people on the pavement began to shout, and only scared the little mare into a wilder pace. Crossing the top of Sloane Street they avoided by a hair's breadth a green omnibus full of people, and raced on towards the huge Hyde Park Hotel; they skidded over the edge of the island in the road, but already the cab was swaying from side to side with a rhythmical swing that grew more dangerous every time, and in Lavender's mind two words kept ringing in rhythm with the swinging of the cab, Lavender Holt—Lavender Holt—Lavender Holt.

She was kept in no suspense as to what the end would be, but even her stout heart quailed as she saw in what shape death was coming to her. Just by the railings of the Park the road was up, and policemen were diverting the traffic on to the other side of the road; but now the mare was blind and deaf and mad, only struggling to get faster and farther away from the hellish clangour of that horrible machine behind. Lifting herself together she charged full at the barrier of stout pines, upsetting a brazier full of charcoal and crashing anyhow into a maze of broken poles and blocks of karri-karri.

The impact threw the driver clear over the cab and forced Lavender through the window folded up above her. Shivering glass and splintering wood tore and rent their way into her face and neck and hands; one sob escaped her as a blaze of red flashed up before her to die away in utter hopeless blackness, and she was lying crushed and bleeding in the wreckage of the cab, as motionless as the mare that lay dead beside her.

There is no city in the world where help is so speedily forthcoming for the injured as it is in London. Almost before the crowd that ran shouting after the runaway came up to the spot where the dead mare lay amid the havoc she had wrought, Lavender and the cabman were taken to the nearest hospital. Tender hands took the jewels from her torn neck and shoulders, unclasped the winking serpent from her arm, and cut the stained gown from her broken frame. Her wounds were dressed and she was already laid in a spotless little bed ere she recovered consciousness.

"Who is she?" said the house-surgeon. "Does anybody know?"

"There are only initials on her linen," one of the nurses said; "perhaps the cabman may be able to tell us by-and-bye."

The house-surgeon shook his head.

"'The poor fellow can never tell us anything now; he was dead before they brought him in. This poor creature's hours are numbered too." He went out to the constables who had brought the accident in. "One of you had better come inside," he said; "the lady is dying, but she may recover consciousness before the end," and, with an inspector of police, he resumed his seat by the side of the bed. A quiver moved the tired eyelids, so faint that only the surgeon saw it. He bent over Lavender.

"Lavender Holt," she murmured, her dazed brain reverting to what had been almost her last conscious thought, and rhythmically the words forced themselves from the white lips again and yet again—"Lavender Holt—Lavender Holt."

"You are Lavender Holt?" the surgeon asked, and she made a sign of assent.

"Can that be the woman who has been advertised for from Fairbridge Manor?" the inspector whispered, an eager light shining in his eyes; "the missing widow of the murdered man?"

The silence was painfully long drawn out, but again the white lips tried to frame a name, and this time the inspector's suggestion helped.

"Try Ashley," he murmured, and with wonderful skill the surgeon encouraged the wavering brain to act.

"You are Lady Holt," he said, "and you want to see Mr. Ashley, is that it?"

A look of relief crossed her face. It was enough that her wish was understood, but too much for her to grasp the fact that there was any danger for anyone in what the wish involved. Behind her vacant look the surgeon saw the glimmer of consciousness, and with infinite patience he extracted from her that it was Melville whom she wished to see, and that he lived in Jermyn Street.

"That is the brother of the suspect," the inspector whispered. "You had better send for him at once," and without any delay a messenger was despatched in a cab to Melville's chambers.

Before the tiny wave of strength had ebbed, Lavender found means to ask for Lucille too, and said that she lived at The Vale, South Kensington. That much done, her brain became clouded again, and for a space the others could only wait and watch.

"She will probably have several periods of consciousness," the surgeon said to the inspector, "but there is no chance of life for her. If you think that she really is the widow of Sir Geoffrey Holt, who has been so sought after of late, perhaps you had better arrange for her depositions to be taken next time she comes round."

It was half-past eight before Lucille arrived, and later still before Lavender opened her eyes again and saw her loyal servant kneeling near her. She smiled, contented, but the worst ordeal was to come.

"Melville?" she whispered.

"He isn't here," they answered. "He said he would come at once, but something has detained him by the way."

Someone stooped over her: a tall, grey man with kind eyes set in a stern face, and he was speaking slowly and earnestly, so that each softly uttered word conveyed its full meaning. He told her that the end was very near; that if she had anything to say the minutes left in which to say it were but few, and that if she knew anything about her husband and his end it was her duty to reveal it all to man before she faced the judgment seat of God.

"Melville?" she said again, and in this supreme moment it was only his absence that distressed her. He had promised not to fail her when she should send for him, and now he was breaking his word because he could not trust her not to betray him.

"You understand?" the grey man said. "You are going to tell me everything you know, and I will write it down. The truth, dear lady, as before the God who is calling you away to-night."

"Ralph Ashley is innocent," she said, and by degrees the broken story was told; told in faint outline, but with sufficient clearness to make corroboration easy afterwards. She told of her early marriage to Sir Geoffrey and of her flight from him; of her marriage to Mr. Sinclair, made in all good faith, and of his death; of her visit to Fairbridge Manor on the fatal day from idle curiosity to see what might have been her home; of Sir Geoffrey's murder by the man with whom she went, and how she only chanced to be a witness of it because she was frightened by the storm; of how she saw the weapon dropped into the river, and was intimidated into silence afterwards; how she had always believed that an innocent man could not be convicted, and that Ralph would be set free and the true facts never be known. She told it all, but never gave a clue as to who her companion on that momentous occasion was.

On that point she was obdurate. It was her duty to prevent the innocent man from suffering, but she could not be brought to believe that it was her duty to bring the guilty one to justice. That was her code of morals, and while she was true to it in this last hour by doing what she could to set Ralph free, she would not be false to it by breaking her solemn promise to Melville.

"I'm very tired," she said, and in sheer compassion they let her be. She contrived to affix some sort of signature to the statement they read over to her, and then the others withdrew, leaving her to the care of the nurses and doctors and the company of Lucille, who loved her so.

"Everything I have I've given to you," she said once, and later on sent a farewell message to Sir Ross. Melville she did not mention any more; she had kept her promise and that sufficed. So she lay, waiting for the end, with an expression on her face in which fear had no part. Warm-hearted and impulsive, no one could ever tell how much she may have repented the part she played in spoiling Sir Geoffrey's life by her early desertion of him. From that point onwards, however, within the limitations of her rather crude nature, she had always been kind, straightforward, and true, and death found her not afraid. Of many a better woman not so much can be said.

Lucille knelt by her, gently stroking her hair, grudging every second as it sped. A faint smile flickered over Lavender's face, just lightening the gravity that was settling on it, and for the last time the lips that had never spoken an unkind word parted. Lucille bent her head nearer and caught the whisper.

"Good-bye—dear."

CHAPTER XXVI.

FATE TAKES THE ODD TRICK.

Melville was on the point of leaving his rooms, his Inverness cape hanging on his arm, when Jervis came into the room.

"A commissionaire, sir, has come and wants to see you."

"All right," said Melville casually; "send him up."

The man appeared and gave his message tersely; he was often sent on errands such as this, but still was no adept in the art of breaking bad news.

"There has been an accident, sir, and you are wanted at once."

"Who is hurt?" Melville asked.

"Lady Holt," the man replied.

"Lady Holt?" said Melville; "and she sent for me?"

"Yes, sir; the cabman's killed and the lady's dying, they say. Will you come back with me? I have a cab at the door."

"Is it as bad as that?" said Melville.

"They're waiting to take her depositions, if they can," the messenger said. "It was an awful sight."

"Go back and say I'll come in half a minute," Melville said. "I shall be there as soon as you, if not sooner."

He controlled his agitation until the door closed upon the man, and then, turning the key in the lock, threw his cape upon the couch. In an instant he realised to the full what this meant. With incredible swiftness he slipped off his dress clothes and changed into a dark mourning suit, crammed some linen and a couple of suits into a Gladstone bag, tipped the contents of his despatch box into it, and took the banknotes from his writing-table drawer. In a wonderfully short time his preparations were complete, and, grasping the bag, he ran lightly down the staircase, and getting into the crowd in Piccadilly Circus took a cab and drove to Charing Cross. Finding that he still had some time to wait before the express left, he went into one of the many small restaurants near the station and took a hasty dinner, which he washed down with a plentiful supply of spirits. Before suspicion at the hospital had definitely been turned upon him, he was lying back against the cushions of an otherwise empty carriage and speeding through Kent upon his way to Dover.

He did his utmost to concentrate his thoughts upon what was next to be done, but, despite his endeavours, they would wander to the hospital where Lavender was lying. If he had any sure information of what was going on there, what the nature of the accident was, and who was with her, the possible danger would have had less terror for him; but it was still too early for any particulars to appear in the papers, and he could only allow his overwrought imagination to supply the details for him. The commissionaire had said that Lady Holt was dying, and used the ill-omened word "depositions." That meant that Lavender had acknowledged her identity either by accident or of design, and was about to make a full statement of her knowledge of the events which culminated in Sir Geoffrey's death. Doubtless, she was being influenced by some smooth-cheeked, smooth-spoken parson to confess her sins before passing away, and in the hysterical, neurotic state in which she had been these last few weeks—to say nothing of the state to which the accident might have reduced her—that task of professional persuasion might be only too easy to fulfil. She had tied the label of conviction round his neck by asking for him by name, and while his flight would possibly only be regarded as corroboration of her story, the alternative course of staying was attended by too grave risks for any sane man to contemplate. No good purpose could be served now by hoping for the best or by trying to look upon the bright side of things. It was wiser to look the probabilities squarely in the face, and they spelled hanging by the neck for Melville Ashley.

As he sat there, rigid and impassive, he might have been taken for a financier working out some vast calculation involving millions of money, a statesman debating a point in international policy involving issues of peace or war, a physician considering a new development of disease involving life or death to his patient; no one would have taken him for what he was, a murderer flying from the Nemesis that was trailing close after him. But his cold face masked a heart aflame already. As on his way home from Monte Carlo he cursed what he called his luck, so now on his way from London to—he knew not where—he cursed the greater thing he called his destiny.

Only once could he remember having made any mistake in the way he played the cards dealt out to him by fate, and what added bitterness to the memory now was the fact that he made the mistake with his eyes open. He cursed himself for having once been persuaded into doing a thing which at the time he knew was imprudent. That once was when he agreed to take Lavender with him by boat to Fairbridge Manor. But for that he would not now be in this parlous plight. Even supposing he had still committed the murder—which actually was never in his mind when he set out—he still would not have been seen and been rendered subject to the mercies of an emotional woman. Lavender would never have suspected him, and he could have kept his own counsel and had no fear of nerves.

It was impossible for him to keep his mind from memories and turn it to the future. He could only think of what had been and what might have been, not of what was to be. Never before had his thinking powers played him false like this; will and foresight were dispossessed by memory just at the moment when he needed them as he had never needed them before. That was the most pregnant fact of all, and he did not perceive it. If he thought of the present it was only with some vague satisfaction that every moment was taking him farther away from peril.

In the hospital the depositions were taken, and the grey man looked across at the inspector of police and left the room with him. And soon the inspector left the hospital and went to see his chiefs. There was no evidence against any individual, for the name of the man who rowed her up to Fairbridge had not escaped Lavender's lips, but Melville had not obeyed the summons she had sent him, and the inspector was not alone in wanting to know why. He went to Jermyn Street and asked for Mr. Ashley.

"I don't think he's at home," the hall porter said, and the inspector went upstairs. On the top landing he met Jervis coming from another set of rooms. "I want to see Mr. Ashley," he said again.

"He's dining out," said Jervis.

"Are you sure?"

"Quite," said Jervis. "I saw him dress, and a commissionaire brought him a message just as he was finished. I haven't been in his rooms since, but I'm sure he's out."

"Show me," said the inspector, and something about him quelled Jervis's usual breezy impertinence.

"Look for yourself, if you don't believe me," he said, unlocking the door and flinging it wide open. "Perhaps you will believe your own eyes."

The room bore unmistakable evidence of Melville's flight. His dress clothes were flung upon the sofa, his despatch box stood open on the table, his writing-table drawers were unlocked. Jervis's face of surprise only confirmed the inspector's previous idea.

"You are Mr. Ashley's servant?" he enquired.

"Yes," said Jervis.

"Well, perhaps you can describe him to me; fully, please. I only want to make enquiries in case there has been an accident. You will not be doing him any injury."

So Jervis gave an accurate description of his master, and found several photographs of him to bear the description out. From a study of the wardrobe he saw what clothes were missing, and suggested what Melville might be wearing, and soon the inspector was satisfied.

"You will be very well advised to keep a still tongue in your head," he remarked. "If Mr. Ashley comes back, well and good, but if he doesn't, see that nobody comes into these rooms unless I am with them at the time," and, leaving Jervis dumbfounded, he walked away.

Thus it came about that when the train in which Melville was travelling reached Dover, the police there, as at many another likely spot for leaving England, were in possession of a close description of him, and of instructions not to lose sight of him if they saw him. His actual apprehension might be deferred with safety, it could be accomplished at any moment; but just as it is a mistake to strike too soon when playing a game fish, so it is often one to arrest a man merely upon suspicion when a little delay may justify the event and yet not prejudice its successful performance. Moreover, if Lady Holt's statement were true, the police had made one gross blunder as it was.

But while at Dover the detectives knew what Melville was like, and had a clearly defined course of action in the event of his arriving there and crossing the Channel, Melville had no idea of what they might be like, and reached the end of this first stage in his journey without devising any scheme for his next movements. He was so persuaded that Lavender had betrayed him, and that already a warrant must be out for his arrest, that his heart was broken ere the pursuit was begun. What was the good of thirty pounds to a man for whom the whole world held no sanctuary? Would it not have been wiser to remain in London until he could raise enough money to take him, at any rate, an appreciable distance away? There might be greater difficulty in leaving the country a week hence, but the difficulty would be more worth trying to overcome if afterwards he had money to go on with. Thirty pounds was almost useless. Again he blasphemed against his luck. If the accident had happened twenty-four hours later he might have drawn a considerable sum from Lavender, and even gone abroad. And it was just like his cursed ill-luck that the cabman should be killed outright and Lavender live to speak once more, whereas if the converse had happened he would have been out of danger for ever, and nobody would have been a penny the worse except his brother, whom everyone believed to be guilty, and who might hang with pleasure so far as Melville was concerned.

He got furtively out of the carriage and scanned everybody about him; in each face he fancied he detected the detectives whom he supposed to be waiting for him, and even when he got aboard the packet unobserved, as he believed, he stood cowering on one side, uncertain whether to go below or linger to watch for the hand that surely must be laid upon him soon. His nerve was utterly gone, and the only idea clear in his mind was that if an attempt were made to arrest him ere the packet started, he must jump overboard and endeavour not to relax his grasp upon his Gladstone bag, so that he might be sure of not rising to the surface. That much, at any rate, was certain: he must not be taken alive.

The night was mild, but very dark, and Melville stood forward watching every figure as it came aboard, and finding the really short wait interminably long; but at last the boat began to move away from the pier, and he felt that he had another respite. With a sudden access of terror, however, he saw two men rush to the end of the pier gesticulating wildly, and he waited, feeling absolutely sick, until he saw they were too late and had missed the boat. None the less, it accentuated his fear and stretched his power of endurance to breaking point. In reality, they were two harmless travellers, one an acquaintance of his own, who had tarried too long in the hotel and lost the packet by mere carelessness. But Melville was convinced that they were the men deputed to detain him, and while it was now too late to draw back, it was fatal to go on. They would certainly telegraph to the authorities at Calais, and freedom was his for another bare hour and a half. How should he utilise it?

The coast line was lost in the darkness, and the lights grew smaller and smaller. When the largest of them showed like pin-pricks, Melville sighed and went below. He had something to do before the pin-pricks should appear ahead and grow larger and larger until they fell upon the deck of the boat at Calais. Going into the saloon he opened his bag and sat down upon a couch. Taking a sheet of paper, he wrote a pencil note.

"I do not know what Lavender Sinclair may have said. This much, at any rate, is true. My brother Ralph is innocent of the crime imputed to him. I declare this upon my solemn oath.—MELVILLE ASHLEY."

He put the note, with Ralph's letter asking for the loan on which so much had turned, and Lavender's first letter from The Vale, and his remaining paper money, into an envelope, and addressed it to Mr. Tracy at Lincoln's Inn Fields. Then he strapped up the bag, which he left unlocked, and went on deck again. This was the end of it all? No god from a car could come to save him this time; the Furies had reached their quarry and were going to pull him down. He found a more or less deserted place upon the deck and stood, a dark figure, against the rail; and so the moment came. With one last glance around to make sure he was not observed, he got on to the outside of the rail and dropped silently into the warm, dark water.

When he rose he was surprised to see how far behind he was left; he had no idea the boat made such good speed. He stifled an impulse to call out, but the natural instinct to swim was too strong to be resisted, and, even managing to disengage himself from his thin overcoat, he began with slow steady strokes to follow in the wake of the boat. The black mass of her shape grew lower in the water, her lights drew away from him with ever increasing speed, the salt burned his eyelids and stung his face. His arms grew weaker with each more painful stroke, until at length, with his eyes set upon the far lights of the boat which represented man, of whom he was forsaken, and never once upon the stars, above which was enthroned the God whom he had rejected, Melville gave up the impossible task of living, and the last mechanical effort ceased.

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE PLACE OF PEACE.

When Lavender knocked away the keystone of the vaulted arch beneath which Ralph Ashley was confined, the fabric fell to pieces easily. Provided with a copy of her depositions, the police sought Mr. Tracy, and next day he was engaged with the Treasury solicitors discussing the Fairbridge murder in the light of the new facts, and gathering together sufficient evidence to corroborate her statement and set the suspect free.

Of this, the most important part was Melville's pencilled note, which reached Mr. Tracy about five o'clock the following evening. In itself his suicide was held to be sufficient; that he had thrown himself overboard was beyond question. It was proved that he had gone on board the packet at Dover and that he was not on board at Calais; his Gladstone bag was there, with the note and the enclosures, and what had happened in the interval was self-evident. He, too, bore witness to his brother's innocence, and although, like Lavender, he did not say who the murderer was, it was a simple matter to name him now. All that was necessary was to prove that it was he who rowed Lavender to Fairbridge the day the murder was committed.

To do this was not very difficult. Lucille and Jervis both could prove that Lavender had been to Jermyn Street the day before the crime. The maid could swear that on the following morning her mistress went out for the day, taking a basket containing luncheon for two people, and that she returned in the evening terribly agitated and wet through. The valet could swear that Mrs. Sinclair took tea with Melville and asked him to take her out next day; he had overheard that much, although he did not overhear the answer, but he swore that next morning his master told him that he was going out and would not require anything during the day; that he was wearing flannels when he spoke, and that those garments were soiled and creased as if they had got wet when on the following Monday they were sent to the laundry. The manager acknowledged his surprise at finding Melville in when he answered the bell in the evening, for it was unusual for him to pass an entire afternoon in his rooms without requiring service of any kind, and his professed ignorance of Jervis's absence was odd, in view of the fact that he had himself given the leave of absence. Careful investigation showed that the time permitted of his going to Fairbridge and returning by the hour he saw the manager. The lock keeper at St. Martin's proved that a lady and gentleman had hired his last boat, and left it outside the lock on their return in order to make a rush to catch a train just due, which they must have missed if they had waited to go through the lock to the boathouse, and which would have got him back to Jermyn Street in time to change and affect to have been at home all day; In Melville's rooms, moreover, the police found ammunition similar to that found in the gun-room at the Manor House, but no trace of the revolver which it fitted. Jervis had often seen it, and swore that Melville generally carried it in his hip pocket. Was it not, therefore, the one that Lavender declared her companion had used and afterwards dropped into the river? Did not Ralph's possession of its fellow prove his own innocence and not his guilt, as Mr. Tracy had always contended?

Nor when it came to the question of motive was there any other difficulty. The perjury Melville had committed in denying all knowledge of Lady Holt's existence, and the inferences to be drawn from Sir Geoffrey's accounts, pointed directly to the motive. The story Ralph had told to Mr. Tracy of the hundred pounds explained the rest. Sir Geoffrey had paid Melville's debts and given him a final two hundred and fifty pounds. That Melville lost at Monte Carlo, where he was when Ralph wrote to him for the loan. He applied to his uncle for further help and got a hundred pounds, as the cheque itself attested. Yet, in spite of the fraud and its penalties, only averted by Ralph's generosity, Melville went back to Fairbridge and got more money from his uncle, as the cheque book again demonstrated. On what plea did he get those further funds? Obviously, under the false pretence that Lady Holt, whom, as her letter showed, he had seen in the brief interval, was in poor circumstances; or else, perhaps, as hush-money from his uncle, who believed that his wife was dead.

Finally, Sir Geoffrey made a will and refused to give Melville another penny for himself or for Lavender, and then Melville shot his uncle, either in a paroxysm of rage at being baffled, or hoping to benefit under some intestacy, for the will was only executed a few days before the tragedy. The whole story was complete, and could no longer be withstood. Within the briefest possible period the Crown dropped the case against Ralph Ashley, and he was free.

It was with a face stern and hard as granite that Ralph listened to Mr. Tracy's disclosure of this horrible betrayal by his brother. He had been looking death in the face, and its visage had almost turned him to stone, although it could not make his high courage quail. It would have been bad enough if the traitor had been any other man, but that it should be his own brother, with whom he had played as a child, dreamed such fair dreams, and thought such long, long thoughts, was the most cruel blow fate had ever dealt him. He marvelled at the cool courage with which Melville had pitted himself against the devil, and played the game right to the end. He shuddered as he tried to picture what the end was like, when, with a certain pagan courage, Melville threw himself into death's cold embrace. The life was incomprehensible to him, but the death he could find it in his heart to commend.

With Mr. Tracy he left the prison, of which the high walls had been suffocating him so long.

"I will telegraph to Gwendolen at once," he said, "saying I will be home to-morrow night and asking her to await me there. I will go up to London with you now; there is a lot that I must do."

His whole occupation that first day of freedom was characteristic of the man. Everything that could be devised to spare his brother's memory he thought of and arranged—everything, that is, that did not detract from the absolute declaration of his own innocence. He provided for the payment of Melville's debts, from the greatest to the least, took possession of his personal effects, so that nothing might fall into the hands of curious strangers, and gave his whole wardrobe and a generous gratuity to Jervis on the understanding that he should preserve silence as to his late master's shortcomings. And Jervis acted loyally in accordance with the understanding, for he had been a good and even affectionate servant to Melville, who had always been kind and generous to him; he was, indeed, Melville's sincerest mourner.

Ralph thought of all who had contributed, in however small a degree, to his acquittal. Lucille was broken-hearted by Lavender's death, and would accept nothing at his hands.

"I don't need it," she said. "Mrs. Sinclair has left me everything she had, and they tell me I shall never need to work again. I'm going home to Geneva as soon as ever I can."

She listened gratefully to Ralph's words of sympathy.

"You've had a lot to put up with," she sobbed, "but don't you believe my mistress was a bad woman. She was frightened into holding her tongue. Your brother frightened her. She was a changed woman from the first unhappy day he crossed her path, and didn't dare stand up to him; but whatever she did, no one shall say to me that she was a wicked woman."

And when Ralph soothed her she looked up at him with eyes that were most pathetic.

"I don't know how you can be so forgiving when you've been so wronged, I can't forgive your brother. But oh! how I wish that it was you instead of him who came into her life! You could have told her, if she had done wrong by Sir Geoffrey Holt, how to put it right, and she would have done it. She never did a wrong thing knowingly in all her life;" and, indeed, until fear came upon her and upset her judgment as to the proportion of things, Lucille's epitaph upon her mistress was truer than many an epitaph graven on stone and lying in cathedrals.

Next day Ralph arrived at Fairbridge. He acknowledged silently the greetings of the knot of people gathered at the station. The situation was not free from embarrassment for them; their joy at his complete acquittal would have found expression in some tumultuous welcome but for the thought of his brother, by the chance exposure of whose treachery that acquittal had been secured.

Martin stood at the gate of the Manor House bareheaded, and Ralph put out both his hands.

"So I have come home safe, Martin,"

"The Lord be praised for it!" the butler said; "the Lord be praised for it! But, oh! poor Master Melville!" and the tears broke out and poured down the old fellow's withered cheeks.

"Poor Melville!" echoed Ralph. "Well, we can't forget it, Martin, but we can forgive him—you and I. Surely if anybody can forgive him it is you and I—because he was——"

He could not finish; the sight of the faithful old servant sobbing as he bent over his hands was too much for him, and the words died away into a groan.

"God bless you, you dear old Martin! Who can doubt of God when such kind hearts as yours are beating round them? Come, you must take me to missy."

So Martin led the way to the library, where Gwendolen stood alone, very pale and nervous, but very sweet. He opened the door and tried to say Ralph's name, but it would not come, and with his hands before his face he ran away and left them alone together.

* * * * *

That that part of the world which had inclined to believe in Ralph's guilt hastened to shower congratulations upon him goes without saying, but the recipient of them displayed something more than his wonted taciturnity in his acknowledgment of them. Almost more than anything else, he resented the fact that anybody who knew him could suppose him capable of such rank ingratitude as to kill his only friend and benefactor. He tried to explain his brother's life by some theory of criminal insanity, some lack of moral sense, which made him not wholly responsible for all his actions; but for the lack of charity displayed by so many of the average men and women of the world he had nothing but savage detestation.

As soon as practicable after his release he married Gwendolen, and spent the winter and spring with her abroad, only returning when early summer was painting the Manor House garden in its fairest colours of leaf and flower.

Mrs. Austen welcomed them with delight, gladly abdicating her position as regent of the Manor House in favour of its new mistress, and returning with unfeigned relief to the familiar surroundings of her own home at The Grange.

"No, I won't stay to-night," she said, after giving them the sort of welcome one can only get in English homes. "You don't really want me, and I must go and sacrifice to my own household gods. I've deserted them much too long as it is."

So the night of their return they dined alone, and after dinner walked down to the houseboat. It was inevitable that their doing so should recall sharply all the story in which they had played so important a part, and for the first time for months they spoke of it by mutual accord.

"This houseboat will always be associated in my mind with some of the supreme moments in my life," Gwendolen said softly. "It was here that you proposed to me, here that Mr. Anstruther arrested you, and here that we are spending our first evening together at home—all three times when one's heart seems full to bursting."

Ralph looked at her gravely.

"Last time was a bad one, Gwen," he said, in his deep voice. "It was an awful business!"

She stroked his hand, and the hard lines in his face were softened.

"Let it make the present good time seem all the better by contrast," she rejoined. "After all, God's in His heaven, Ralph."

"Yes," he said slowly, "I suppose so; but that wasn't the thought that kept my pluck up during those weeks of suspense."

"What did?" she asked.

"The thought of you," he answered, "and your belief in me. The knowledge that you loved me and had faith in me made me swear to keep the flag flying, don't you know. It wasn't the thought that God was in His heaven and all that. As a matter of fact, all seemed very wrong with the world."

Gwendolen checked him.

"You ought to have remembered that He gave you the love, if it meant so much," she said. "Sometimes I've thought that if Melville had really loved somebody it would have made all the difference and helped to make a good man of him."

"Possibly," Ralph answered. "The only thing Melville ever loved was money—that was at the bottom of it all."

"And so he had nothing to take him away from himself," Gwendolen said. "Even if he hadn't been loved in return, the affection would have made him unselfish, or at any rate less selfish."

She spoke with obvious ignorance of the fact that if there was one individual for whom Melville felt anything like affection it was herself, and Ralph looked at her in some surprise, for on more than one occasion he had been very much aware of it. Melville deserved some credit for not having told the girl of it, for to love and not to be loved in return by Gwendolen was enough to make any man incline to go to the bad, and it looked as if Melville had acted better than usual in refraining from revealing his affection and trying to cut his brother out. But the whole thing was unutterably painful still, and his heart ached when his thoughts turned, as they often did, to his last sight of Melville standing in the witness box, so handsome, so calm and self-possessed, apparently so eager in his desire to help Ralph out of danger, and all the while betraying him with a kiss. His wife heard his sigh and stopped it with a caress, and the touch of her lips brought back happiness. So they remained in silent content, thanking God that the trouble was overpast and that they were together and at home.

The faint notes of distant music were borne to them upon the breeze and died away again, but the sound suggested something else to Gwendolen.

"Ralph, I meant to ask you before. Will you give me Melville's violin?"

"Of course," he answered, "if you want it. But you can't play it, can you?"

"No," she replied. "I shall not even try, but I should like to have it. He was a great musician. I will keep his violin in memory of the one great talent God gave him, of which he never made anything but a perfectly good use."

"You are a good woman, Gwendolen!" Ralph said, with admiration. "It's just like you to have a pretty idea of that kind. It will help me a bit, too," he added reflectively. "I find it none too easy to forget about—all that, and I should like to remember only what was good about him. His music was exquisite."

And so in the old Manor House at Fairbridge the Amati, from whose strings Melville drew harmonies that thrilled the soul of all who heard them, remains as a perpetual reminder of the one thing he did supremely well. The magic spell it wove when it spoke in response to his command was as nothing to the spell it weaves by its silence now, helping them to forget all his sinfulness, and reminding them only of the one great talent God gave him of which he never made aught but a perfectly good use.

WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED, LONDON, NEW YORK, AND MELBOURNE.

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Table of Contents

- PYRAMIDS OF SNOW.

- CHAPTER I. THE VIATICUM.

- CHAPTER II. THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD.

- CHAPTER III. FRAUD.

- CHAPTER IV. MEDIATION.

- CHAPTER V. KINDRED AND AFFINITY.

- CHAPTER VI. BRAVADO.

- CHAPTER VII. MELVILLE LEADS TRUMPS.

- CHAPTER VIII. RIVALS.

- CHAPTER IX. BIGAMY.

- CHAPTER X. LIGHT COME, LIGHT GO.

- CHAPTER XI. MRS. SINCLAIR PAYS A VISIT.

- CHAPTER XII. A PICNIC.

- CHAPTER XIII. MURDER.

- CHAPTER XIV. THE FINDING OF THE BODY.

- CHAPTER XV. FLIGHT.

- CHAPTER XVI. AN UNEXPECTED WILL.

- CHAPTER XVII. AN ARREST.

- CHAPTER XVIII. A FAITHFUL SERVANT.

- CHAPTER XIX. IN THE PARK.

- CHAPTER XX. MONEY MAKES A DIFFERENCE.

- CHAPTER XXI. THE RESULT OF THE TRIAL.

- CHAPTER XXII. MR. TRACY BECOMES ACTIVE.

- CHAPTER XXIII. SIR ROSS IS QUITS.

- CHAPTER XXIV. MRS. SINCLAIR RESOLVES TO GO AWAY.

- CHAPTER XXV. MRS. SINCLAIR GOES AWAY.

- CHAPTER XXVI. FATE TAKES THE ODD TRICK.

- CHAPTER XXVII. THE PLACE OF PEACE.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE