A Son of Ishmael

Rowton left the house, clinking his spurs as he did so; Nancy listened to the sound he made with a beating heart.

“Suppose father hears,” she thought; but then she remembered that the old man was lying in a state of stupor, which, in all probability, would end in death. He could not, therefore, hear. So far she was safe. Why did her father hate her lover? Why had he cursed the man whom she loved? Well, he was dying, and dead men were powerless to interfere with those who lived. Rowton’s strong will would assuredly win the day, and Nancy would be his bride.

“His willing bride,” she murmured, clasping and unclasping her fingers. “It is awful to think of marrying him against father’s wishes, but I know perfectly well that I shall do it. I am incapable of refusing him anything. I love him to desperation, and who can wonder! I love my father, too, but not as I love Adrian.”

“Please go upstairs, Miss Follett?”

Nancy started and her face turned pale.

“Yes, nurse, what is the matter?” she cried.

“Dr. Follett is awake and wishes to speak to you,” said the nurse.

“Awake! then perhaps he is better!” said Nancy.

“No, miss, he will never be that, but he is conscious and he wants you without a moment’s delay. He asked me to leave you with him, so I am going to the kitchen to try and have a bit of supper. He is pretty sure to go off towards morning; there is little chance of this gleam of consciousness lasting long.”

“I will go to him at once,” said Nancy.

She cast one longing glance at the blazing fire, then turning, left the room. She ran up the rambling old stairs; they were faintly lit at intervals by the struggling light of a watery moon. She reached the gallery which ran round the hall, paused before a creaking, badly hung door, and opening it, found herself in a lofty bedroom. The room was almost bare of furniture. A strip of carpet stood by the bedside, another was placed in front of the old fire-grate. With these two exceptions, the floor was bare. A deal table stood in one of the windows, on which a small looking-glass was placed, a chest of drawers of the commonest and coarsest make occupied a position beside one of the walls; there were a couple of chairs, a very old-fashioned washstand, a huge four-post bedstead made of black mahogany and hung with old velvet curtains—that was all.

The dying man lay in the middle of the bed; he was raised by several pillows and was breathing loud and heavily. His eyes, with dark shadows under them, were directed anxiously towards the door through which his young daughter entered.

“Come here, Nancy, be quick,” he said, speaking in an imperative voice and with wonderful strength for a dying man.

She hurried across the room and stood by the bedside, looking down at him.

“The Almighty has been good to me and has given me sufficient strength to say what is necessary,” panted the doctor. “I am dying.”

Nancy opened her lips to speak, but no sound issued from them.

“I am dying,” said Dr. Follett again. “You need not try to contradict me, Nance, I know what you would say. You have been a good girl, and you will, in the ordinary course of nature, miss me for a little; you will also as naturally forget me after a short time. I have been a burden to you and have led you a weary life, but we have no time to go into that now. Death is in a hurry and I must do something before I go to him. I have sent for you to get you to make me a promise.”

Nancy began to tremble. Again she made an effort to speak, but again failed; her hands were tightly locked together and beads of sudden moisture stood on her forehead. Dr. Follett was gazing at her out of two sunken and fierce eyes.

“You know what I allude to,” he said. “I see the knowledge in your face; you know what has animated me and kept me alive during the last six years.”

“Yes, I know,” she replied.

“I die before my work is completed,” he continued, “but I leave it to you.”

“I cannot take up your work, father,” she answered.

“Don’t talk folly, child. You must take it up. You know what the object of my life has been. Your brother was murdered; for six long years I have been searching for the man who took his life—I have been a hunter in pursuit of my prey. There is a man alive on this earth whom I must find, my grip must hold him, my revenge must reach him. I die without scenting my quarry, but you must follow where I leave off. There, my brain is clouded, I cannot think, not definitely, not clearly—a short time ago I had a suspicion. I wish Crossley, the detective, were here, I could tell him. It seemed to me that I had got hold of a clue at last, but it has slipped from my fingers, from my memory; I cannot recall it. I choke—this emotion is too much for me. Give me a dose of that medicine, quick.”

Nancy turned to a table which stood near. She poured something from a bottle into a medicine glass and brought it to her father. She held the glass to his lips; he drained the contents to the dregs.

“That is right,” he panted, “that is good stuff, it warms the heart. I used to give medicine myself like that long ago; there is chloroform in it, it is very comforting. Come to my side, Nancy, let me hold your hand. Remember I am a dying man and the requests of the dying ought to be granted. You are to make me a promise. Your brother, Anthony, was murdered, you are to find the murderer, and to avenge his death; you are to take up my life work, child. If you don’t I shall curse you.”

“Where you failed, how am I to succeed?” she answered. “I won’t make that cruel promise.”

“If you don’t I’ll curse you,” replied the dying man, his glittering eyes looking full into hers. She shuddered and covered her face with her trembling hands.

“I think nothing at all of your squeamish womanly fears,” he said, with an awful sort of sneer. “Sit down by me—I have everything planned out—listen.”

---

As Nancy seated herself on the edge of the bed, her face grew startlingly livid.

“You cannot surely mean what you are saying, father,” she replied.

“I mean,” said Dr. Follett in a steady and strong voice, “exactly what I say. I have failed to avenge your brother’s death; you must finish my work.”

“I am sorry,” said Nancy. “I am sorry at an hour like this to have to refuse you anything, but I cannot do what you ask.”

“I will not die until you promise,” replied the doctor. “For six years I have done all that man could do. I have not left a single stone unturned, I have not neglected the slightest clue, yet I have failed. The man who murdered Anthony has still to be found. If he walks this earth he shall be found. I die, but you must find him.”

“You forget that I am a girl,” said Nancy; “no girl could undertake work of this kind.”

“Pooh! what does sex matter?” replied the doctor. “Does the fact of your being a girl alter love? Did not you love the dead boy? I die. It is the will of the Almighty to take me away before my work is accomplished; but I leave behind me a child, my lineal descendant, the loving playmate of the murdered boy, the girl into whose ears he whispered his young secrets, the girl who kissed his young lips. This girl is no weakling, she can take up my work; she shall. I insist, I command, I will listen to no silly cowardly entreaties. Do you hear me, Nancy? I die before another sun rises, but my unfinished work drops on to your shoulders; you dare not refuse me—do you hear what I am saying? You dare not.”

“The task you set me will kill me, father. I am dreadfully tired already. I am utterly weary of the misery of my life.”

“Kneel down, child,” said the doctor. His voice changed from its hard and ringing note; it grew all of a sudden soft, beseeching, tender.

“You have a woman’s heart and a woman’s spirit,” he said, touching one of the slim young hands and stroking it as he spoke; “but you have more than that, you have a man’s courage. I have seen that courage shine in your eyes in more than one sudden emergency; the day the blow fell I saw it. I have seen it since, when you have denied yourself and turned your back on the good things of youth, and followed me, step by step, uncomplainingly, up the narrow path of self-sacrifice and self-denial. You can do it—you shall. Think of Anthony, think for a moment of the old times.”

“Yes, I remember the old times,” replied Nancy. She began to sob as she spoke.

“That is right, child, cry away. I have touched your heart. When I touch a heart like yours courage soon re-animates it; you will not be a coward, you will not allow your brother’s blood to cry from the ground for vengeance; think of the old times, think of your mother, think of the old, gay, happy life.”

“Yes, yes, I remember it,” said the girl; “but it is all past and over.” She wept silently, bowing her head until it almost touched the bedclothes.

“I see the old times as I lie here,” said Dr. Follett. A meditative, gentle look stole the anxiety and some of the age out of his face. “Yes,” he continued, speaking in a dreamy tone, “the past rises before me. I see a picture. There are three people in the picture, Anthony, your mother, you. Our house is full of sunshine. Your mother is proud of her children, and I am proud of your mother and of the children. The picture is very vivid, it is almost like a vision, it fills the whole of my gaze. I see the room where we sit in the evening. I see people flitting about. I see our morning-room with the sunshine on it; there is your mother’s gentle face, there is Anthony like a young eagle, all romance, chivalry—a daring boy, a splendid lad. I see you full of courage, but pretty, soft, with hair like the sun. Yes, it is a lovely picture; it rests me, it supports me. Ah, but it is changing—your mother’s place is empty, she no longer sits by the fire, or takes the head of the table. She has gone. I am in one sense alone, but still I live, for Anthony lives, and you live, and I work for you, and my profession abounds with interest and it absorbs me. Here is another picture coming on fast. I see my consulting-room; here come the patients; I give them five minutes each, and I drop the golden sovereigns into my drawer, fast, faster and faster. I am a very successful doctor. You remember all about my success, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes, you were grand, magnificent in those days,” said Nancy. She had raised her head now; her tears had dried on her cheeks.

“Yes, as you say, I was magnificent,” repeated the old man, “but don’t interrupt me; I still see the picture. Patients think a lot of me—I am spoken well of by my colleagues, I am consulted by local practitioners. People come from distant lands to see me and to get my opinion. My opinion is golden. I feel myself something like a god; I can dispense life, I can issue the dread fiat of death. Here is a patient who comes from China. All the long way from the flowery land the wretched man has come to consult me. I seem to see the long voyage and the despair at the man’s heart, and now I behold the hope which animates him. He has a tumour, horrible, unsightly, a ghastly thing, a protuberance from the very home of Satan himself, but I remove it by my knife and by my skill, and the man recovers. Look at him! He is blessing me, and he is offering me the half of all his worldly possessions. Oh! how he has suffered, but I have relieved him. I have lifted him from hell to paradise. Yes, I am a great doctor. How beautiful, how absorbingly interesting is this picture of the golden past!”

Dr. Follett’s voice dropped—the animation went out of it.

“There, child, all the pictures have faded,” he said. “The curtain has dropped—the old life is shut away by a door which can never be opened, for Anthony is dead. Let me weep for him, Nancy—I will; I must. Tears come slowly to the dying, but they rise in my eyes now when I remember Anthony. He is dead—he was murdered—he lies in his grave, but his murderer still sees the sunshine and feels the sweet breath of life—his murderer lives.”

“But you are not to blame for that,” said Nancy; “no man could do more than you have done. When you see Anthony again in the strange world to which you are hurrying you will tell him all, and——”

“I shall see him again,” said Dr. Follett, “and when I see him I will tell him that I have dropped my mantle on to you; you are to continue my work.”

Nancy’s face grew so white that it looked almost like the face of one who had died; her lips slightly parted, her eyes, terror growing in them, became fixed on her father’s face.

“I see another picture,” he said again suddenly. “I see the morning when Anthony went to Paris—to gay Paris, where he lost his life. He enters the room. How light is his laugh and how his eyes sparkle! He has said ‘farewell,’ he has gone. Wait a while—another picture is rising in that dark part of the room. Hold me, Nancy, my child, or I shall fall. I must look at it, but it horrifies me, it chills my blood. Do you see the man who has come into the room? His name is Eustace Moore.”

“Oh! don’t let us recall that dreadful scene, father,” interrupted Nancy.

“I must, child. Don’t interrupt me, let me go on describing the picture. Eustace Moore has come into the room. He is Anthony’s friend. He tells his awful tale. Cannot you hear what he says?”

“No, dear father, I hear nothing. You are torturing yourself with all these dreadful memories; they are exciting you too much; it is dreadfully bad for you to talk as you do.”

“Nothing is bad for me now. I am past the good or the bad of life. I stand on its threshold. Let me describe the picture. I hear Eustace Moore speaking. These are his words:

“‘I have brought you terrible news, doctor. I cannot mince matters, nor break the blow in any way. Your son is dead!’

“‘Go on,’ I answer. I stagger, but I don’t fall; ‘go on, hurry, tell me everything.’

“‘Your son was murdered at a café in Paris,’ continues Moore. ‘The cause of the murder is an absolute mystery. A stranger had a quarrel with him; there were hurried words, followed by blows and pistol shots—the boy was shot clean through the heart. My address was found in his pocket; someone rushed to my flat, not far away, and I was on the scene in less than half an hour. Anthony was lying dead on a table in an inner room of the café. The man who had quarrelled with him and who had murdered him was known by the name of Hubert Lefroy. As I was entering the café, I saw a tall man rushing by in considerable agitation; he wore no hat, and he flew quickly past me. I observed his strange face, and a mark—the mark of a death’s head and cross-bones tattooed on the upper lip. Knowing nothing definitely at the moment, I did not stop to arrest his flight. My firm belief is that he is the murderer. Every possible search has been made since, but not a trace of him has been heard of. The man was tall, dark and strong. By the mark on his lip we ought to know him again—I should recognise his face were I to see him.’

“Those were the exact words spoken by Eustace Moore, Nancy. I know them, as you perceive, by heart—they are, indeed, graven on my heart. The picture fades. Moore’s voice is silent. He has died since then. We do not know a single living person who has seen that assassin, who sent my only son to an early grave. For six long years we have searched for him—you, my child, know how well.”

“Yes, father,” answered Nancy, “I do know.”

“We have spent all our money,” continued the doctor, “we have employed the very best detectives—we have done all that human beings could do. I have lived on the hope that the day would come when I should see that wretch arrested, tried, hanged by the neck until he died. My hope is fading into the night. I have not found the murderer. You will find him, Nancy—you will carry on my work.”

“I hate the man,” said Nancy slowly and speaking with intense fervour. “When you recall that dreadful picture, I hate the man who murdered my brother as much as you do. I dream of him also night after night, and my hate is so deep that nothing in all the world can extinguish it; but how am I to carry on this awful search? Where you failed, how am I to succeed?”

“You must go on employing Crossley, the detective; you must use your woman’s wit—you must never slacken your zeal.”

“Oh! father, the thought is too horrible; let me drop it.”

“Never, child; I feel that I could haunt you if you did not do it. Find the man who killed Anthony; promise to carry on my work, or I curse you before I die. It will be an awful thing for you to live under your dying father’s curse.”

“I am superstitious—you have made me superstitious,” answered Nancy; “my nerves are not as strong as the nerves of girls who have lived happier lives; I do not believe I could live under your curse.”

“You could not, it would wither you up, so awful would be its quality; you would die or go mad.”

“I could not bear it,” said Nancy, again shuddering as she spoke.

“Then take my blessing instead, do my work, take up the burden bravely.”

“But is there any chance of my succeeding?” she answered, a note of wavering coming into her voice. “If you have failed to find Anthony’s murderer, how is it possible for me to succeed? All your savings have gone to detectives. All the money you earned when you were rich and famous has vanished. We have stinted ourselves and starved ourselves, and brooded over this awful thing until we have scarcely been like human beings. Can you not leave revenge to Heaven? Why should you ruin my young life?”

“Because I will have revenge,” said the dying man, “because I lived for it and will die for it. Swear, child—your idle words are only like pin pricks to me. Swear to carry on my life’s purpose or I curse you.”

Nancy groaned and covered her white face.

“I won’t be denied,” said Dr. Follett, catching hold of her arm and trying to pull one of her hands away.

“What have I done to be punished in this awful way?” said the girl.

“Swear,” repeated the doctor.

“I won’t swear,” she said suddenly. She flung down her hands; her face looked calm and resolved. “There, have your way,” she said; “I yield, I submit. I will do what you wish.”

“Swear it, swear by the heaven above and the hell beneath.”

“I won’t do that, father. I give you my word. I can do no more. I will devote my life to this accursed search. I have never broken my word. Are you satisfied?”

“Yes, I am satisfied; you never told me a lie yet.”

He lay back panting against his pillows. He spoke huskily and weakly now that he had won his point.

“I am quite satisfied,” he said again. “You are young and you will have time to do the work. Remember that Detective Crossley has got what few clues we were able to collect. It will be necessary for you to go on employing him. There is still a thousand pounds to my credit in the London City Bank. A thousand pounds will go a long way, and you must give Crossley what money he requires. As to your own expenses, you will of course leave the Grange, but you can live very cheaply in some inexpensive country place. I have trained you to want scarcely anything. You must keep Crossley up to the mark. Crossley must search and keep on searching; he must follow up the faintest clue; the money is there, and a thousand pounds with your aid ought to do the work. Don’t forget that the man is an Englishman and that there is an ugly scar on his lip. I feel convinced that you will carry my work to a successful issue, and that your brother’s blood will be avenged. Don’t turn your young attention to the lighter things of existence; don’t marry until you have fulfilled your sacred mission.”

“But if I find the murderer, father,” interrupted Nancy, “if I am successful, what am I to do?”

The old doctor gave a grim smile.

“There is the justice of the law,” he answered; “the man would be tried and hanged; I have thought of all that. I have pictured the dying scene, and had I lived such pleasure would that trial have given me, such exquisite bliss would I have felt in the moment that the murderer was breathing out his dying breath, that I could have wished for no greater gratification on earth; but you, child, are made of different metal, and I have thought of a way by which revenge will come, swift, sure, and terrible. None know better than I that a woman’s strength has its limits. I myself will direct the bolt which severs that wretch’s life from this fair earth. Now take my keys, go to the cupboard in the wall and open it.”

Nancy walked across the room, fitted a key into the cupboard and turned the lock.

“There is a packet on the upper shelf—bring it to me,” called the doctor to her.

She raised her arms and lifted down a square box. It was neatly folded in brown paper, corded with strong cords and firmly sealed.

“Bring it here,” said her father.

She did so.

“Lay it on the bed.”

“Yes, father,” she replied; “what does it contain?”

“Nancy, you are never to open the box.”

“What am I to do with it?”

“When you find the man who killed your brother, you are to give this unopened box to him. Give it to him, and when you do so, say, ‘Dr. Follett, the father of Anthony Follett, asked me to give you this.’ You need not add a word more. Keep the box until that supreme moment comes. Whatever else you part from, never let this box out of your keeping. Where you go take it, for any day or any night the need for it may arise. When you give it to the murderer and when he opens it, your brother’s blood will be avenged.”

---

Meanwhile Adrian Rowton had gone quickly back to the Bungalow. It was a truly bare and comfortless place. He kept only one servant, the rough-looking man who has been already described. Hearing his horse’s steps on the path outside, the man, Samson by name, came out to meet his master. He was a middle aged, strongly-built, square individual; his hair, which had once been red, was now turning to a grizzly grey; it grew thick on his low forehead and was cut very short, so short that it stood up like a thick brush all over his head. He had a bulldog sort of face, with a massive chin, deeply cleft in the middle; one eye was also decidedly smaller than the other. His name suited the man’s broad figure and muscular arms to perfection.

“You are late to-night,” he said, addressing Adrian with a sort of growl. “I lay down by the horses and went to sleep; I thought when I heard the clock strike one that you were not coming.”

“I was delayed on my way home from the station,” said Rowton briefly; “here, take Satyr, rub him down well and attend to him before you go to bed.”

“Yes, sir. Do you want any supper?”

“None that I can’t get for myself. Good-night, Samson; I shall not need your services before the morning.”

Rowton turned to his left as he spoke; Samson led the horse away to the stables which stood to the right of the Bungalow. Rowton entered the lowly built house under a heavy porch. A paraffin lamp was burning in the hall; he took it up and entered a sort of general sitting-room. It was long and low; there were three windows occupying the greater part of one of the walls; the room was furnished in nondescript style, partly as dining-room and partly as study; a square of carpet placed in front of the fire gave a certain degree of comfort to the upper portion of the apartment; the lower part near the entrance door was bare of carpet and also of furniture. A high desk occupied the whole of one window. Rowton placed the paraffin lamp now on this desk; he turned it up high and the light illuminated the entire room.

“Bad enough hole for a man to live in, but the lap of luxury compared to Nancy’s sitting-room,” he muttered. A red gleam sparkled angrily in his eye as he spoke; he sat down where the firelight fell all over him, tossed off his heavy boots, and gazed gloomily into the heart of a large and glowing fire. He was a huge man, built on a massive scale. He tossed his hair impatiently from a broad and splendidly developed brow. At this moment his eyes were full of dreadful and fierce reflection, and he pulled at his long moustache with an almost savage gesture.

“Without food, without fire, without the decencies of life—that old fool is a madman,” he muttered again, “but I’ll soon change matters. I take her with leave, if I can, but I take her without leave if any difficulties are put in my way, and sooner without leave than with. After all, to carry her off by force would suit my purpose better. The wild bird shall sing to me and make me gentle; I cannot live without her. Hullo! what’s up now, Samson? Why don’t you go to bed?”

“I forgot to tell you, sir, that the boxes will be here to-morrow night.”

“Who told you that?”

“Scrivener; I had a cipher from him by the last post.”

“All right,” said Rowton, “take them in when they come.”

“Between one and two to-morrow night,” repeated Samson; “there is no moon and we can easily get them carted off from the station without anyone noticing. Scrivener will come with them.”

“All right,” said Rowton again. “What are you waiting for? To-morrow night is not to-night, and I am dog-tired and want to get to bed.”

“There is no room in the cellar unless we move the boxes which are there already,” continued Samson. “We cannot go down there with lights in the daytime, and I can’t do the job by myself.”

“You dog! I shan’t help you to move a box to-night; get off to bed and leave me alone.”

Samson withdrew, muttering angrily as he did so.

When he left the room, Rowton rose from his chair by the fire, walked across the apartment and locked the door. Then stepping up to the uncarpeted portion of the room, he touched a secret spring, which immediately revealed a trap-door. There was a ladder beneath the door which led down into a cellar. Rowton gazed gloomily down for a moment.

He then let the trap door fall into its place, and a moment or two later put out the lamp, lit a candle and went upstairs to his bedroom.

He slept until late the following morning, and when he went downstairs between nine and ten, Samson was bringing his breakfast into the room.

“That’s right,” said Rowton, “I am as hungry as a ferret. You can put it down; I shall wait on myself.”

“You won’t forget that Scrivener is coming to-night?”

“Am I likely to, when you remind me of the fact whenever you see me? You want me to help with the boxes; I’ll go down to the cellar with you after breakfast.”

“As you please, sir, but if I were you I would not draw attention by taking a light there in the daytime.”

“We need not have a light; we can move the boxes in the dark. Be sure, by the way, that you have the cart in good time at Mervyn station to-night.”

“I forgot to say that Nelly has gone lame,” said Samson; “she hurt her hoof yesterday and won’t be good for anything for a few days.”

“You must take Satyr, then.”

“Satyr,” said the man, scratching his head in some perplexity; “he ain’t used to harness; he’ll fidget a good bit.”

“Folly! don’t make obstacles; he’ll do very well. If anyone asks you about the boxes, say that I am getting some wine; the goods will come in wine cases, so your story will sound all right. By the way, Samson, I shall leave here by the two o’clock train. I am supposed to be on my way to Liverpool if anyone asks, but——” here Rowton’s voice dropped to a low whisper. Samson came close, bent his head slightly forward, listened with all his ears, and nodded once or twice emphatically. He was about to leave the room when he suddenly came back.

“I forgot to tell you, sir, that old Dr. Follett is dead.”

“Ah! how did you hear that?” asked Rowton, who was in the act of pouring out a cup of coffee.

“The milkman brought me the news. He died between three and four this morning. The wench will be in a fine taking—she was bound up, they say, in that queer old character.”

“That is enough, Samson; I prefer not to discuss Miss Follett. Thanks, you can leave me alone now.”

When Samson withdrew, Rowton went calmly on with his breakfast. He then returned to his bedroom and completely altered his dress. His rough Norfolk suit was exchanged for that which a gentleman might wear in town. Five minutes later he issued from the Bungalow, looking like a very handsome, well set-up young man. Samson, who was grooming one of the horses, raised his head to watch him from behind the hedge. When he saw his master’s get-up, he grinned from ear to ear.

“Now what’s in the wind?” he said, under his breath; aloud he called out:

“Do you want the horse?”

“Not this morning.”

“You ain’t helped me with the boxes.”

“True, I had forgotten; I will help you when I come back. I am going to see Miss Follett.”

Samson grinned again, but he took care now to withdraw his head from any chance of Rowton’s observation.

The morning was clear and frosty; the storm of the night before had completely spent itself; the sky overhead was a watery blue, and the ground beneath felt crisp under Rowton’s feet as he walked. He quickly reached the Grange, and taking a short cut to the house, soon found himself on the lawn, where he had tied Satyr the night before. The door of the old Grange was wide open and Nancy stood on the steps. She heard her lover’s footsteps and greeted him with a very faint smile, which quickly vanished. Her face was ghastly white and red rims disfigured her beautiful grey eyes.

“Here I am,” said Rowton. “Good morning, sweetheart; give me a kiss, won’t you?”

Nancy raised her trembling lips, then all of a sudden her calm gave way, she flung her arms passionately round Rowton’s neck and burst into convulsive sobs.

“There, darling, there,” he said. He patted her on the cheek, kissed her many times and tried to comfort her, showering loving words upon her, and then kissing her more and more passionately.

“You know,” she said at last in an almost inaudible whisper.

“Of course I know,” said Adrian. “What you feared last night has come to pass—your father’s sufferings are over, he is dead. Peace to his soul, say I. Now it is your duty, Nancy, to take care of yourself and not to fret yourself into an illness. Remember I am here, and it is my privilege and blessing to feel that I have a right to comfort you.”

Nancy with some difficulty disengaged herself from her lover’s arms.

“I have something to tell you,” she said—her face was like a sheet. “Something happened last night after you left, and—Adrian—I am not free to marry you—I am not free to marry anyone! I am a doomed woman; a doom is on me and I cannot be your wife!”

She covered her face with her trembling hands; tears rained down her cheeks.

“I swear,” said Rowton, “that there is not a doom on this wide earth which shall part us. What is the matter, child? Tell me.”

“I cannot; it is a secret.”

“I swear that you shall, and now.” He tried to clasp her again in his arms, but she slipped from him.

“I can never tell you,” she said; “and while I hold this secret I must not be your wife!”

---

When an hour later Rowton returned to the Bungalow, Samson met him in the porch.

“Scrivener has come,” he said.

“Scrivener! I did not expect him to-day,” said Rowton, a frown gathering between his thick brows.

“He has come, sir, and he wants to see you; he is waiting in the dining-room. There is a good bit of excitement about him—I cannot tell what the news can be.”

“Well, I’ll go to him,” said Rowton; “don’t keep me, Samson.”

“When will you want the horse saddled, sir? You are going to catch the two o’clock train, are you not?”

“No, I have changed my mind. I shall not leave here before night or early to-morrow morning; get back to your work now, don’t keep me.”

The man favoured Rowton with a keen glance; he then turned softly on his heel, whistling as he did so.

“Gone out in his best clothes,” he remarked to himself; “come back again with the airs of a lord; changes his plans when there is danger in the wind. Now, what does this mean? Seems to me it ain’t far to guess—sweethearting, and marrying, and giving in marriage. Good Heaven! if this sort of thing goes on we are all lost.”

Samson returned to some mysterious carpentering that was engaging his attention in the stable, and Rowton went into the dining-room.

A little man, with sandy hair and a thin face, was standing by one of the windows. He was vulgarly dressed and had somewhat the appearance of a fifth-rate commercial traveller. He had large bushy whiskers, a shade redder than his hair, but his small eyes were light and set far back in his head. With the exception of his whiskers the little man had a clean-shaven face, which revealed the lines of remarkably thin and somewhat crooked lips. The lips alone marked the face with the stamp of originality—they were cruel and repulsive in their expression.

When he saw Rowton enter he turned and came up to him with a quick, alert tread.

“You have kept me waiting for over an hour,” he said.

“Well, I am sorry, Scrivener. You see I did not expect you,” said Rowton. He flung himself into a chair as he spoke, and favoured his unprepossessing visitor with a quizzical glance.

“Come, no nonsense of that sort,” said Scrivener. “You were bound to be here. I thought the boxes would be packed and ready to be sent off; Samson tells me there is nothing done.”

“Everything that is necessary is done,” said Rowton. “I don’t choose to be called over the coals by Samson.”

“Come, come, Rowton,” said Scrivener, giving his tall host another lightning glance, “there is no good in your getting into a temper. You are all very well, and of course a great help to us, and your manners and your ways are no end of a blind, and we are awfully obliged to you, but all the same, business is business, and you have no call to neglect any of our interests.”

“I do not do so,” said Rowton. He stood up as he spoke. “By Heaven!” he exclaimed, “I give up my life to your cursed interests. I have wrecked my soul for them. You have no right to twit me with want of zeal. Where would any of you be without me?”

“I know that, Silver, I know it,” said the man in a servile tone. He walked again to the window and looked out. “All the same,” he added after a pause, “the boxes are not ready and they must be moved to-night.”

“You have the afternoon to get them ready in,” said Rowton.

“Well, let us have something to eat and set to work,” answered Scrivener.

Rowton crossed the room and rang the bell. Samson appeared after a moment.

“Get something to eat for yourself and this man in the kitchen,” he said.

“In the kitchen!” said Scrivener; “do you think I will eat in the kitchen with your serving man!”

“You won’t eat with me,” replied Rowton. “I am sick of the whole concern and have a good mind to cut it.”

“Ah! you dare not do that,” said Scrivener; “you are too deep in by now. What about the Kimberley diamonds and the silver ingots, and the——?”

Rowton’s tone changed. He stood up, and a look of perplexity flitted across his handsome face.

“It is true, Scrivener,” he said, “it is too late to withdraw now, and I did wrong to lose my temper over one like you.”

There was an indescribable scorn in his words.

“Yes,” he continued, “I am in too deep; there is nothing for it but to stay in.”

“And the life is a jolly one, my fighting cock,” said Scrivener.

“Yes, jolly enough.” Rowton began to hum the first bar of the well-known song, “Begone, dull care;” and his rich baritone filled the room.

“Yes! faith,” he continued, “the life suits me well enough; I am a jolly rover, and I like excitement and dare-devil escapes, and all the rest of the thing. I am sorry I showed temper to you, Scrivener, but the fact is, I did not want you just now on the scene. I am particularly busy at the present moment on my own account.”

“But your time is ours,” said Scrivener. “What would Long John say, or Spider, if I told them you were giving your most precious moments to private concerns?”

“Now, listen to me, Scrivener,” said the other man; “your pals may say exactly what they please of me. I have agreed to take the lead of you all, and I do not complain of the life; it has plenty of excitement and there are heaps of plums. I do not attempt also to deny that the richest plums have fallen into my mouth, but clearly understand once for all, that I know my own value. I know that I have a head on my shoulders; I know that I have a keen eye for business; I know that I am a desperate man whose courage has never yet failed him. No one knows better than I the game I am playing, and no one more clearly realises what my lot must be in the long run. ‘A short life and a merry one’ is my motto, and before Heaven! I’ll have it; but if you think, even for a moment, that you are going, any of you, to bully me or even pretend to lead me, I’ll cut off to Australia by the very next steamer that sails.”

“Yes, and if you do,” said Scrivener, “you’ll be met on board and brought back; you know where. I do not think,” he continued, “that I need add any more.”

“I don’t think you need; we both understand the position,” said Rowton.

He sat down again and remained perfectly still, with his hands hanging between his great legs, his head slightly bent forward. There were lines of perplexity wrinkling his brow; but presently he looked up with a laugh, which showed the gleam of strong white teeth.

“You would suppress me if you could,” he said; “but it would take a stronger than you to do that. My day is only at noon; I wait for the black dog of care, I wait for the demon of misery until the night time. Now then, tell me, Scrivener, why it is you have altered your plans and come here at this hour; Samson and I did not expect you until nightfall.”

“I came to tell you,” said Scrivener, “that the goods which you expect will not arrive until to-morrow. We have had word at our head office that it is safer to keep them where they are for another twenty-four hours. I thought it best to call on purpose.”

“Did any one see you coming?”

“Did any one see me?” said the man, laughing. “Of course—plenty; why, I had a pipe and a glass of spirits at the sign of the ‘Jolly Dogs,’ on my way through the village. I am a commercial traveller this time. How do you like the get-up?”

“Admirable, most admirable; I did not know you at first. I really thought you were the character.”

“Yes, I was sure these checks would do it,” said Scrivener, looking down with affection at the hideous pattern of his trousers. “I had a good time at the ‘Jolly Dogs,’ and have ordered dinner there on my return. Oh! I’m all right, but I have only told you one half of what brought me here. We have an important commission for you, Silver, and you are to go up to town to see Long John to-night.”

“What does he want me for?” asked Rowton.

“He wants you to go to Spain with——”

The man bent forward and began to whisper.

Rowton’s brow grew black.

“When does he want me to go?” he asked.

“To-morrow.”

“How long will the business take?”

“That depends on yourself; it ought to be done within a fortnight.”

“Then tell Long John from me that he must get some other man to do the job; I am already engaged and cannot go.”

“This is madness,” said Scrivener; “you are the only man among us who can go. How can you pretend to be one of us and yet shirk duty in this way?”

“You must get someone else,” repeated Rowton. “Ah! here comes lunch; you can lunch with me, after all, if you please, Scrivener; I can recommend this round of beef. Samson, bring in some ale.”

The man withdrew.

“You’ll have to go,” pursued Scrivener, as he followed his host to the table.

“I do not intend to; I have another engagement.”

“But no one else speaks Spanish; you are the only one among us who has the slightest smattering of the tongue. You alone can do the work.”

Adrian drew the great joint of beef towards him.

“I am sorry to disoblige,” he said, as he cut huge slices from the joint and piled them on his guest’s plate, “but the fact is, I am going to be married next week.”

“Great Heaven!” cried Scrivener. “Is this the time for marrying? What do we want with a woman in the business?”

Rowton’s black eyes flashed.

“Do you think I would bring her into your accursed business?” he said. “Not I; but now listen once for all, Scrivener. I marry the girl I love next week, and I go away with her on a holiday and don’t return to business for a month. For five weeks from now I take complete holiday. You can tell Long John so from me. At the end of that time I am once more at his service. Now he can take me or leave me. I am quite willing to cut the concern, notwithstanding your threats. I can get off to Australia as knowingly as anybody else.”

“No, you can’t, Rowton; your personality is too marked. Cut four inches off your height, and take a trifle from your breadth, and give you less strongly marked features, and you might manage the thing; but what disguise could you put on that we should not see Adrian Rowton peeping through? You have no help for yourself; you are in the toils and you must stay with us to the bitter end.”

“I am always forgetting,” said Rowton. “Were it not for—” he stretched out his huge arms as he spoke and indulged in a mighty yawn—“were it not for the angel who will soon walk by my side, I would cut the knot in another way. As it is, you do well to remind me of my cage, Scrivener; I am in it, but even a captive lion has the liberty of the length of his chain; and I shall take mine to the full length of my tether. Five weeks I take; a week to get ready for my wedding bells and four weeks of bliss with the angel of my life. After that you and the devil can have your way. Now I have spoken, and you can take my message to Long John.”

“You have spoken truly,” said Scrivener. “I’ll take your message; I do not promise what the upshot will be.”

“It may be anything you please as far as I care,” said Rowton. “I’ll change my mind for no man; now, help yourself to some beer.”

Scrivener took a long draught, and Rowton ate in silence; his thoughts were far away, and his heart, for all his brave words, felt like lead in his breast.

While he ate and frowned and thought, Scrivener regarded him furtively.

“Where are you going to live when you marry?” he asked abruptly.

Rowton brought his thoughts back to present things with an effort.

“Did you speak?” he asked.

“I only want to know, Silver, if your bride is to come to this house?”

“She is not.”

“Where then?”

“She will come with me to Rowton Heights.”

“What!” exclaimed Scrivener; “you don’t mean to say——”

Rowton nodded.

“Yes,” he said, “I do; the king will come into his own; I shall lord it at Rowton Heights, and mark my words, will be the great man of the place before I am six weeks in possession. I am marrying a lady, and she will help me to entertain the county folk.”

Scrivener’s small eyes began to glitter.

“It is like you, Rowton,” he said after a pause; “you always were magnificent in your ideas; but Rowton Heights! I did not think you would dare.”

“There is nothing under Heaven that I would not dare,” said Rowton. “And now, with your permission, if you have lunched, I have got heaps to attend to. Take my message to Long John; tell him that I wed next week, that I take my full honeymoon with its four quarters; and that at the end of that time he will hear from me from Rowton Heights.”

---

Adrian Rowton kept his word to the letter. His iron will seemed to bend all things to his wishes. Nancy Follett forgot her father’s dying injunctions. Long John in his lair in London remained passive. Samson did not dare to utter a word. Rowton went backwards and forwards day by day from London to Andover. The special licence was procured—the rector was asked to come to church to perform his duty; and on a certain dull morning early in December, when the snow lay on the ground and the world was steeped in a winter’s fog, Nancy Follett stood by Adrian Rowton’s side and was made, with the full blessing of the Church, his lawful wedded wife.

The marriage was so unusual, so sudden and unexpected, that early as the hour was, the little church was filled. The men and women of the neighbourhood, who had noticed the girl in church with the interest people will always give to a mysterious, little known person, came to see her wedded. She made a very beautiful bride. Her white dress, perfectly simple and unbridal in its material, but enhanced the extreme fairness of her face; excitement had lent colour to her cheeks and made her dark grey eyes look almost black. Adrian Rowton’s height and magnificent physique were commented on by everyone. As he walked down the church with Nancy’s hand resting on his arm, he nodded to his friends, but Nancy kept her eyes lowered; she did not know anyone, and did not care to receive the smiles of strangers. The bridal pair went back to the Grange, where Nancy hastily changed her white dress for a somewhat shabby-looking travelling costume—it was the best she could make up at short notice—and in a carriage and pair the couple started for the railway station en route for Paris.

They arrived at their destination late that night and went straight to the Grand Hotel, where Rowton had telegraphed for rooms. They found a bedroom, dressing-room and a large salon at their service. Nancy felt intensely happy, but also queerly restless and excited. She walked about her salon and looked out of the window into the courtyard below. Large parties of smartly-dressed people were sitting there, a fountain playing in the middle; the place looked gay, very gay, and a splendid string band was playing martial music. Winter as it was, the night was clear and full of stars, the atmosphere was destitute of the faint suspicion of fog which almost always hangs over England in winter. Nancy opened the window and looked out; Rowton went and stood by her side.

“What do you think of Paris the gay?” he said.

Something in his tone made her start. She drew in her head, turned round and faced him.

“Why did you bring me to Paris for my honeymoon?” she asked suddenly.

“What do you mean, Nance?” he answered.

“What I say,” she replied. “Why did you bring me here? I had forgotten.”

She covered her face with her trembling hands; she shook from head to foot.

“My darling, what in the world is the matter?” asked Rowton in astonishment.

“I am oppressed by the strangest sensation,” replied the bride. “It will pass. Oh, yes, it will pass. Don’t speak to me for a minute.”

She left her bridegroom’s side and went over to the far end of the room. Sitting almost with her back to him, she gazed gloomily at the glowing hearth, where a pile of logs burned with cheerful blaze.

Rowton watched her with knitted brow and in some perplexity.

She felt that he was watching her. Suddenly she sprang to her feet and faced him.

“You wonder at me?” she said.

“I do,” he answered.

“The thing is past,” she said with a smile. “But I must tell you; I cannot keep a secret from you on our wedding night. For a moment, Adrian, I—I who love you with passion, with devotion, with a love which seems to me to pass the love of any ordinary woman, I felt that I hated you—for a moment you became intolerable to me; I shrank from your face—you reminded me in some incomprehensible way of Anthony.”

“Of Anthony!” exclaimed Rowton. “Who is Anthony?”

“My brother Anthony. Oh! we must not speak of him.”

“Had you a brother named Anthony?” asked Rowton.

“I had. He is dead. I never care to talk of him. You look queer, Adrian; did you ever know anyone of that name?”

“Yes, I once met a man of the name. He passed into my life and passed out of it; I have a somewhat disagreeable reminiscence of him. Let us go downstairs, Nance; why should we stay here alone?”

“But it is our wedding night,” she answered. She went to his side, put her arms round his neck and laid her fair soft head on his breast.

“Look me in the face, little girl,” said her husband. He placed his hand under her chin and raised her charming face, gazing full into the lovely eyes which she raised to his. “You don’t hate your husband now, do you?”

“No, no, no!” she reiterated. “It was a passing sensation, just a momentary queer stirring in my heart; it came when I suddenly remembered that we were in Paris for our honeymoon. The fact is this, Adrian. Since father’s death I have been in a whirl, and it was only a few minutes ago that I suddenly remembered Paris in connection with⸺ Oh! there is something I must never say to you—the thought rather overpowered me for a moment, and I remembered poor dead Anthony. I won’t speak of him again. Yes, I love you, my darling, my best, my noblest. Adrian, I mean to be a good wife to you.”

“Just go on loving me, Nance, and I shall want nothing further,” he replied. “No one else loves me, and although I am a hard, dare-devil sort of chap, I hunger for love—the soft beautiful love of a good woman. You are a good woman, my angel, and you are mine; you love me and I love you; just bathe me in your love, sweetheart, and I ask for nothing further. A perfect wife I do not want—I do not look for a perfect wife, but I do want a wife whose whole heart is mine, who is mine absolutely.”

“And I am yours, absolutely,” she answered.

“I can be fiercely jealous,” he continued. “If I thought you gave any part of yourself to anybody or anything but me, I don’t know what I wouldn’t do. Even if you gave your love to a dead man, Nance, I should be jealous—and jealousy with me would be fierce—I am all fierce passion. The side I turn to you, my darling, is almost angel, for you make it so, but all the rest of me is demon; you must keep that little angel bit of me alive, and you will, if you love me with your whole complete entire heart.”

“I do, I do,” she replied. “You are all in all to me. Would I have disobeyed my father’s dying wish if I had not loved you best of all? I love no one else, Adrian.”

“And I love no one else,” he answered with a laugh. “Come, Nancy, we have a whole month to make merry in. We will make merry—we’ll have a royal good time. Do you hear that music in the courtyard? Does it not seem to draw you?”

“It does,” she replied, “it is wonderful.”

“We’ll go and sit there, and listen to it.”

“But there are strangers there, and I am shy.”

“You shan’t be shy long, my beauty—you shall meet fresh faces daily, and fresh lives will touch your life, and your time will be gay, very gay. We will go out shopping to-morrow and you shall buy lovely things—wonderful raiment of all sorts to make a fit setting for that grave, soft, magical loveliness of yours. I shall take delight in choosing things for you. You don’t know yourself yet, Nance; you don’t know what a great gift is yours, what a power you have in your face; but your beauty will be acknowledged by all when you wear the things which I shall buy for you. Yes, we will have a fine time to-morrow, just the time which they say a woman loves. But now, come downstairs with me and sit in the court.”

“They are all wearing wraps of some sort, and I have nothing pretty,” said Nancy. “You know that I came to you without a trousseau, Adrian.”

“What is a trousseau?” asked Rowton.

“Oh! all the pretty things that brides bring to the men they love—they are called by the collective name ‘trousseau.’”

“Then this right loyal lover will give his bride the pretty things himself, and—stay a moment, a recollection comes to me. I believe I stuffed something into my portmanteau, something which I thought would suit you. Wait a moment.”

Rowton went into the adjoining bedroom. He returned in a few moments with a thin parcel wrapped in tissue paper.

“There,” he said, “you can wrap that round you. I don’t believe a lady down there will have anything more radiant to sun herself in.”

Nancy took the pins out of the paper and the next moment a gossamer shawl woven with what appeared like every thread of the rainbow—as light as a feather, as fine as a cobweb—was extended on her arm.

“This is wonderful!” she exclaimed. “I never saw anything so like a bit of the sun itself.”

“It came from Persia, it is only a trifle,” said Rowton. “I thought of you when I put it away; let me wrap it round you; now come down stairs.”

---

The next day, true to his word, Rowton took Nancy to the shops. They went to the Bon Marché, and to many other places where finery the most fascinating, dresses the most bizarre, articles of toilet the most chic in the world, were to be found. Rowton consulted one of the shopwomen whose taste was supposed to be absolute: she brought out one costume after another and fitted them on Nancy, while her husband looked on and criticised and admired. Morning dresses, afternoon dresses, tea gowns, evening dresses, were bought in variety and abundance. With a mere nod of his head Rowton would signify to the attendant that such a thing was to be sent to Mrs. Rowton to the Grand Hotel; he never even enquired the price.

“You want shoes and dainty stockings and handkerchiefs and ribbons, and feathers and flowers,” he said, just laying his hand for an instant on Nancy’s shoulder. “Oh, I know how women ought to be dressed.”

“See here,” he said to the attendant, “fit Mrs. Rowton with all that is necessary. Let her have some dozen of this, and of this, and this—” he indicated costly things with his hand. “Now then, Nancy, we will go to the millinery department.”

Nancy found herself furnished with small velvet caps, with fascinating toques, with hats adorned with great plumes of ostrich feathers, which made her look, Rowton said, with eyes of passionate love, as if she had just stepped out of a Gainsborough picture. The morning passed in a perfect whirl, and when finally the pair returned to the hotel for lunch, Nancy said frankly that she felt as if she had been going about all the morning with a fairy godmother.

“Ah! you will have a good deal more of that sensation,” replied her husband. “Hurry with your lunch, now, for afterwards we must go to the Palais Royal to look at trinkets.”

“Trinkets?” she said; “you don’t mean jewels?”

“I mean a few rings and necklaces, and ornaments for your hair,” he said. “I have taken a box at the opera to-night and you shall look—ah! I’ll not be the only one to look at you to-night, Nancy mine; no woman will look fairer, more divine than my little girl.”

The trinkets were bought and Nancy’s slender fingers were laden with sparkling rings. A necklace consisting of a single row of magnificent pearls was secured to encircle her dainty throat.

“Not that these are much,” said Rowton; “I have diamonds which you shall wear. They are too valuable to take away from home. We will have a house in town next season, Nance, and you shall wear them then; I won’t show them to you until then. Pearls suit you best however, you are so maidenly, so delicate, so youthful. Heavens! to think that one like you should belong to one like me. My darling, my treasure, what have I done that Providence should be so good to me?”

“And what have I done to deserve such a husband?” she answered.

“Do not say that,” he said, his tone completely changing; “you do not really know me.”

“I know what you are to me; I know that in all the world no more gallant gentleman, no braver prince amongst men could live.”

“Come, come, Nancy, it is bad to flatter,” he said; but his eyes shone and his lips trembled.

“If she only knew!” he said to himself.

They drove in the Bois in the afternoon and after dinner went to the opera. Nancy was dressed for the opera in one of her new costumes; it was white, shaded off to the faintest tinge of rose. She looked something like a summer cloud when she was dressed in these billows of diaphanous texture; the pearls round her neck gave the last touch to the dazzling effect.

“You look like the heart of a sea-shell,” said her husband; “there, let me look at you from this distance; yes, the effect is perfect. Now again, favour me by standing so. Now you resemble a sunset cloud; you are all poetry, you are a dream. In fact you are a living, walking poem.”

“Don’t, Adrian,” she said.

“Why do you say ‘don’t’? it is my delight to see how much can be made of unique beauty like yours. To-morrow night you shall be dressed quite differently; to-morrow night that pale sweet face, those dark deep eyes shall gleam in more sombre surroundings, and then my princess will look like a star. Give me my delight, Nancy; don’t refuse it to me.”

“But my father is not dead a fortnight,” she said; “I ought to be in mourning for him.”

“Tut! not a bit of it; no mourning during our wedding tour. Afterwards you shall be up to your throat in crêpe if you like.”

“It is strange of you, Adrian, to say so very much about afterwards; when you say ‘afterwards,’ a cold shiver seems to go through me.”

“Faith, child,” he replied, pulling himself together with an effort, “I don’t mean anything. You shall, if I can manage it, walk on roses as long as you live; and now, now, Nance—during our glorious honeymoon, we will not think for one moment of the possibility of a shadow. Come, darling, the carriage must be waiting for us in the courtyard.”

They went downstairs in the lift.

Rowton’s prophecy was abundantly fulfilled: there was not a man in the place who did not look with more than admiration at the lovely girl who walked by his side. They went to the opera and Rowton watched the faces of his fellow-men and women. Some acquaintance in a distant box recognised him and bowed. Rowton returned their salutations icily; he did not want old friends to crop up here; he was determined to share Nance with no one during the golden four weeks which he had allowed himself. But when a Frenchman of the name of D’Escourt knocked at the door of the Rowtons’ box, Rowton felt forced to admit him and to introduce him to Nance. The two men talked for a little time in French, and D’Escourt promised himself the pleasure of calling on Mrs. Rowton early the following day. He sat down presently by her side, and began to talk. He was a man of the world, extremely polished, and with a perfect knowledge of English as well as French. Nancy’s French was not her strong point, and she was glad to talk to the stranger in English.

“By the way,” he said suddenly, turning and looking at Rowton, who with a frown between his brows gazed gloomily into the house, “it is some years now since I saw you in our gay capital, my friend; not since 18⸺” He mentioned a date; it was the year of Anthony Follett’s death.

“I wonder,” thought Nance to herself, “if Adrian could help me in my strange and awful search. I will not think to-night of that terrible fate which hangs over me.”

She tried to force her thoughts from the subject, but try as she would, they hovered round it. She suddenly felt cold and miserable; her conscience seemed to reproach her for her present extraordinary bliss; she thought of her dead father, the desolate Grange, and the long six years of misery. Her present life seemed like a dream; she might awaken any moment to find herself back at the Grange; Rowton not allowed to visit her, her father there, and the dreadful, stingy, starved existence once more her own.

She started, hearing Adrian’s voice in her ears.

“A penny for your thoughts,” he said.

“I was trying to pinch myself,” she said.

She looked up and saw that D’Escourt had left them. “I was trying to pinch myself,” she continued, “to find out whether I was really in a dream or not.”

“You are not in a dream; at least, if you are, I am in it too; and I vote we stay in dream-land, for it is monstrous pleasant,” said Adrian. “Now listen to that music, Nance; does it not uplift your soul?”

She turned and looked vaguely at the performers on the stage. The opera was one of Rossini’s; the scene now represented was a harvest festival; the stage was full of motion and brilliant colour; the gay, light, uplifting music rose to the very roof of the magnificent opera house.

“It is almost too much,” said Nance, with something like a sob in her throat. She looked suddenly so white and weary that Rowton insisted on her returning to the hotel without seeing the piece out.

The next day, to her astonishment, he proposed that they should leave Paris and go on to the Riviera.

“We will go to Nice,” he said; “it is gay enough there, and we shall have warmth and sunshine; we will visit Monte Carlo, too. Oh! I don’t gamble, you need not fear anything of that sort, but for all that we will have one exciting evening at the roulette tables.”

“I am sorry,” said Nance. “I am interested in Paris now that I am here, and I should like to see more of it. M. D’Escourt said, too, that he would call, and he promised to arrange to take us to Versailles; don’t you remember, Adrian?”

“Yes, I remember,” said Rowton; “but that fact can scarcely influence my movements.” He spoke with the faintest sneer. “I want to get on, Nance. Paris is all very well; it satisfies me in one sense, and yet in another it does not.”

“Do you know Paris? Have you been often here?”

“Yes; I spent two years in this gay capital; the liveliest and yet the most wretched time of my life.”

“I heard you mention a certain date last night,” said Nancy in a low voice, which slightly trembled. “You mentioned the year 18⸺. It so happened that I am interested in that date. It was just then the cloud came which changed father’s life and mine.”

“We need not go into that subject now, need we?” asked Rowton with manifest uneasiness. “I want you to forget those six dreadful years of famine. You have now, to borrow a Bible simile, come into the seven years of plenty.”

“So I have,” she replied, running to him and kissing him with passion. “How happy you make me; how more than willing I am to do anything you wish.”

“Then we will take the Mediterranean express from the Gare de Lyon this evening,” said Rowton. “I will go now to try and secure a sleeping carriage. You can begin to pack some of your pretty things while I am away from you, Nance.”

Rowton left the salon and hailing a fiacre, drove straight to the Gare de Lyon.

“I don’t want D’Escourt to have much to say to Nance,” he said to himself. “We were good friends in 18⸺. Heaven! When I remember that time; can I possibly be the same man? Yes, I was a gay dog then; but upright and honourable, notwithstanding all my pranks. I could look men straight in the face. Now things are different. D’Escourt knew me intimately at that time. Yes, we were great friends. He was glad to see me last night; he evidently knows nothing; but if he comes often he may begin to ask questions. His questions would be highly inconvenient. Not that Nance, bless her, could answer one of them. But suppose he asks me straight out, while that child is looking on, ‘What have you done with yourself since 18⸺? How have you passed your life?’ I might, it is just possible, with the clear eyes of that angel looking into mine, I might show confusion. There! confound the horrible thing! D’Escourt and I must not meet again. D’Escourt and Nancy must have nothing to do with each other. My sweetheart and I go to Nice to-night and have a right gay time.”

Rowton, arrived at his destination, secured the last sleeping compartment on the train, and went quickly back to the Grand Hotel.

Nancy was waiting for him.

“I have not been dull,” she said, her eyes dancing with excitement and pleasure. “M. D’Escourt called: I like him extremely; he has only just left. He is quite put out at our going to Nice.”

“You told him that?” said Rowton.

“Yes; why not? Dearest, how thick your brows look when you frown.”

“I was not aware that I had frowned, sweet Nance.”

“But are you vexed with me for telling him where we are going?”

“Not in the least; all the world may know our movements. Now let us pack. We will leave some of our boxes here, but we must take plenty of your finery with us. I intend you to be the most beautiful woman at the Casino when we visit Monte Carlo.”

Nancy began to pull her different beautiful dresses out of their boxes.

Rowton stood and watched her.

“M. D’Escourt seems to have been a great friend of yours, Adrian,” she said; “he has the highest opinion of you.” She glanced up at him as she spoke.

“He would be sure to praise me to you,” said Rowton in a would-be careless tone. “We will go for a drive after déjeûner; I find that I must get several small things on my own account. Are you not hungry, little woman?”

“No, I feel too excited to be hungry. You don’t know what this life is to me after my starved existence; but, Adrian, I am really sorry you missed your friend.”

“Well, I am not,” said Rowton. “On a honeymoon one only wants one’s wife, particularly when she is such a wife as mine; but you seem fascinated with the fellow, Nancy.”

“Only because he praised you so much,” she said, with a sweet smile.

They went down to déjeûner.

As they were finishing the meal, Nancy again reverted to D’Escourt.

“He was really disappointed,” she said. “He was quite certain we were going to stay in Paris for another week at least.”

“I have ordered the carriage to be round by now,” said Rowton without replying, and glancing at the clock as he spoke. “Put on your prettiest cloak and your most becoming hat and come out with me.”

They spent the afternoon shopping and afterwards drove in the Bois. By eight o’clock that evening they had left the Grand Hotel and were on their way to the Gare de Lyon. They reached it in good time to catch the Mediterranean express.

At the booking office Nancy was much astonished to hear her husband ask for tickets for San Remo.

“You are making a mistake,” she exclaimed. “We are going to Nice.”

“I have changed my mind,” he answered. “San Remo will suit us better.”

“What a pity,” cried Nancy. “M. D’Escourt said he might visit Nice in a few days.”

“The very reason why we go to San Remo, sweetheart. Now take your place. Here we are. You will admire the olive woods and the flowers before many more hours are over, cara mia.”

---

The honeymoon was over; the four weeks all of pure gold had come slowly but surely to an end. Nancy had forgotten much during this time. The look of trouble, of anxiety, had absolutely left her face: it bloomed into greater and greater beauty in the new atmosphere. Rowton, too, appeared to be a different man. A great deal of his harshness and roughness had left him. He could be polished when he chose. In the early days of his life he had only associated with gentlemen; he was of good birth, and his natural breeding quickly re-asserted itself.

“You are just like a tamed lion,” Nance was fond of saying to him. “You are so gentle to me; so courteous and kind to everyone, but I know——”

“What do you know, sweet wife?” he said, clasping her round her slender waist and looking into her deep, beautiful eyes; “you must not get to know me too well, Nancy; be satisfied with the surface of me, and do not penetrate too deep.”

“Ah!” she said smiling, “you will run yourself down; but I know the deepest and the best of you. I leave the shallow part to strangers.”

“You were going to make a remark about the lion,” he said, patting her soft hand; “so you really think I am a roaring lion, my darling?”

“You never roar to me,” she answered; “but that you can roar I am firmly convinced.”

“Capital,” he said with a great laugh; “well, Nancy, I hope it will never be your fate to hear one of my manifestations. Child, we go back to England to-morrow; are you glad or sorry?”

“Glad,” she replied. “I was intensely happy on our honeymoon; oh! what lovely places we have seen; how grand and magnificent the world is! It has been sunshine inside and out ever since I gave myself to you.”

“And yet you want to leave it all and to go home,” he said.

“I do. I love you so much that to see you at home must be the best of all; to live with you at home must be the sweetest of all.”

“You are mistaken,” he said, but he said it low, and the inaudible words never reached his lips.

“Pack, child, now,” he said. “Our wearisome journey begins to-morrow.”

A day or two later, the Rowtons arrived at Rowton Heights in Yorkshire. Nancy had never been in this part of the country, and her excitement and delight reached the utmost bounds as they approached nearer and nearer to their destination.

“You must tell me all about the place?” she said when they drove in through the gates of the long winding avenue.

“Oh! what are all those people doing?” she exclaimed suddenly; “they have torches and they are coming to meet us.”

“Some of the tenants on the estate, I presume,” said Rowton. “I expect Maberly, my steward, has been getting up a little display. Never mind, Nancy, it is in your honour.”

“In mine,” she said in astonishment; “how very sweet of them!”

“I never told you, darling,” said her husband, “that in your own house amongst your servants and our tenantry, you will take the position of a great lady.”

“I! a great lady!” she said; “I! poor little starved Nance of the Grange.”

“But starved no longer, and the Grange may well now be forgotten,” he said. “I told you that I was rich, did I not?”

“Yes. Have you not proved it?” she said; “why, you are made of money; I never heard of anyone throwing money away so lavishly.”

“Goodness, child! you know nothing of what really wealthy men can do. Understand once for all, Nance, that I am rich, I am very rich. It is my pleasure to give you everything that money can buy. I want to make your life one long dream of happiness.”

“You are doing so,” she said; “but I think in one way you make a mistake,” she added.

“How?” he asked, surprised at her tone.

“You think that I want such a lot of money, Adrian. In that sense you do not really know me. I like pretty dresses, but not too many; I like pretty jewels, but not too many again; I like the soft things of life, but a little of them contents me.”

“Then I am not making you happy,” he said in alarm.

“Yes, yes,” she answered: “but not because of these things. You make me happy because you love me, because you fill my heart with love, because you give me your sweetest and your best in the way of love, and because I give you all the love of my heart.”

“Sweetheart, you are adorable,” he said, catching her hand and squeezing it. “You must accept the wealth and the responsibility it brings, even if you do not care for it, Nance, for it is my lot, my portion in life, to have more money than I know what to do with. Now, here we are. Come, let me introduce you to my housekeeper, to the servants. Put on the airs of a grande dame, pretty Nance.”

She was tall, and very slender. Her neck was somewhat long and her head was set on it with perfect grace. Rowton watched her as she held that small queenly head high; his heart glowed with admiration and love.

“She would fill any position,” he said to himself. “Could that curmudgeon, her father, see her now, would he know her, my beautiful, lovely darling? Ah! I cannot corrupt a heart like hers; she wants a little wealth, and a few pretty dresses, and a few jewels forsooth, and—love, love, love for everything else. Will she always remain like that? Heaven grant it.”

Meanwhile the steward, Maberly, had come up, and Mrs. Ferguson, the housekeeper, had presented a bunch of keys to Nance. Instructed by her husband she gave them back again to the good woman, telling her in a sweet voice that she knew far better what to do with them than she did. A long string of servants, all neatly attired, with white satin rosettes pinned on to their dresses, gave deep curtsies as Nance and her husband walked down the great hall through their midst.

“Take Mrs. Rowton to her bedroom at once,” said Rowton, addressing the housekeeper; “see that she has everything she wants. Have you engaged a good maid for her?”

“Yes, sir, a thoroughly experienced girl. She is from the village, but was trained in London for a couple of years. I have her for a month on trial. Come here, Hester, and let me introduce you to your new mistress.”

“I am glad to see you, Hester,” said Nancy in her cordial voice.

The girl, a small, dark-eyed lass, dropped a low curtsey; she had keen eyes and they fell all over Mrs. Rowton’s beautiful travelling dress.

“Run upstairs at once, Hester,” said Mrs. Ferguson, the housekeeper; “see that the trunks are taken up and begin to attend to your duties; go, girl, don’t stare.”

Hester coloured crimson, fixed her eyes again with a look half of admiration, half of something else, which Nance did not quite understand, on her face, and turned to obey.

“I hope you’ll like her, ma’am,” said the housekeeper as she followed more slowly with her mistress.

“Oh! yes, she seems a nice girl,” said Nance; “but I have not been accustomed to a maid, and I do not really know what to do with one.”

Mrs. Ferguson looked puzzled. She knew nothing whatever with regard to the bride whom Rowton was bringing home. Had he really by any possibility married beneath him?

But one glance at Nancy’s lovely face dispelled this illusion. The sweet face stole straight down to the old woman’s heart.

“If Hester does not quite please you, ma’am, you’ll be sure to tell me,” she said; “but she seems a clever girl, and particularly good at doing hair.”

“I have always arranged my own hair,” said Nance; “but I suppose if it is necessary I must submit.” She sighed a little as she spoke. The next moment her sigh was changed for an exclamation of delight.

“What a lovely bedroom!” she said. “Is this for me?”

“I am heartily glad you are pleased, ma’am,” said the housekeeper. “Mr. Rowton gave instructions that this room was to be completely re-furnished. He chose those rose-coloured silk curtains himself; they came from London only two days ago. I hope you’ll like the whole arrangement. I must say the room does look cheerful. This is your dressing-room, and your boudoir is just beyond; these stairs lead to Mr. Rowton’s dressing-room, and this is the door of the bathroom. This complete suite is shut away by these curtains and door.”

“It is quite a little house to itself,” said Nance; “it certainly does look perfect.”

“Well, I am pleased,” said the housekeeper. “I’ll leave you now, ma’am. I see Hester is waiting to attend on you.”

Nance, who was standing in a dream of delight in the middle of the lovely room, looked up at these words and encountered the dark gaze of her new maid.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“The trunks are in your dressing-room, ma’am,” said the girl, “and I am waiting for your keys, please.”

Nancy pulled them out of her pocket.

“Perhaps you will kindly tell me in which trunk your evening dresses are, ma’am?”

“I really cannot say,” began Nancy; then she paused to consider for a moment. “Oh! I know,” she said, “there is a very pretty evening dress which I can wear to-night—grey silk—in the large basket trunk with the arched roof.”

“I’ll have everything ready for you, ma’am, in less than a quarter of an hour,” said the girl. She withdrew as she spoke, closing the door of the bedroom behind her.

Nance went up to where a fire burned merrily in a grate, which was bright with brass and ornamental with lovely tiles, and stood warming her feet. The paper on the walls was of the faintest tone of rose; the mantelpiece of the purest white marble; the overmantel and all the furniture were ivory white mounted in brass; the window curtains and the bed hangings were of the softest shade of rose silk; no more lovely room could be imagined, and Nance, as she turned to survey her slender image in the many mirrors which were inserted in the walls, could not sufficiently give voice to her admiration. Her husband came in while she was examining the room.

“Ah!” he said, “I see the London people have done exactly what I told them. Well, Nance, what do you think of our bedroom?”

“Perfect,” she answered; “I never want to leave it.”

“Heaven forbid!” he cried; “that would mean that you were ill, which would never do. I am glad you like this room, but wait until you see the rest of the house.”

“I am almost too happy,” said the girl, and she breathed a sigh, the depth of which nearly reached the point of pain.

“What, because you have got a pretty room, little one?” he replied.

He kissed her and went off to his dressing-room, whistling as he went.

Hester came to summon Nance, and in a few moments the young wife found herself divested of her travelling things, her hair rearranged in the most becoming style, and her evening dress put on. She scarcely knew herself when she was arrayed for the evening, without having lifted a finger on her own behalf.

“After all a maid is a comfort when one is dead tired,” she could not help thinking. Her instinct was to pick up and put by her own things, but Hester, who seemed to divine her intention, swept them out of sight with an almost peremptory gesture.

“You may be sure I’ll do my best to try and please you, ma’am,” she said in a soft voice.

Nance murmured her thanks and went downstairs.

“She is a chit of a thing,” muttered the girl when her mistress had turned her back. “I can twist her round my little finger, particularly when I make use of some very private information, which will considerably alter the complexion of things for pretty Mrs. Rowton, or I am greatly mistaken.”

---

When Nance entered her drawing-room Rowton was waiting to receive her. He was standing by the hearth. A great fire burned in the grate. Nance, as she entered at the extreme further door, saw a picture which caused her to give an exclamation of fresh delight; she looked down a long vista of lovely furniture, of knick knacks, of small tables, of flowering plants which filled the air with a subtle perfume, and saw her husband’s noble figure in evening dress as he waited for her. She scarcely noticed the dress, but her heart leapt up to receive the smile which shone out of the dark eyes and trembled round the lips. Then her gaze travelled a step further. Close by the man stood someone else—a slender boy, who might have been any age from nine to eleven, dressed picturesquely in black velvet with a Vandyck collar.

Each feature of his bold dark face was a counterpart of the dark face of the man who towered above him; by the boy’s side, the boy’s hand resting on his head, was a huge German boarhound, a magnificent creature of perfect breed.

“I never told you about this young gentleman, Nance,” said Rowton, coming forward, and holding the boy’s hand as he did so.

“Let me introduce you to my nephew, Murray Cameron; he has Scotch blood in him. Make your best bow to your aunt, Murray.”

The little chap went forward, giving a low bow.

Nancy held out her hand.

“Nonsense,” she said, “you need not bow to me, Murray; I am delighted to see you.” She laid her white hand on his shoulder, and bending forward kissed him on his brow just where his clustering curls met the white skin.

The boy flushed crimson, raised two splendid dark eyes and looked full up into her face.

“Come, come, Murray,” said his uncle, “you can go back now and continue your attentions to Roy; Roy will be jealous; look how he is sniffing your coat.”

“Roy has no reason to be jealous,” said the little fellow in a determined, manly voice; “he must be a very silly dog if he supposes I can compare him to a beautiful lady.”

Rowton burst into a loud laugh.

“Jove! youngster, you are coming on,” he said; “there, you may go now, in any case; you may come to dessert if your eyes remain open long enough.”

“I am not likely to sleep,” said the boy. He gave another glance of the broadest admiration at Nancy, and then walked gravely down the room, accompanied by the boarhound.

“How is it you never told me about that dear little fellow, Adrian?” said Nancy.

Rowton rumpled up his hair with a careless movement.

“I forgot his existence,” he said briefly.

“Forgot the existence of a splendid boy like that!” said Nancy in astonishment.

“Yes, I was occupied with other matters.”

For some reason which Nancy could not understand there was annoyance in his tone. With a woman’s tact she hastened to change the subject.

“How lovely this room is!” she said; “no wonder you gave me to understand that you would dazzle me some day. I cannot believe that I am really the mistress of this house.”

“I am glad you like it!” said her husband, recovering his good humour on the instant. “Ah! I think the servant has just announced dinner. Come, Nancy mine, let me have the pleasure of leading you to the head of your table.”

The dinner passed off somewhat tamely. The dining-room was a long and decidedly sombre apartment. But the Rowtons sat at a cheerful little table at one end, laid with glittering glass and massive plate; it was brought up close to the fire, and was lit by candles with coloured shades over them. The rose coloured light somewhat softened Rowton’s harsh complexion, and cast a fairy-like gleam over Nancy with her golden hair, pale face and soft draperies. Two footmen waited, doing their work noiselessly; the rest of the room was in absolute gloom.

Nancy could scarcely tell why she felt a sudden depression. She would not yield to it, however, and struggled hard to keep up the gaiety which she had really experienced not a few minutes ago.

When the dessert was on the table she raised her voice somewhat timidly.

“May not Murray come in?” she said. “I should like to see him again.”

“Tell Master Cameron that dessert is served,” said Rowton, turning to one of the footmen.

They both noiselessly left the room and the husband and wife were for a moment alone.

“Does Murray live here?” asked Nancy of her husband.

“Yes, this is his home. Now, see that you do not spoil him; he is a fine little chap, but the soft ways of a woman about him just now would be his destruction.”

“You don’t really mean that, Adrian; surely at Murray’s age more than at any other time, he——”

“I differ from you, my love,” said her husband. “Hush!”

He interrupted her words: she glanced down the room. Out of the darkness came a high-pitched glad voice, a gay laugh followed, and then the flashing of bright eyes, the charm of a noble little face, and the boy seated himself frankly and confidingly by his new aunt’s side.

“I left Roy in the other room,” he said, looking up at her; “I do not want Roy now.”

“Have a glass of wine, Murray?” said his uncle.

The boy held out his glass, which Rowton filled to the brim.

He drank it off and his tongue began to chatter.

“I am so glad you have both come back,” he said; “I have been awfully lonely; Mrs. Ferguson is not the best company. Now I expect I shall have a right jolly time. You are going to live here always, are you not, aunt?”

“Listen to me, Murray,” said Rowton; “you are not to worry your aunt.”

“Oh! he won’t,” said Nance. She took one of the small hands—hard as iron it felt, for the boy was all muscle—and patted it softly.

“We won’t worry each other, will we?” said Murray, glancing up at her again and laughing.

Rowton gave the pair as they sat thus close together—the very fair young girl, for Nance was nothing more, and the beautiful dark boy—an earnest, penetrating glance.

“By Jove!” he said, “I see you are both going to fall in love with each other. Take care both of you; I shall begin to be jealous.”

“Not you, Adrian,” said Nance with a smile.

“But he will, though,” said Murray; “you don’t know him yet, auntie; I don’t know anyone who can be so, so——”

“So what?” said Rowton. “Come here this minute, lad, and give your aunt an account of me; she won’t believe what I say of myself, but you have known me for years.”

“Not so many years,” said Murray. “I am only eleven, and that is quite young, isn’t it?”

“Well, speak, tell your aunt what you think of me.”

The boy left his seat by Nancy’s side, went up to Rowton and leant against his knee.

“You have a bold face, young ’un,” said the man, chucking him under the chin; “speak out, you are not afraid, are you?”

“Afraid,” said the lad proudly, tossing back his head. “I don’t know what that means.”

“That is right; you are a gay little bantam. Now tell that beautiful lady whom you have been impertinent enough to fall in love with exactly what you think of me, her husband.”

“You know what I think of you,” said Murray, giving the man a very keen and intense glance. Something in his gaze, fixed and full as it was, caused Rowton to lower his own bold eyes. He caught the boy’s little wrist with a grip of iron, and turned him fiercely round.

“Tell your aunt what you think of me, Murray,” he said.

“I think you are a very fine man—yes, auntie, he is a very fine man indeed, very brave; about the bravest man in the world, I should say, but——”

“No ‘buts,’ young sir, out with everything.”

“Then I will tell the truth,” said Murray; “you are not good in one way.”

“Ha! ha! Nancy,” said her husband, “listen with all your ears now; this youngster is about to lift the curtain and show you the sort of man you have deigned to marry.”

“Perhaps you can make him good all round,” said the boy, suddenly fixing his bright eyes on Nancy’s soft face; “he is not good all round now—he is not good to my mother.” The boy stepped back two or three inches, and flung back his beautiful noble head.

“Silence, this moment, sir,” said Rowton. His voice rose; it seemed to fill the big room. “Leave the room, Murray,” he said. “You have transgressed your limits; you have a certain tether and you have gone beyond it; leave the room.”

“I will, but I am not frightened,” said the boy. He still stood upright with his head flung back, but Nancy saw that his delicate lips were trembling.

“You are cruel to my mother, Uncle Adrian, and when I think of it, I—I hate you.” He turned then and marched proudly away.

It seemed a long time to the listeners up at the warmly-lighted part of the room, until they heard the last echo of his little footsteps, and the banging of the door in the dim distance as he walked away; then they both looked one at the other. Nancy’s face was white and troubled; tears were in her eyes; Adrian was looking full at her.

“That little turkey cock must be quieted,” he said; “he takes too much on him; you are not to spoil him, Nancy, do you hear?”

“But what does he mean?” asked Nancy; “he says that you—you are cruel to someone.”

“Come back to the drawing-room with me, sweet Nance.”

Rowton held out his hand; he clasped Nancy’s with a pressure which almost made her cry out; she bit her lips and walked by his side in silence. The drawing-room was the picture of comfort; Rowton sank down into a deep easy chair, and pulling Nancy towards him, seated her on his knee.

“Now, my wild bird,” he said, “the curtain begins to lift; what do you think of your Adonis? do I begin to show the cloven hoof?”

“No, no, no,” she said, a strangled sob in her throat, “but you frightened me; why did you roar like that at the child?”

“He angered me, the little spitfire,” said the man; “he has got a spirit that nothing will break.”

“But he is you, Adrian, he is you—young. He is what you were as a child.”

“Faith! I believe you are right, Nance.”

“I wish you had not shouted at him,” she continued. “I hated to see him, and yet I loved to see him standing up so bravely under your anger.”

“I told you I was a lion,” said Rowton. “You have heard my first thunder. Heaven grant that I may never thunder at you, darling. For the rest, by those who know me well, by those who know me best of all, I am more feared than loved.”

“No, no,” she said, “I cannot believe it. That little chap loves you.”

“But he said he hated me.”

“He hates you for a cause; he wants you to be good all round.”

“That I can never be; goodness is mawkish.”

“And who is his mother, Adrian, and why, why are you cruel to her?”

Rowton grasped Nancy’s wrist again.

“Do you really think I am?” he said.

“No, I don’t,” she said with white lips, for his grasp was so firm, so fierce, that she could scarcely help wincing at the pain.

It relaxed at her words and his features wore a smile.

“That is good, little woman,” he said; “if you believe in me, all the rest of the world may think as it pleases.”

“But who is the boy’s mother?”

“My sister.”

“And why did he speak in that strange way about her?”

Rowton did not answer for a while.

“Nancy,” he said then, “this is our first night at home, is it not?”

“Yes,” she said, surprised at his tone.

“Now I am not going to say anything harsh.”

“No,” she answered, “but I don’t think I much mind if you do.”

“Ah! my little woman,” he said, suddenly clasping her to him in a fierce embrace, “I knew you had a spirit of your own: now I am going to remind you of something. Do you remember the compact we made each with the other on the day of your father’s death?”

Her face turned very white.

“I wish you would not remind me of that,” she said after a pause.

“You force me to,” he replied; “the time has come for me to remind you of it, Nancy; I shall not interfere with your secrets if you do not interfere with mine.”

“Then you have secrets?” she said again.

“Yes, little girl,” he answered—his voice was low—there was shame in the tone.

“Ah!” he said suddenly, “you would make me an angel and worship me as such, but I am a fiend. Do not try to know too much; be happy—you can be happy, but knowledge would be your death-blow.”

She sat quite still and did not speak another word. In the distance she heard a child’s laughter.

“Hark to the young cock sparrow—he has recovered,” said Adrian; “nothing depresses him long, and nothing can crush him.”

---

Nancy lay long awake that night. Her husband slept soundly by her side, but sleep seemed determined not to visit her; she was agitated, alarmed, depressed. All the glory of that summer moon through which she had lived had faded not only into autumn, but into winter.

What were Adrian’s secrets? Why was he cruel to his own sister? What was the mystery which hung over him? The burden Nance had herself to carry was quite sufficiently heavy to daunt most women, but just at present she seemed to have laid it aside. All her thoughts were for Adrian. She loved him more deeply, more passionately than ever, but she found herself not only anxious but curious. What did he mean by those dark hints? Where she found him angel, why did other people think of him as fiend? Towards morning the tired girl fell asleep. She slept until late, and awoke to find a snow-covered world, but much comfort around her. A fire had already been lighted in her room and her maid, Hester, was waiting to attend on her.

“Is it late?” asked Mrs. Rowton, starting up in bed.

“Yes, ma’am,” said the girl, speaking in a certain prim, respectful voice, which was rather aggravating to listen to: “it is nine o’clock, but Mr. Rowton said you were not to be disturbed. Would you like breakfast before you get up, ma’am?”

“No, indeed,” replied Nance. “I don’t think I ever breakfasted in bed in my life; I will get up now if you will leave me, please.”

The girl raised her brows in some slight surprise.

“Just as you please, ma’am,” she said. “I have left everything in perfect order in your dressing-room, and when you ring the bell I shall be ready to arrange your hair.”

Nancy said nothing more and the girl retired.

“Why is it I don’t take to her?” thought Mrs. Rowton; “she seems a good girl, clever and obliging, but she gives me an uncomfortable sensation. Well, I need not keep her if she is not quite to my taste, and she certainly need not trouble me now.”

Nance dressed herself quickly and ran downstairs. She did not ring for Hester to arrange her hair. Her spirits rose as she dressed, and when she entered the room where she and her husband had dined the night before, she felt full of excitement and interest.

Rowton had promised to take her over the house, and she was all agog to explore her new home without delay.

The servant who waited upon her told her that his master had breakfasted nearly two hours ago; that he and Master Murray were out, but would be in before long.

Nancy had scarcely finished her meal before they appeared.

The boy ran up to her, flung his arms round her neck and kissed her.

“Have you slept well?” he asked. “I hope you are not tired; there is so much for you to see, and it is so interesting. Are you not very curious to see everything?”

“Enough, Murray,” said his uncle; “you shall take Aunt Nancy round the place this afternoon, but just at present she is my property. Run off to your lessons, my lad; I saw your tutor coming up the avenue just now.”

“Bother lessons!” said the boy.

“Are you not fond of study?” asked Nancy.

“No, I hate it; I can’t think what use tiresome books are to anyone.”

“Make yourself scarce, chatterbox,” said his uncle again.

The boy laughed and ran off.

“He is quite a darling,” said Nancy; “what a difference he will make in the house.”

“I am glad you have taken to him,” said Rowton; “he is a fine little chap, only you must not let him gossip to you, Nance. The boy has a keen vein of curiosity in him; he knows too much or thinks he does. Now, if you have quite finished breakfast I will take you round.”

They began their exploration, going from room to room and from storey to storey. The house was an old one, and as Rowton showed it to his wife he gave her a brief history of it. It had belonged to his family for several generations, but had been so eaten up by one mortgage after another, that Rowton’s own father had declined to live in the old place.

“But is it mortgaged now?” asked Nancy.

“No,” was the brief response.

“And you are rich, very rich, and your father was poor?”

“Even so, Nancy,” was the somewhat curt reply.

Nancy glanced up at her husband. His eyes looked full into hers; there was a sort of dare devil gleam in them, which she turned away from.

“I see,” she said after a pause, “I must not expect you to confide in me.”

“Forsooth, no,” he answered; “not on certain topics. We two married under a condition; if there is to be a chance of peace between us, we must keep to it. You must ask me no questions, my darling; I on my part will ask you none. I frankly admit that there are pages in my life which I do not wish you to know anything about, but on the other hand there are fair white pages which only you shall read. Are you not content with me, Nancy?”

“Yes, I am,” she answered. “I love you. I trust you too utterly to feel anything but happiness when with you.”

They kissed each other, standing side by side in the long picture gallery. Portraits of Rowton’s ancestors adorned the walls. There were Holbeins, Van Dycks, Gainsboroughs, and Raeburns among them—in short, a magnificent collection, which Nancy scarcely knew enough of art to thoroughly appreciate.

“Fair dames, are they not?” asked Rowton, stopping under a celebrated Gainsborough as he spoke. “Ah! now I know whom you reminded me of when you wore that Gainsborough hat in Paris; you have got just the face of that Dame Rowton; just that graceful turn of the neck. We will copy that picture for your next ball dress; you will look, as the old saying is, as if you had stepped out of the canvas.”

They both laughed and discussed the picture a little longer; then they walked on to the extreme end of the gallery.

“This way now,” said Rowton, turning abruptly to his left.

“Why so?” she asked. “Why not go through this door? See! you must have overlooked it; there is a door here, and it will take us out into another wing of the house.”

“Not now,” said Rowton. “There is nothing of interest in that wing; come into the old ball-room; it has been disused for some time, but we will restore it. Look”—he flung open a door as he spoke—“look at this carved oak; it covers the room from floor to ceiling, from ceiling to floor again. This oak is hundreds of years old and of enormous value. Will you believe me when I tell you that once such a Goth lived in the old place that he painted the oak white? It took a whole year to get that paint off; my grandfather had that done. The oak looks nearly as well as ever now. Observe the delicacy of the carving. We will furnish this ball-room again. What say you, Nancy, shall we give a ball as your house warming, after the neighbours have called on you.”

“The neighbours!” she said in some alarm; “are people coming to call on me?”

“My dear, darling little goose,” was the reply, “do you think you are going to live here in solitude? This is Saturday, to-morrow will be Sunday. You and I and Murray appear in church together—a picturesque group; we sit in the old family pew. On Monday the callers begin to arrive. We shall be invited out a good bit, and then we will give a ball in this room and you shall be dressed as Gainsborough’s Dame Rowton.”

Nancy laughed; Rowton continued to talk further about this idea; and they strolled out into the grounds. It was a lovely winter’s day towards the end of January. The pair walked quickly, exploring the different gardens and pleasure grounds. Suddenly they came straight up to a high wall which ran parallel with the house.

“What is in there?” asked Nancy.

“Another garden,” said Rowton in a careless tone.

“What a heap of gardens,” she exclaimed with a laugh. “I am almost tired of exploring them.”

“We will return to the house now,” he said; “we need not go any further to-day.”

“Oh, yes, let me see the inside of this garden. What a high wall, and broken glass all along the top! I cannot get even a peep within. I am curious. Is it a very old-fashioned garden, Adrian?”

“Yes,” he said after a pause; “we call it the Queen Anne garden here.”

“How charming! Are the trees cut about in queer shapes?”

“Yes. Contorted into foxes and dogs and bears. I fancy there is a cock, who looks exactly as if he meant to crow, just inside the entrance gate.”

Rowton’s face wore a quizzical expression.

“Where is the entrance?” asked Nancy. “I am dying to see the garden.”

“Not to-day,” replied her husband. He drew her hand through his arm.

They walked on in silence for a moment, then he bent down and looked at her.

“Are you vexed, little woman?” he asked.

“I try not to be,” she answered; “but it seems a simple thing just to show me that last garden. I have never seen a proper Queen Anne garden, and this one——”

“You feel a pin prick of natural womanly curiosity,” said Rowton; “suppress it, dearest. Now I am going to confide in you to a certain extent. I did not mean to, but I see that it is necessary. I have brought you to a beautiful home, have I not?”

“Lovely—a palace,” said Nancy.

“The whole place is yours,” continued her husband: “the house, the ground, with—with a reservation.”

“Yes?” she asked, looking up at him with parted lips.

“With a reservation,” he continued. “There is a wing of the house which you are never to enter. That wing looks into the Queen Anne garden—you are, therefore, never to go into the Queen Anne garden.”

“Never, Adrian, never?”

“Never, darling.”

“Why so?”

“I meant to keep the reason from you,” said Rowton; “but I must tell it—there is a reason.”

“Yes?” she said again. She began to tremble.

“You heard Murray speak of his mother last night,” continued the man, standing very upright as he spoke, folding his arms and looking down at Nancy’s slim young figure.

“Yes,” she replied.

“The boy’s mother lives in that wing.”

“What?” cried Nancy.

“She lives in the wing into which you are never to go,” continued Rowton. “She takes exercise in the Queen Anne garden. You need not be afraid of her, but you are never to see her.”

“Why, why?”

“Because she is mad.”

---

Nancy spent an almost sleepless night, and awoke the next day with a headache. She got up earlier than usual, and went downstairs. Murray was waiting for her in the hall—as usual, the boarhound, Roy, accompanied him.

“Roy wants to make friends with you, auntie,” said the child. “Come, Roy, come forward, do allegiance.”

The dog turned his eyes on the bright childish face, then he walked straight up to Nancy, lay down at full length at her feet, and tried to lick her shoe with his tongue.

“There, you belong to us now,” said Murray, delighted. “Is not Roy wonderful? I whispered all that to him this morning. He seems to understand almost as if he were a person. It is so nice to think that there are three of us all of one mind—you, and Roy, and I. I know I shall be awfully happy at Rowton Heights in the future.”

“Come to breakfast now, Murray,” said Nancy, holding out her hand.

He clasped it in his and danced into the breakfast room by her side.

“This is Sunday,” he said presently, giving her a glance, as bold and direct as Rowton’s own.

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Rowton.

“Sunday means church. Are you going to church?” asked the child.

Nancy remembered Rowton’s wish on that subject.

“I don’t want to,” she said, “for my head aches; but all the same I shall go.”

“That is awfully brave of you,” replied Murray. “I am delighted, for I always have to go, and I have to sit in that dull old square pew by myself. I hope, auntie, now that you have come to Rowton Heights, you will get the Rowton pew altered, and made like everybody else’s. It is so dull not to see the congregation.”

“Is the pew so high as all that?” asked Nance.

“Yes; if you sit down—I mean if you happen to be a child—you are quite lost to the congregation. Perhaps you will be seen, and perhaps you will see, for you are tall. I like tall girls. I shall marry a very tall girl when I grow up.”

Nancy could not help smiling. The boy’s chatter, the gaiety of his sweet, high laugh, the look in his eyes, ever and always reminding her of Adrian, gave her more pleasure than she knew.

“I see we shall be capital friends,” she said, looking at him affectionately. “We’ll often talk together of that tall girl whom you are to marry. Now come out into the grounds; a little of the fresh air may take off my headache.”

They walked about for some time, and then a beautifully-appointed carriage being brought round, Nancy ran upstairs to put on her bonnet and mantle, and she and Murray drove to church together.

After all, Rowton did not come back in time to go with them. Nancy’s heart sank within her. She did not want to face the eager and curious congregation without him. Her life had been so solitary for such a number of years that she was often affected by almost painful shyness—she felt queerly shy now, and quite trembled as she walked up the little church. A verger went before her, opened the family pew with much ceremony, and ushered in the bride and Murray Cameron. Murray had very quick perceptions. He seemed to guess all that Nancy was feeling—accordingly he sat close to her, seeming to take possession of her. He found her places for her, and saw that she was accommodated with a comfortable footstool; now and then his eyes fixed themselves on her lovely face; when he saw that it looked pale and sad, he slipped his little hand into hers.

The service was about half way through, when the pew door was suddenly opened, and, to Nancy’s surprise, and indescribable delight, Rowton came in. He just glanced at her and then seated himself at her other side. His face looked perfectly serene and contented. Nancy’s face now shared the look of apparent happiness which was seen on his. All her depression vanished on the instant—she felt comforted, soothed, blissful. He had gone away, but he had come back again; the first separation was over; how full of delight were the joys of reunion!

After church Rowton stopped to speak to one or two friends. He introduced Nancy to an old lady with a kindly face, and beautiful grey hair.

“This is my wife, Lady Joyce.”

Lady Joyce favoured Nance with a piercing and yet kindly glance. She held out her hand cordially.

“I am delighted to see you, Mrs. Rowton,” she said. “I hope to have the pleasure of calling on you to-morrow. It was a good day for us all when this young man married and elected to bring his bride back to Rowton Heights.”

Rowton smiled and said something in a light tone. His remark, of a trivial nature, amused the old lady; she laughed in a very hearty way, shaking her sides as she did so.

“Ah! you always were a sad dog,” she said. “Don’t forget that I have known you since you were as tall as that little lad,” pointing to Murray as she spoke. “Mrs. Rowton, I’ll have plenty of tales to tell you of that good husband of yours when we get better acquainted—so you had better keep in my good graces, young man, for you were a pickle when you were young.”

The good lady hobbled off to her carriage as she spoke. Rowton helped her in, and presently Nance, he, and the boy, returned home.

The rest of the day passed without anything special occurring. Rowton and his wife took a walk together. In the evening they sat in the library and Rowton told her stories with regard to several of the books. He never alluded to the sorrow which he knew was waiting for her the next day.

“Time enough,” he said to himself; “I need not leave here till three o’clock in the afternoon—there is a train at three-thirty which will take me to King’s Cross in sufficient time. Let me see, I need not tell her to-night, nor will I tell her to-morrow, until after lunch; we’ll have what happiness we can. After all it may be all right, and I may come back safe and sound, or——” he paused in his own thoughts. A picture rose up before his eyes. He saw himself a corpse, shot through the heart—such an event was more than probable. He knew that he was going into grave danger—that, in very truth, he was about to carry his life in his hand.

“No matter, but for her,” he said to himself. “I am sick of the whole thing, and to die fighting would be the heart of my desire; but I cannot leave her to face what may any moment be before her. No, I must court caution this time—I must avoid risks. Her happiness must come first with me—her happiness! Ah! Nance, what are you looking at me so earnestly for?”

“I see you are not reading,” said Nancy, flinging down her own book.

“No more I am,” he replied. “Come and sit on my knee, little woman. By the way, I have a piece of work for us both to-morrow.”

“What is that?” she asked.

“I want us to overhaul the family plate.”

“Have we much plate?” asked Nance.

“Have we much plate?” he answered, mimicking her tone; “something like three or four thousand pounds’ worth I should say.”

“Adrian!”

“Well, wait until I show it to you to-morrow. My grandfather was celebrated for collecting plate. A good deal of it was mortgaged when my father got into difficulties, but we managed to rescue almost the whole of it. I want to have it all out to-morrow, for I have ordered a special safe of a peculiar make to be sent down from town. Of course there are several men servants in the house; but it is not well to have such a lot of plate unless perfectly secured. I have ordered a safe, however, which would baffle the efforts of the most accomplished burglar in the world. Now let us talk no more about it. If you are not tired, I am. Remember, I was up the whole of last night—suppose we go to bed.”

“I am so sleepy that I can scarcely keep my eyes open,” said Nancy.

“All right, come upstairs.”

The night was over, and the next day, immediately after breakfast, Rowton and Nancy, accompanied by Mrs. Ferguson, the housekeeper, went to the butler’s pantry, where a show of magnificent plate was arranged for them to view.

“This is not all by any means,” said Rowton, running his eyes over the articles as he spoke. “Where are the gold-plated things? I don’t see them.”

“In this chest, sir,” said Mrs. Ferguson.

“Open it, pray. I want Mrs. Rowton thoroughly to understand in what her property consists.”

The chest in question, a very heavy one, which was standing on the floor, was opened by a curious mechanism of keys which completely puzzled Nance. Its contents made a dazzling show; gold-plated spoons of every size and shape, forks, large and small, dessert knives and forks; in short, a complete assortment for the requirements of a good-sized party stood revealed before her.

“See,” said Rowton, taking up one, “these spoons have all got the Rowton crest on them, and just where the crest ends, a ruby of great value has been introduced. They are unique of their kind and are undoubtedly almost priceless.”

“Heaven preserve us, sir,” said Mrs. Ferguson; “I often tremble in my shoes when I think of the plate that is in this house. Why, it would tempt any burglar in the land. I say to Vickers, ‘Vickers, never show this chest to any of the young footmen—you never can tell what friends they have outside.’ That was why I did not open it, sir, until your good lady and you were in the room.”

“Quite right, quite right,” said Rowton; “it would, as you say, never do to let this kind of thing get abroad. I have often half an idea to transfer this chest to the bank at Pitstow; but on second thoughts, what is the use of having pretty and valuable things if we do not use them? Now then, Mrs. Ferguson, open the secret spring of the safe and bring out the jewel case.”

“If you have no objection, sir, I’ll first of all lock the pantry door and draw down the blind.”

“As you please, my good soul; but you don’t suppose that burglars are about at this hour?”

“No, no, sir, of course not, but it’s best to make all safe.”

Rowton stood very upright, with an inscrutable smile on his lips which Nancy remembered by-and-by, as Mrs. Ferguson locked the door, and drew down the venetian blind. The room was now in semi-darkness, but there was plenty of light to see the brilliancy of the magnificent diamond necklet, which he presently lifted out of its velvet case.

“Here,” he said to Nance, “this is yours.”

“Mine?” she answered, her colour coming and going.

“Yes, yours—you shall wear it at the ball. There are heaps of other things, but I flatter myself that the necklet has scarcely its second, certainly not in the county, and perhaps not in the kingdom. I’ll give you its history some day. Ah! it could tell several tales if it could but speak! Here are rubies—magnificent, are they not?”

“Yes, yes,” said Nancy; “how they shine, they seem to fascinate me.”

“Jewels of such value often have that effect on people,” said Rowton. “What is the matter, Mrs. Ferguson? You look quite scared!”

“I never knew those things were here,” said Mrs. Ferguson. “It’s a-tempting of Providence—they ought not to be in the house, that they ought not. It’s enough to frighten me into leaving my situation.”

“What! you would leave us?” said Rowton.

“No, no, sir, you know I would not; but to have diamonds and rubies like those! why, they flash so it is enough to tempt one. There’s something awful uncanny about them. Oh! I don’t say that they are not beautiful; but they look like evil eyes fastening on one—they ought not to be here, sir, in a lonely country house—they ought not, really.”

“I agree with you, Mrs. Ferguson,” said Rowton, “and I shall take measures to have all this valuable plate and these jewels properly secured. This old safe, strong as it looks, is practically of no use at all. I have ordered another down from town. It will arrive to-morrow or the next day, accompanied by several experts, who will give you, Vickers, Mrs. Rowton, and myself, the cipher of how it is worked. No one will be able to open the safe who does not understand the cipher.”

“Then, sir,” said the housekeeper, “I beg to say at once, that no consideration on earth will make me learn it. I’d rather lose a thousand pounds than know how to open that safe.”

“Nonsense, woman,” said Rowton, the colour coming into his face as he spoke. “I think that will do now. Put the jewels back again, and the gold plate and the rest of the things. They have lain here for many a month, not to say years, and they may well stay here in safety for a few days longer. Now come along, Nance mine, I want to take you to the stables. Do you know anything about riding?”

“I used to ride when I was a girl, and when we lived in Harley Street,” said Nance.

“Ah! true,” he said, linking her arm in his and drawing her away from the pantry.

Vickers, the butler, was standing outside. He was an elderly man, stoutly built, with a good-natured and good-humoured face.

“Go into the pantry and help Mrs. Ferguson put away the plate,” said his master.

“Yes, sir,” replied the man.

He disappeared immediately, and Nancy and her husband went out of doors.

“I forgot,” he said, “that up to the age of—how old were you, Nance, when you left Harley Street?”

“Fifteen,” she replied.

“Up to the age of fifteen you had all the things which rich girls possess.”

“Yes, all,” she answered, tears springing suddenly to her eyes. “The best home, the best father, the most loving mother——” she bit her lips and could not go on. She had a vision before her at that moment of Anthony’s splendid young strength, of his courage, his nobleness. She knew now of whom Murray reminded her. He was like Rowton in feature, but, in heart and mind, he was Anthony’s counterpart.

Rowton glanced at her face and guessed something of her thoughts.

“Sweetheart,” he said with a certain gravity which was full of sweetness; “I see that as far as possible, I must banish memory from you. You must live, my beloved, in the glorious present, and forget all those shadows of your early youth.”

“But why forget its sunshine?” she answered.

“Yes, you must even forget its sunshine,” he replied; “for that sun of long ago casts a deep shadow on you now.”

“It does,” she answered, “it does.”

“You will try to forget it?”

“I will,” she replied.

They reached the stables, and he showed her a thoroughbred mare, spirited, obedient to a touch, gentle as a lamb, with a mouth like silk, and a coat which shone like the brightest satin.

“Ho! Bonny Jean,” said her master. The creature raised its perfect head—it had a white star on its forehead—whinnied in some excitement, and thrust its nose into Rowton’s hand.

“This is your mistress, Bonny Jean,” said Rowton again. “You must resume your riding lessons, Nancy,” he continued. “Murray can sit any horse that ever was broken in, or unbroken in for that matter, and when I am not here, he must accompany you—you must ride a good bit. After a little practice you’ll be able to follow the hounds.”

“And you,” she answered, “which is your horse?”

He showed her a beautiful hunter, which went by the name of Peregrine.

“These two make a perfect pair,” he said. “We’ll have many a good canter on their backs. By the way, I must order a habit for you. I will the next time I go to town.”

Nancy did not reply.

The happy morning passed all too swiftly. Lunch was scarcely over before the sound of wheels on the gravel proclaimed the first of the visitors who were calling to pay their respects to the bride.

The lady who drove up now was one of the characters of the neighbourhood—her name was Lady Georgina Strong. She drove herself, and stepped lightly down from the high dog-cart, throwing the reins as she did so to her groom.

Rowton and Nance were standing on the steps of the beautiful old house when she appeared.

“Welcome to Rowton Heights,” said Rowton, taking off his hat and advancing to meet her.

She held out her hand to him, and favoured him with a frank and scrutinising glance.

“How do you do?” she said in a brisk, high voice; “and so this is the baby—come here, baby, and be introduced.”

In some astonishment Nancy ran down the steps.

Lady Georgina gazed at her out of two dark bright eyes, which were rendered more intensely brilliant by means of her pince-nez.

“Ah!” she said, “you are a pretty, fair little girl—no wonder you bowled him over. I was curious to see what sort of a woman could take that fortress. I have known him for close on twenty years—off and on, that is—and I never yet, poke as I would, pry as I would, search as I would, discovered that he had the vestige of a heart. Where did you find it, my dear—under the fifth rib, eh?”

Nancy laughed, but without much cordiality; she did not understand this dashing dame. Rowton, however, seemed to enjoy her badinage thoroughly.

“Come in,” he said, “come in. You have arrived in the nick of time. You always were the most good-natured woman in the world, Lady Georgina, and I trust to your kind clemency for the present moment.”

“Anything that I can do for you, my good friend, you are more than welcome to,” she answered. She walked on with him—he led her into the largest of the drawing-rooms. Nancy followed slowly. Rowton glanced back and saw her at some little distance—she had stopped to speak to Murray, and to caress Roy, who was fast becoming her slave.

“One moment,” said Rowton abruptly, turning and speaking with eagerness. “I am obliged to leave that child in less than half an hour. I am going away.”

“One of the mysterious absences?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Will you be good to her until I come back?” he whispered.

There was no time to add any more.

“I will, I will,” said Lady Georgina.

Nance came up to them.

---

Nance could read faces very quickly.

“What is the matter?” she said, looking at her husband.

He hesitated for a moment. It seemed cruel to tell her before Lady Georgina; but after all it might be the best way.

“I was telling this good old friend of mine,” he said, “that I am obliged to leave Rowton Heights in a few minutes. I was asking her to be good to you during my absence.”

Nance had a good deal of pride, and also much latent strength of character. Had Rowton given her this information when they were alone, she would probably have cried and fallen on his neck; now she only turned very pale, drew herself up until her slender but stately height gave her new-born dignity, and said in a gentle tone:

“Thank you for thinking about me. I did not know you were going away. Shall you be back to-morrow?”

“Plucky darling,” said Rowton under his breath. Aloud he said: “I shall be away for a few days. I will write to you from town.”

“And where are you going?” she asked in a curiously steady tone.

“I will let you know from town.”

“But are you going soon?” she asked again.

“In five minutes, dearest.”

“Then,” she answered, “I had better ring the bell to order the dog-cart round.”

“If you’ll be so kind, Nance,” he replied.

She went across the room and pressed the button of the electric bell, then she walked to one of the windows and stood looking out.

“I admire this view very much, don’t you?” she said to Lady Georgina.

“It is one of the most superb views in the county, Mrs. Rowton,” said that good lady, marching up to Nancy’s side.

“I will help her out—she has stuff in her,” thought the lady. “By the way,” she said, turning abruptly to Rowton, “what do you think of that mare I chose for you?”

“I was just showing her to Nancy,” said Rowton, smiling and looking relieved; “she is perfect.”

“You would say so if you saw her pedigree. Now, Mrs. Rowton, I propose to call here early to-morrow morning to take you out for a ride. Without conceit I can say of myself that I am one of the most accomplished horsewomen in the county. Will you be ready for me by nine o’clock?”

“So early?” asked Nance.

“So early!” exclaimed Lady Georgina; “I am often on horseback at seven o’clock. Ah! and you might bring your husband’s little nephew with you; that boy rides splendidly—he has no fear in him.”

Nancy did not reply. The sound of wheels was heard on the gravel.

“There is the dog-cart,” she said, looking at Rowton.

“So it is,” he answered—he looked at his watch—“and time for me to be off too. I see they have put the luggage on. Good-bye, Lady Georgina, a thousand thanks. Good-bye, little woman, expect to hear from me from town.”

“Good-bye, Adrian,” said Nancy. Her voice felt like ice, but her heart was on fire.

Rowton took her in his arms and pressed her to his breast; his lips met hers passionately, his eyes, bold and yet full of subdued anguish, looked into hers. He turned abruptly, the door sounded behind him, and a moment later the crunching of wheels on the gravel became distinctly audible.

“I would not overdo it,” said Lady Georgina, looking at Nance.

“Overdo what?” she answered somewhat proudly.

“Well, you know you feel horribly lonely without that good fellow. I never saw anything more plucky in my life than the way you subdued your feelings and let him go away without a murmur, but you need not mind me—I am the soul of frankness—the essence of openness. I always say what I think and show what I feel. You can copy me. It strikes me, by the way, that you and I are going to be friends.”

“I hope so,” said Nancy.

“I know it, that is, if you will have me. I am a good friend, Mrs. Rowton, and a very nasty enemy. You may as well take me as a friend, will you?”

“You are Adrian’s friend, and you shall be mine,” said Nancy.

“That is right. Now, look here, child. I am not going to leave you to your own miserable feelings for the rest of the day. I know that good man you have married fifty times better than you do.”

“I can scarcely allow you to think that,” said Nancy.

“Oh! tut, tut, of course, I don’t mean the love-making side of him. He never would make love to anybody, although half the girls round the Heights had a try for it in the old days; but I know a side of him that you do not know. He is restless, he is essentially a rover—a gay rover, we all call him here. You must get accustomed to his vanishing in the peculiar way he has just vanished—he will come back as suddenly; without the least warning, any day or any hour the sunshine of his presence will once more light up the house. Now, come for a walk in the grounds—and, oh! by the way, pray invite me to dinner.”

Nancy could scarcely forbear from smiling.

“Will you stay?” she asked.

“Scarcely a cordial invitation,” said Lady Georgina, biting her lips and smiling; “all the same I shall accept it. If you will excuse me, I’ll just go and speak to my groom; he can take Dandy round to the stables. I need not send for a dinner dress, need I?”

“Oh, no; stay as you are,” said Nance. She felt slightly stunned, but Lady Georgina’s presence forced her to rouse herself.

They went into the grounds. The day was sunshiny, and the first signs of spring began to be apparent in some delicate buds of green which were coming out on the ribes and other of the hardiest shrubs. As they walked side by side, Lady Georgina kept up a flow of small talk. She was a woman of considerable character, although at first sight she appeared to be nothing but froth and frivolity. She had a kindly and sterling heart. She knew more about Rowton than he had any idea of, and she pitied Nance from the bottom of her heart.

“How pretty she is!” she said to herself. “Anyone can see that she is madly in love with that handsome lion. Poor child, what will her future be? If my suspicions are correct, what chance has she of lasting happiness? Well, I like her husband, whatever his failings, and I am going to like her.”

Accordingly Lady Georgina put out her really great powers, and before long Nance had submitted to her charm. They walked about for over an hour and then came in to tea. Afterwards Nance took her guest up to her bedroom.

Hester entered to attend to the ladies. When she had withdrawn Lady Georgina spoke about her to Nance.

“I know that girl,” she said; “her name is Hester Winsome. She used to be one of my favourite pupils in the village school. She went off to London when she was fifteen. I have heard things of her since, which were not absolutely in her favour. Why have you engaged her as your maid?”

“I do not know anything about it,” said Nance. “Mrs. Ferguson brought her to me on the night of my arrival. She told me she was a girl from the village who had been thoroughly trained in London.”

“Oh! I don’t doubt the training,” said Lady Georgina. “I think she got a start when she saw me—she pretended not to recognise me. Frankly, I don’t like her.”

“Nor do I in my heart,” said Nancy; “but she is very attentive and clever.”

“Clever! too clever,” said Lady Georgina. “Don’t let her pry into your secrets.”

“My secrets—I have none,” said Nance. Then she paused and coloured crimson. She remembered the great secret which pressed upon her day and night.

“Why do you get so red, child?” said Lady Georgina. “You say you have no secrets, but your face says you have. Now, don’t tempt me. If I have a fault, it is curiosity, inordinate curiosity. I never betray a friend, and once I know the truth I never question, and never, never pry; but until I know the truth I am—well, I cannot help it—troublesome. Don’t show me a little, Nance Rowton, for if you do I shall poke out all.”

“I am sure you won’t,” said Nancy—“you are too much of a lady.”

“Now, was there ever such a snub!” said Lady Georgina, tapping her foot somewhat impatiently on the floor as she spoke. “Child, you are quite refreshing. If you speak in that frank way to everyone else you will bowl all the county over; but I hear wheels—more visitors—come along down and I will help you to entertain them.”

Until quite late in the afternoon, until the winter’s day had faded into dark, Nance and Lady Georgina, or rather Lady Georgina herself, entertained the county at Rowton Heights.

Each neighbour with the least pretensions to gentility hastened to pay respect to Rowton’s fair bride.

“You must begin to return all these visits in a few days,” said Lady Georgina.

“I cannot until Adrian comes back,” said Nance.

“Oh! nonsense, you must manage to lead an interested and happy life apart from that husband of yours.”

“No, I won’t,” said Nance proudly.

“Oh! you won’t. You will sing a different tune after a time. I tell you, Mrs. Rowton, he has got his own pursuits, and he will follow them to the death in spite of you or twenty girls like you, and you’ll die of ennui if you have not your own individual interests. You must begin to return these calls by the end of the week, and then invitations will pour in. If Mr. Rowton is at home he will go with you, if not, you must go by yourself or with me. I shall be delighted to chaperone you to any extent.”

Nance bowed her head somewhat wearily. A good deal of Lady Georgina’s gay chatter was scarcely heard by her. She admitted all the kindness, but her heart was sore, and she longed indescribably to be alone. When the good lady at last took her leave, Nancy could not help giving vent to a sigh of relief. Soon afterwards she went upstairs to bed.

On the way to her own room, just outside the door she came face to face with her maid, Hester, who was talking to an elderly woman, with sandy hair and a broad freckled face. The woman had straight lips, a jaw of iron, and pale light blue eyes. She was dressed very neatly, but not in the dress of an ordinary servant. Her hair was tightly braided and she wore it perfectly smooth.

“Well, good night, Leah,” said Hester, as Mrs. Rowton appeared on the scene.

The woman called Leah favoured Nancy with a prolonged and undoubtedly curious stare.

“Good evening, ma’am,” she said; then she dropped a curtsey and disappeared down a passage.

“Who is that?” asked Nancy of Hester.

“She is the caretaker of the poor mad lady,” replied Hester.

“Then what is she doing in this part of the house?”

“She was only talking to me about her charge, Mrs. Rowton. She says that poor Mrs. Cameron is very queer to-night, and Leah wanted to know if I would go and help her to sit up with her.”

“Well, of course you won’t, Hester,” said Nance. “I do not know anything about the case, but you surely want your night’s rest, and I am sure Mr. Rowton——”

“Oh!” said Hester, with a toss of her head, “Mr. Rowton would not interfere with a thing of this sort. Leah does want help at times, for Mrs. Cameron is terribly violent. Indeed, I cannot make out why she is not put into an asylum like other mad ladies.”

“It is not your business to discuss that question,” replied Nance.

“Of course not, ma’am, and I am sorry I forgot myself.” Hester spoke in a subdued voice; she turned her back on Nance, who did not see the angry and vindictive flash in her eyes. “Shall I take down your hair now, ma’am?” she asked, speaking in a tone almost of servility.

“Thank you, no, I prefer to wait on myself to-night.”

“As you please, ma’am. I have left everything ready and comfortable in your bedroom. You are quite sure you would not like me to help you to get into bed?”

“Quite sure, thank you.”

“Very well, ma’am, then I think with your permission I’ll go to Leah; I am not at all nervous with the insane, but Leah, strong as she looks, gets quite overpowered at times.”

“But surely Leah has not the care of Mrs. Cameron by herself?” asked Nance. The words were almost forced from her, for she had the greatest dislike to discussing the matter with Hester.

“Oh! yes, ma’am, I assure you it is so—those two always sleep alone in the Queen Anne wing. After all, it is only occasionally that it is necessary for Leah to have assistance. Well, I’ll go to her now—I like to be good-natured.”

“Good night,” said Nance.

“Good night, madam; I hope you’ll sleep well.”

---

The woman whom Nance had seen the night before came forward with quick strides.

“None of this folly, Mrs. Cameron,” she said in a powerful voice. “Leave that young lady alone this minute, or you know perfectly well what will happen. Now take my arm. You have disobeyed me and you know you must be punished.”

The miserable creature seemed to shrink and collapse into herself. She gave Nance a piteous look.

Nance’s kind heart was immediately touched.

“Do not be hard on her,” she said, speaking to Leah; “she really meant no harm. She came out on purpose to see me. She was curious, I suppose—it was perfectly natural, was it not?”

“Yes, yes, that is it—it was perfectly natural,” said the mad woman. “You hear her, Leah, she said I meant no harm. I only came out to tell her what she ought to know. For instance—the cellars.”

“Hold your tongue this minute,” said Leah. “If you’ll have the goodness, madam,” she continued, addressing Mrs. Rowton, “to leave us now, I think I can take Mrs. Cameron home quietly. She was excited last night and is not quite herself. Of course, you know well enough, that anything she may tell you is not of the slightest consequence.”

“Ha! ha! Leah, you know better than that,” laughed Mrs. Cameron. Her laugh was so wild that it was blood-curdling.

“Good-bye,” said Nance in a kind and steady voice. She held out her hand, and the mad lady seized it in a fierce grip.

“I like you—I love you,” she said. “Yes, yes, even I—even I can love, and I love you—you are a sweet little girl. I’ll be your friend. Be sure you come to me when you really want a friend. Good-bye, good-bye, pretty little Mrs. Rowton.”

She turned as she spoke, and Nance walked away through the wood. She had been brave enough during the interview, but now she trembled exceedingly. She felt suddenly quite weak and faint. When Murray discovered her, she was leaning against a tree too exhausted to proceed on her walk.

The boy’s eyes were red as if he had been crying, but when he saw Nance a smile flitted bravely across his face.

“Oh! don’t think about me,” he said. “I am so glad you are safe. Of course, you got a fright—you are not accustomed to this sort of thing. I am—I mean there have often been scenes like this one, and mother has said dreadful things of me. It is rather hard to hear your own mother speak of you like that, is it not? but I know she does not mean it—it is just her awful affliction. I love her very much. There is nothing I would not do for her. She has been very badly used, but I will not go into that now. May I take you home?”

“Yes, Murray, I am dreadfully tired,” said Nance in a faint voice.

Murray gave her his shoulder to lean on.

“Lean hard,” he said; “I am a splendid stick.”

By and-by they reached the house and Nance went away to her own room. She lay down on her bed and made a great effort to shut away all thought. This was by no means easy. There was much to think about—much to puzzle and perplex her. Her husband’s mysterious absence; the near vicinity of the poor insane lady; the strange words which the lady had used: “I am here as a blind. Ask Adrian Rowton what goes on in the cellars at night.” What did it all mean? What could it mean? Nancy’s heart beat with great throbs—she felt excited and terribly overwrought. Her adventures, however, were by no means at an end. She was just falling off into a restful doze, when the door of her bedroom was softly opened, and her maid, Hester, advanced across the room on tiptoe.

Nancy’s antipathy to this girl was decidedly on the increase, and she now raised her head and spoke almost irritably.

“What is it, Hester?” she said.

The girl approached the bedside with alacrity.

“I just came in to find out whether you were asleep or not, madam,” she said. “I am glad you are awake, for there is a man downstairs. I suppose he is a gentleman, but I cannot say. Anyhow he has called to see you. He said I was to tell you that Mr. Crossley was below.”

“Crossley,” said Nance with a start. She sat up in bed. A queer look came into her eyes.

“When did he call?” she asked the girl.

“Half an hour ago, ma’am, I believe. Vickers has shown him in the library. He said he would wait your convenience.”

“Go to Vickers and tell him to say to Mr. Crossley that I will be with him in a few minutes,” replied Nance.

The girl left the room, walking with her usual absolutely noiseless tread.

“Mr. Crossley,” murmured Nance.

All her depression left her on the moment. Her thoughts were completely turned into a new channel. Since her father’s death she had lived in a dream of excitement, of adventure, of golden bliss. It was true lurid lights were coming into this dream of hers; but the subject of all her young life hitherto had been banished from view. Now she remembered it with a pang and a thrill—a pang of deep pain and self-reproach, a thrill of excitement. She thought of her father when he lay dying. She remembered the mission which had been given to her. Her promise to her dying father was abundantly recalled by the mere mention of Crossley’s name.

She had taken off her dress, but she soon replaced it. She brushed out her beautiful hair, gave one glance at herself in the long mirror and ran downstairs.

Nance knew Crossley, the detective—she had often seen him before. During the six years she had lived with her father at the Grange, he had come to see them as a rule three or four times a year. At each interview she had been present. It was perfectly true that she and her father had indeed stood side by side in their intense eagerness to track the man who had sent Anthony to an early grave. She was with her father now, heart and soul. Her beautiful eyes shone as she entered the library.

“Mr. Crossley, I am glad to see you,” she said.

Crossley, a stout middle-aged man, with grizzly hair and bushy whiskers, came out of the recess of one of the windows. He made a low bow to the mistress of Rowton Heights.

“I thought it best to call, madam,” he said. “Since the letter which you wrote to me announcing Dr. Follett’s death, I have been actively pursuing inquiries, and with, I believe, a certain measure of success. In short, I am now in possession of facts which can really lead to the ultimate discovery of——”

“Hubert Lefroy?” interrupted Nance.

“Yes, or the man who called himself Hubert Lefroy.”

“You are certain, then, that the name is a feigned one?”

“I am positive; but do not say the word so loud—there may be listeners about.”

“Oh! no, that is impossible,” said Nance, but she glanced nervously behind her back as she spoke. “I am very glad you came,” she said; “sit down, won’t you? My husband is away from home at present.”

“I am aware of that fact,” answered Crossley.

“Are you? How did you find out?”

“In the usual way, madam. When I take up a case of this kind I employ emissaries all over the country, and nothing takes place with regard to my clients’ movements that I am not acquainted with. Your father’s strange case has, as you are aware, Mrs. Rowton, occupied my best attention for many years. During his lifetime, owing to the absence of almost all clues, we have been unsuccessful in bringing matters to an issue. But since his death unexpected developments have taken place, and these I may as well own have startled me considerably. I must repeat the words which I have already uttered—I am, I believe, in a position to lay my hands on the man who murdered your brother.”

“Then why don’t you do it?” said Nancy. “This excites me very much,” she continued. She rose as she spoke, tugged at the neck of her dress as though she felt her breathing a little difficult, and then crossed the room to one of the windows.

“You understand my position,” she said after a pause. “I am my father’s representative. It is my painful duty to carry out this search to the bitter end.”

“Is it your duty?” asked Crossley.

“Is it my duty?” repeated the young lady; “need you ask? I am under a vow.”

The detective gave Nance a long and earnest gaze. He had one of those faces extremely difficult to read. It was smooth in outline, commonplace in expression; it was a contented, slightly self-satisfied face; the eyes were well open and of a serene tone of blue; the mouth was hidden by a thick short moustache. Crossley was the sort of man who would pass anywhere without exciting the least attention. He had the sort of physiognomy which thousands of other people possess. No one to look at him would suppose for a moment that he was one of the shrewdest detectives of his day—a man practically at the head of his profession—keen to read motives, capable of looking down into the hearts of many apparently inexplicable mysteries.

While he gave Nance one of his slow and apparently indifferent glances, he was really looking into her troubled heart.

“You are a happy young married lady now,” he said after a pause.

“Yes, yes, I am very happy,” she said, clasping her hands.

“You are much attached to your good husband, madam?”

“Need you ask?” Her eyes filled slowly with tears.

“Then for Heaven’s sake, Mrs. Rowton,” said the detective, speaking in an altogether new voice for him, “give this matter up, let it drop. Nay, hear me out”—he raised his hand to interrupt a flow of words which were rushing to Nancy’s lips—“I am speaking against myself and against my own interests when I so advise you; but I am not without heart, madam, and I have seen in the past how sad your life was and how you suffered. It is my profession to hunt down criminals—to scent crime to its source. In this case let me do what is contrary to my profession—let me leave the curtain unlifted. Mrs. Rowton, may I persuade you to leave justice and revenge in this special case to Heaven?”

“I cannot,” said Nance. “I am amazed to hear you speak in that tone—you, of all people. I cannot possibly do it. What do you mean? What can you mean?”

“What I say, madam. I will tell you quite frankly why I came here to-day. I came to Rowton Heights for a double purpose. I am, I believe, in possession at last of a valuable clue which may lead to the arrest of the man who took your brother’s life; but I find on looking into matters that there are complications in connection with this search, and because of these, I would earnestly beg of you, from a friendly point of view, to give up the search. Now, Mrs. Rowton, I shall not explain myself. Once again I beg of you to let the matter drop. Do not carry on this search any further.”

“I wonder at you,” said Nance, with sparkling eyes; “and you call yourself a professional detective!”

“I do, madam, I do; but even a professional detective may have a heart.”

“Well, listen to me,” said Nance. “I hate the man who killed my brother. Two passions move me—love for my husband, and hatred for the man who killed my young brother. When I think of that ruffian I have no heart; when I think of my ruined father’s life, of my brother’s shameful death, I have no heart—none. I am under a vow to the dead. I must carry on this search. Do you understand me?”

“I do, Mrs. Rowton. Well, I have done my duty in recommending mercy to you. Some day you may regret that you have not listened to me.”

“I shall never regret it. Now let us drop this side of the question. You have a clue—tell me all about it.”

---

About a month after the events recorded in the last chapter, some men who went by the name of the Silver School, or Mob, assembled for an important meeting. The Silver School had existed now for several years, doing its mysterious work effectually and quietly, and never exciting suspicion, except in the minds of certain individuals in New Scotland Yard. They had meeting places all over England, and not only in England, but also in many parts of the world. They knew each other by a certain code or cipher; they had their own peculiar way of shaking hands; their own peculiar nod or smile; they were in short, a dangerous secret society, their object being to upset morality and turn the system which makes a man’s property his own topsy-turvy. Often they met at a lonely public-house; often in the heart of the busy town; but their favourite place of meeting was in the house of a private individual near the Chelsea Embankment—the very place where Rowton had gone to see Long John just before his mission to Spain.

To-night the members assembled themselves by a roaring fire, and taking out their pipes awaited the appearance of their leader.

Adrian Rowton, who went by the name of Silver, was in many respects the leader of the School. He was secretly admired by every other member; but their real chief, the man whom they feared, respected, hated, thrilled under, was Piper, or Long John, as they called him. Piper had none of Rowton’s dare-devil and careless magnificence of manner. He often appeared rather to slink than to walk into a room; but there was not a member of the Silver Mob who did not tremble when he spoke to him, and did not feel elated for a whole week if the chief gave him even a scant word of praise.

To-night, as the men sat together, they looked anxiously at one another.

“Well, Scrivener, and how do you find the country?” said the landlord, Simpkins, who was invariably present at these meetings. “What sort of a place is Pitstow? You don’t look, to judge from your face, as if you found the air so wonderfully bracing, after all.”

“The air is well enough, but there are other drawbacks—don’t you meddle, Simpkins,” replied Scrivener.

“You’re as unsociable as usual, Scrivener,” exclaimed another man. He uttered a whole jargon of mysterious epithets, and then continued abruptly: “Well, out with the cat. Why did you come up to night? I don’t believe Long John expected you.”

“Don’t you? I should not have come if he didn’t. I had a wire from him at ten o’clock this morning. Don’t you know that Silver has come back?”

“Ah,” muttered one or two voices deeply and under the breath.

This exclamation had scarcely sounded through the room before the door was opened and Long John, accompanied by Rowton, entered.

Long John’s eyes looked kind and pathetic; his lips intensely firm, a smile now and then parting them and showing the white teeth. That smile, innocent as it appeared, was the dread of every man in the room.

As Rowton now walked by his side up to the top of the room, he felt that the chief was smiling, and augured ill from the circumstance.

“Welcome back, Silver,” said one or two voices as he passed them. Simpkins in particular, a cadaverous-looking man for all his apparent prosperity, clutched hold of Rowton’s coat to attract attention.

“It’s all right, old man,” said Rowton, nodding to him.

The man’s face instantly relaxed into a happier expression.

“Sit down near me, Rowton, and tell us all that you have done during your absence,” said Long John. “We did not expect you for at least another fortnight. Have you concluded the business?”

“Yes and no,” replied Rowton.

“That is very ambiguous—explain yourself.”

“I have concluded the greater part of it, but not all, Piper,” replied Rowton.

“And why not all, my good fellow? You went away for a definite purpose. It was understood, was it not, that you were on no account to show your face in England again until that purpose was completed in its entirety?”

“I managed the diamonds and have brought them back with me,” answered Rowton.

“Aye, aye, that’s right—that’s the main thing,” muttered several voices at the other end of the room.

“Silence there,” said Long John. He did not speak loudly, but his eyes flashed fire.

“Give us full particulars,” he said, flinging himself back in his chair, and swinging round in such a way that his eyes could comfortably fix themselves on Rowton’s face. Rowton looked haggard; there were a few streaks of white in his black hair; he was unshaven, and had a somewhat unkempt appearance. He told his story briefly, speaking with a certain terseness which compelled every man in the room to listen to him, not only with interest, but respect.

“I have brought a specimen of the diamonds with me,” he said after a pause. He drew forth a small bag as he spoke—he had been holding it all this time between his knees—opened the bag with a peculiarly-shaped key, and taking out a harmless-looking brown paper parcel, laid it on Piper’s knee.

“There they are,” he said; “in the rough, it is true. These are just ordinary specimens of the pile. The whole thing is worth between eighty and one hundred thousand pounds. I have the remainder at my hotel off the Strand.”

Long John got up with a certain eagerness, which not all his efforts to show no emotion could altogether conceal. He took the little parcel, laid it on the table, opened it and called the other men to come round.

They were rewarded by nothing apparently remarkable—a few rough-looking stones, uncut and dull, lay before them.

Long John fingered one or two, giving them a peculiar and intense glance out of his melancholy eyes.

“And the rest are at the hotel?” he said.

“Yes, in a packet in a cupboard at the back of my bed.”

“Why did you not bring them?”

“I might have been watched. It was not safe. I will return for them later on to-night, if one of you men will accompany me. Those diamonds had just arrived from Kimberley and were waiting to be put into the Bank at Madrid. I nabbed them in the nick of time.”

“Yes, yes; you did well—you told us all that story,” said Piper.

“You did very well. No one but Silver could have managed it,” said one of the other men in a tone of deep elation. “This haul sets us straight, don’t it, Piper?”

“The diamonds have to be realised,” said Piper; “and we have not got them yet. How did you get on at Madrid in other respects?”

“As well as possible,” answered Rowton with a short laugh. “My introductions got me into the best society in the place. I made some friends and saw something of the life.”

“Well, so far so good,” said Piper; “but now for the other part of the business. You sold that black diamond, did you not?”

“I got rid of it for fifteen hundred pounds. I have the money in my breast pocket.”

“Too little,” said Piper, with a frown. “I said it was worth two thousand—you sold it for five hundred pounds below its market value.”

“I could not help that.”

“You were right, Silver, of course you were right,” said Scrivener, coming close up to Piper and Rowton as he spoke. “It would never have done to have brought the black diamond home again—some of us might have swung for it. Good to have it out of the land. You are certain it won’t be traced, though, old chap—remember it has a history.”

“No, it is safe enough,” said Rowton with a grim smile.

“You did right to sell it for fifteen hundred,” repeated Scrivener.

“And I say he did wrong,” exclaimed Piper, stamping his foot as he spoke; “the stone was worth two thousand pounds, and if Rowton had played his cards well he’d have got it.”

“I could do no better,” said Rowton, with a frown between his brows.

“Stuff!” exclaimed Piper. “What is the good of having a man like you attached to us—a man who may trip us up at any moment—if you cannot do what you are commissioned to do? This loss of five hundred must be accounted for when we divide the profits.”

“As you please,” said Rowton, slightly bowing his head. “The money part of the business does not affect me in the least.”

“You have been feeding too well, my fighting cock,” said Piper with a sneer. “You would sing another tune were I to take you at your word.”

Rowton said nothing. He leant back in his chair folding his arms. The other men still lingered round the table where the specimen diamonds were lying. Piper went up to the table, took the little parcel, folded it up and placed it in his desk at the top of the room. He locked the desk and put the key in his pocket.

“The rest of the diamonds have got to be fetched to-night,” he said, looking at the men. “You, Scrivener, and you, Simpkins, had better accompany Rowton when he leaves us—wait for him outside the hotel, take the bag from him and bring it straight here. You can manage to do this when the policeman is off his beat.”

“Rather,” said Scrivener, with a smile. “All the same it is a ticklish business,” he added.

“But worth one hundred thousand pounds. We must realise that money and soon. I have got my plans all marked out. You, Scrivener, are the man for the job.”

“I?” said Scrivener, looking up with a startled and scared face.

“Yes, you are not going to funk it—we will make a man of you—you want to marry, too, don’t you?”

“Oh, time enough,” said Scrivener with a smirk.

“Not at all. It is good for a man to have a wife, and your wedding bells shall ring before long. You are a good fellow, one of the best of us. What do you say to our starting you as a jeweller? A merchant who buys rough diamonds in the ordinary market. I heard only to-day that a small jeweller’s shop in Cheapside was going a-begging—you shall take it, change your name and your coat, and do good business. We will fit you up with capital, and you shall buy sufficient diamonds at the ordinary price to lull suspicion. By degrees those which Rowton has brought back from Spain can be sold at full market value.”

“That’s a prime notion,” said Simpkins, coming forward.

“Yes, we’ll talk of it later on—I have the whole thing neatly planned. Scrivener shall take the shop to-morrow. Now, then, to turn to another matter. Come here, Silver, let us hear the whole of your story. You did part of our work, but not all. What about the bonds? How did that affair prosper?”

“I have returned without executing that part of my order,” said Rowton in a brief tone.

“You have!”

Long John sprang to his feet, so did Scrivener, so did Simpkins, so did every other man in the room. Rowton alone remained seated. He raised his head and stared from one to the other.

“Your reasons,” said Piper then; “your reasons, my noble leader.”

“I am not your leader, and you know it,” replied Rowton. “You lead us all.”

“That’s neither here nor there,” interrupted Long John, with a sneer on his lips. “You are our ostensible leader. Why did you not bring back the bonds as well as the diamonds?”

“I was in the train,” said Rowton, speaking slowly, and raising his eyes until their full insolent light was fixed intensely upon Long John’s face; “I was in the train which ran from Madrid to Paris, and the bonds were there; but the work given me to do was dirty, defiling, dangerous. I thought I had done enough—in short, I did not execute my commission.”

“Your reason?” said Piper in a low voice.

“Quite simple, and I am not afraid to state it,” replied Rowton. “I saw plainly that were I to pursue the business in connection with those special bonds, although my confederate Spider might escape, my own life would be the forfeit.”

“Spider—by the way, where is Spider?” asked Scrivener.

“I left him in Spain—he is all right.”

“And so you feared your life would be the forfeit?” snarled Piper.

“Yes.”

“Well, and what of it, you dog?”

“Everything—to myself,” replied Rowton. “I don’t choose to die. I—if you like the word, I will use it—I funked that part of my expedition.”

An incredulous and amazed look filled the eyes of every man in the room. Even Long John’s eyes leapt for a moment with an expression almost of compassion; then they fixed themselves in a stony stare on Rowton’s proud face.

“It is not like you, Silver, to be a coward,” he said then; “the word fits you badly. You were always our dare-devil; no danger was too hot for you. Why do you come back to us with the story of a sneak? I repeat, it is not like you.”

“I did not secure the bonds,” continued Rowton, speaking in a steady and absolutely quiet voice, “for the simple reason that, had I done so, my own life would have been the forfeit. I do not choose now to throw away my life.”

“And why now, if I may venture to ask the question of your mightiness?” snapped Piper.

“Because I have got a wife, and I do not intend her to become a widow.”

Something like a groan was heard throughout the room. It was more than evident that no one present sympathised with Rowton.

After a pause he said abruptly, rising as he spoke:

“You must get another man for that part of the business. I distinctly refuse to commit myself in the matter. My life is of moment to me.”

“Coward!” growled one or two.

“You may taunt me with that word if you like, my good fellows,” said Rowton, looking down the room as he spoke. “Your taunts will not in the least affect me, or turn me from my set purpose. I am willing to go into danger for your cause, but into absolute and certain defeat I no longer venture. My wife is much more valuable to me than the opinions of the Silver Mob. Now, Piper, in bringing you the diamonds, I have, I think, executed my orders as fully as I can execute them. Here is the money for the black diamond. When I deliver over the packet which contains the diamonds in the rough, to Scrivener and Simpkins, I shall feel that I have earned a holiday. I am anxious to return to Rowton Heights early to-morrow morning. Have you anything further to say?”

“Yes, a good deal,” said Piper; “sit down again and don’t be so impatient. As to your conduct with regard to the bonds, I refuse to speak further about it on the present occasion. I must consult with Scrivener and one or two other members of the School, and shall probably summon you here any day within the next week or fortnight. In the meantime there are other matters to be talked over. We want fresh blood—the School won’t prosper without. What sort of a boy is that lad of yours?”

“What lad?” asked Rowton, raising his head, but a startled expression all the same crossing his face.

“You know the boy I mean—the son of the mad woman. Is he a plucky little chap?”

“I refuse to say anything about him—he has nothing to do with you nor you with him.”

“That’s as we may think best,” said Piper, with another sneer. “After all, I can get information apart from you. Scrivener, come here.”

Scrivener, who had re-seated himself near the fire between Simpkins and another man with a particularly evil cast of face, now stepped lightly across the room.

“Scrivener,” said Long John, “have you made good use of your time at Pitstow?”

“Excellent, Piper,” replied the man. “I have mapped out the entire district. I know every room in every house, the amount of——”

“That will do,” said Piper, raising his hand; “we can go into that matter at a less pressing moment than the present. What sort is Rowton’s boy?”

“A fine lad,” said Scrivener.

“You have seen him?”

“Often.”

“Describe him.”

“Slim, dark, tall,” answered Scrivener; “plucky, a little dare-devil like his uncle there—in short, Silver himself in miniature.”

“Suitable, do you think?” said Long John, looking fixedly at Scrivener.

“Undoubtedly; the very lad for our purpose; heaps of go in him; don’t know the meaning of funk; slippery and agile as an eel.”

“That will do, Scrivener,” said Long John.

Scrivener retired down the room and Long John turned to Rowton.

Rowton was standing perfectly upright with his back to the wall. He was looking straight before him down the long vista of the room.

“Silver, you have disappointed me,” said Long John. “What I expected would happen, when you took it into your head to marry a wife, has happened. You are now half hearted, lukewarm. We don’t want lukewarm people here. Get you gone to Rowton Heights if you want to—that is, after you have delivered the swag to Scrivener and Simpkins. Yes, get you gone; take your holiday; kiss your wife, and make the most of her. Embrace your nephew, too, for if my plans are carried out, you won’t have him long. Now go. Hark ye, though, one moment. That safe was sent down to the Heights, was it not?”

“I ordered it, but cannot tell if it has arrived,” replied Rowton. “I have been out of England for a month, and during that time I have had no news.”

“The safe arrived weeks ago,” called out Scrivener from his seat by the fire.

“That’s right,” said Long John. “We can open up business in that neighbourhood next week. Go home, Silver. Your duty now is to entertain the county. Cease to be Silver, the head of our School, and assume your rightful name—Rowton, the heir to a fine old country estate, the owner of an ideal country house. Wake up the county, entertain them. Be the good old English squire; dispense hospitality right and left; use your wife as a bribe to induce the neighbours to come to your house. Be a complete blind yourself, and leave us to our work. We won’t trouble you for a time. We will respect your scruples and your fears.”

Piper’s lips smiled grimly as he uttered the last words, but his eyes looked gentle and refined.

“I have a word to say,” interrupted Rowton.

“What is that?”

“I return to Rowton Heights and I do exactly what you wish me to do, but only on a condition.”

“There you are with your conditions again,” laughed Scrivener.

“Silence,” said Long John.

“I do what you want, Piper, on one condition.”

“Your position does not admit of conditions,” said Piper. “You are completely under my thumb. You dare not move an inch except as I will you—you know that.”

“I do not.”

“What does the fighting cock mean?” cried several voices.

“I owe submission to none of you,” repeated Rowton. “There is always, you men understand, such a thing as throwing up the sponge. I am completely sick of this life. If you put the screw on too tight I throw up the sponge—how I do it is my own affair.”

The man standing there gloomy, defiant, his head thrown back, his bold eyes fixed on the pathetic and peculiar eyes of the chief, was a spectacle to bring forth admiration in the breasts of such men as were members of his School. There was absolute sincerity in Rowton’s tone. He was driven into a corner—he could turn round and show fight. To such a man suicide was more than possible. Suicide would be bad enough. Rowton was an important member of the School—his presence, his individuality, his life, were essential to the carrying on of the nefarious business. If he really threw up the sponge, danger might quickly accrue.

“Your condition?” asked Long John.

“I do what you wish,” continued Rowton, tugging at his moustache as he spoke; “I keep up this horrible farce, this tragedy of comedy, I put my powers, my genius, at your command, I blind the county and you can do your cursed will, provided you leave that lad of mine alone.”

---

Until the daylight dawned in the far east the merry ball went on. Even with daylight the happy dancers were scarcely willing to give up such glorious fun; but the happiest times must come to an end, and at long length the sound of the last carriage wheels was heard to die away upon the gravel outside the old house. The guests who were staying in the house retired to their various rooms, and Nance, Lady Georgina, and Rowton found themselves for a moment alone together.

“I am dead tired, of course,” said Lady Georgina, “but I really may as well say frankly that I never had a better time in my life. The whole thing was so young and yet so old.”

“What do you mean by that conundrum?” asked Rowton with a careless laugh.

“Must I unriddle my riddle?” she replied. “Well, then, here’s the answer. The ball was young because it was spirited and absolutely unconventional; it was old because it seemed to partake of a certain last century flavour—the room, the situation, certain memories, all conspired to that; but most of all was the last century flavour accentuated by Dame Rowton’s presence.” Here Lady Georgina gave a mock but graceful bow in pretty Nancy’s direction. “Have I explained myself?” she said, turning her bright eyes full on Rowton’s somewhat flushed but handsome face.

“Perfectly,” he replied. “You have the gift, Lady Georgina, of making very neat compliments. Now I vote that we all go to bed and discuss the charms of our house-warming to-morrow.”

“By the way,” said Lady Georgina, as she prepared to leave the room, “I missed one person towards the end of the evening. Who was it ordered little Murray off to bed so early?”

“Murray to bed!” exclaimed Nancy. “Why, surely he never went to bed. He begged of me to let him stay up during the entire night, and, perhaps not very wisely, I gave him leave. The fact is, I did not think the child could sleep with so much noise going on.”

“Nevertheless, he must have gone to bed,” said Lady Georgina, “for I have not seen him for several hours. He was dancing with me, having a very good time, and making outrageous proposals, the monkey, that I should be his future wife. He was called out of the room by your maid, Hester Winsome, but promised to be back in a moment. He never came back, however.”

“Mrs. Ferguson may have sent Hester to speak to him,” said Nance after a pause; “she is quite a dragon about early hours for the boy. I wonder he did not appeal to me. Poor little dear, he must have been disappointed if he was banished off to bed when he expected so thoroughly to enjoy himself.”

“The boy was much better in bed,” said Rowton suddenly; “don’t fret yourselves about him now. Good-night, Lady Georgina.”

He held out his hand as he spoke. The lady took it, favoured him with a full admiring glance, kissed Nance on her cheek, and left the room.

“Now, Nancy, to bed, to bed. I cannot keep my eyes open a moment longer,” said her husband. He took her hand and they ran upstairs.

A fire burnt in the beautiful bedroom; the doors of the two dressing-rooms were wide open—fires were also blazing there. Through the drawn curtains, with their soft shadows of rose colour, peeped in the first rays of the dawn.

“How horribly dissipated I feel,” said Nance with a smile. “The fact is, I have never in the whole course of my life spent the entire night dancing before.”

“You have enjoyed everything, have you not, dearest?”

“Almost beyond the point of enjoyment,” she replied. “My happiness was so great that I felt, to allude to an old superstition, ‘fey,’ as they express it.”

“Nonsense, little woman,” replied her husband. “This is the beginning, let us trust, of many scenes as gay, as fresh and invigorating.”

Nance moved a step or two nearer to Rowton as he spoke. A ray of sunshine at that moment pierced through the rose curtains and fell across her face and figure. It gave her a sort of unearthly beauty. Rowton went up to her, put his arms round her, and clasped her to his heart.

“What is there about you, child,” he said, “which moves all the best in me? The dead, forgotten good stirs feebly once again in my breast.”

“But you are good. Why will you ever and always run yourself down?” she said, a note of pain in her voice.

“To you I am what I seem,” he said; “for you I could, devil that I am—yes, Nancy, for you I could almost become an angel.” He unloosed her suddenly as he said the words. “Get to bed, child,” he said; “take off those pearls and that diamond.”

Nance put her hand to her head, took the black diamond from her hair, and then slipped the row of pearls from her neck.

“I am glad to be rid of these priceless treasures,” she said. “Had you not better take them down to the safe at once, Adrian? Is it wise to keep them here till the morning?”

“It is morning now,” he said, with a yawn; “burglars do not come in broad daylight; the jewels can lie with perfect safety in your dressing-room till we get up. Now I am going to tumble into bed as fast as ever I can.”

He went into his dressing-room as he spoke, and Nancy rather slowly and with a certain unwillingness, which she could not account for, went to hers.

To her surprise and by no means to her pleasure, Hester, looking pale and worn, was waiting for her.

“Why are you here, Hester?” exclaimed her mistress. “I particularly told you that I did not wish you to stay up.” There was some annoyance in Nancy’s gentle voice.

“Yes, ma’am, you are very kind and thoughtful,” replied the maid, lowering her eyes as was her invariable habit, “but I could not possibly let you unlace your dress.”

“My husband could have done it. I really wish you had obeyed me,” said Nance. “Well, as you are up you had better do what is necessary. Please give me my jewel-case from the dressing-table; I want to put the pearls and this diamond into it.”

Hester took up a beautiful morocco jewel-case, unlocked it and held it out before her mistress. Nancy put the string of pearls and the diamond in the top compartment of the case.

“It is a queer, uncanny sort of stone,” remarked Hester, looking at the black diamond as she spoke.

Nancy did not reply. Hester locked the case and gave her mistress the key.

“If you have no objection, ma’am,” she said, after a pause, “would it not be best to put this case into the safe?”

“No; it is quite unnecessary,” replied Nancy: “you can put it on the shelf in my wardrobe; and if you are nervous you can give me the key of the wardrobe.”

“I will certainly do so, ma’am; it is really not wise to have jewel-cases of this sort about when burglars are known to be in the neighbourhood.”

“I am perfectly sick of the subject of those tiresome burglars,” said Nancy.

Hester made no remark at all to this, and soon afterwards left her mistress.

The tired household slept long and late, unsuspicious of any danger. It was between nine and ten the following morning when Nancy suddenly opened her eyes. She started up in bed, and was about to ring her bell to summon Hester, when the young woman hurriedly opened the bedroom door and stood on the threshold with a scared and absolutely deathlike face.

“Oh, madam, I’m so glad you are awake,” she said. “Vickers said you ought certainly to be aroused at once, and yet I did not like to do it.”

“What is the matter, Hester? How terrified you look!” cried Nancy.

“Oh, I am, madam. Please will you wake Mr. Rowton; Vickers wishes to see him immediately.”

“Go into my dressing-room. I’ll be there in no time,” said Nancy.

Hester closed the bedroom door softly behind her.

“Adrian, dear, wake; you are wanted at once,” cried Nancy.

Rowton opened his eyes with a start.

“What is it?” he cried.

“Vickers wants you; I am afraid there is something wrong. Hester came to the door to call us; she looked so frightened.”

“Vickers wants me!” repeated Rowton. “I don’t know that there is anything to alarm one in that. I am afraid he must wait for a little, however. I feel much too sleepy to get out of bed at present.” He turned on his pillow as he spoke, and wrapped the bedclothes round him.

“But you really must get up, Adrian. Hester’s face looked positively terrified. I know there is something grave the matter.”

Somewhat unwillingly Rowton sat up in bed, yawning as he did so.

“My dearest,” he said, noticing how Nancy’s hand trembled, “there is probably nothing at all to alarm anyone. Servants are always taking fright. You have not been long at the head of an establishment of this sort; if you had, you would not put yourself out simply on account of a scared face. In all probability Vickers misses one of the spoons, and thinks the gang of burglars who are haunting this neighbourhood have broken into the house. I do wish the police would nab those fellows, in order to give us all quiet nights.”

“I wish, Adrian, you would get up. I am quite convinced it is worse than you imagine,” said Nancy.

She went into her dressing-room as she spoke.

To her surprise and consternation both Hester and Mrs. Ferguson were waiting for her there. The housekeeper was on the verge of hysterics.

“The most frightful, awful thing has happened,” she cried; “we cannot find Master Murray high nor low, and Vickers says some people meddled with the safe last night. He says a lot of the plate and most of the jewels are gone, and, oh, ma’am, look, look!”

Nancy turned quickly round. The housekeeper was pointing to her wardrobe, which had been broken open. A glance showed her that her small private jewel-case, the case in which she had put the pearls and diamonds, had been abstracted.

“Don’t be so frightened,” she said to Mrs. Ferguson; “I’ll go back at once and tell my husband. Of course the burglars will soon be caught. But what did you say about Murray?”

“That is the worst of all, ma’am, to my thinking—the child is missing; he can’t be found high nor low.”

“Murray missing! You must be dreaming,” said Nancy.

“No, I am not, ma’am; we have searched all over the place for him. He never lay in his bed at all last night, the blessed lamb. Where he is Heaven only knows.”

“Who saw him last?” asked Nancy.

“I did,” said Hester, suddenly coming forward.

She spoke with a catch in her voice; her face was deadly pale. She was scarcely able to keep steady; and, staggering slightly, leant up against the wall.

“Tell me everything, and be quick,” said Mrs. Rowton hurriedly, beginning to dress as she spoke.

“I believe that I was the last person to see the young gentleman,” replied Hester. “The fact is this, ma’am: I got a fright just between ten and eleven last night soon after the ball opened. I saw, or fancied I saw, a lady flitting about in the garden. You remember, ma’am, there was a moon, but there were lots of black clouds, and the light was always being shut away by the clouds going across the moon; but just for the minute it shone out quite bright, and I distinctly saw a woman running and stooping as she ran close to the laurel hedge. I seemed to recognise the dress, and I thought at once that poor Mrs. Cameron had got loose. I wanted to tell my master, for I knew it would be awful if she ran into the ball-room. I made an excuse to get into the room, hoping that Mr. Rowton might be somewhere within sight; but I only caught sight of Master Murray, and it occurred to me that I would ask him to help me.”

“You did very wrong,” said Nancy; “you know, or you must know, that it is not safe for the boy to be with his mother. Well, go on, be quick.”

“I had no time to think, madam, and besides, I am not supposed to know anything.” Hester made an effort to give her head its old pert toss. “I managed to get Master Murray out of the ball-room,” she continued, “and I asked him to run across to the wing and tell Leah at once that Mrs. Cameron had escaped. He ran off quite willingly. I gave him the key of the postern door, which opens into the Queen Anne garden.”

“And the child has never come back? You must be making a mistake,” cried Nancy.

“It is true, ma’am; alas! it is true,” sobbed Mrs. Ferguson. “I was over with Leah this morning, and she says she never saw the boy, and never heard him knock, and Mrs. Cameron did not escape at all last night, but at the very time that Hester fancied she saw her, was sound asleep in bed. Oh, I dread to think what has happened—burglars breaking into the house, and the child gone, kidnapped most like. Oh, the plate and jewels are nothing—it is the child.”

“Yes; it is the child,” said Nancy.

She had dressed herself now. The very magnitude and imminence of the catastrophe which had suddenly overtaken her, gave her a certain feeling of strength. She remembered that queer sense of being “fey” last night; she remembered the words which she had spoken to her husband.

“Well,” she said, looking at the two terrified women, “you have done right to tell me; don’t be over frightened; try and keep yourselves calm. The boy will, of course, be found immediately. I’ll go now and tell Mr. Rowton.”

She ran into the next room, but Rowton had already dressed and gone downstairs. The direful tidings had, of course, been broken to him by Vickers.

Nance at last came face to face with her husband in the butler’s pantry. There a scene of the utmost confusion and destruction met her astonished eyes. The celebrated Clever safe, which was supposed to be proof against any burglar in the land, had been burst open by means of certain explosives, which had probably been introduced through a joint in the side. The safe had been nearly completely rifled of its contents. The secret receptacle for the jewel case had been discovered, and the splendid Rowton diamonds, with many other valuable and priceless jewels, had disappeared; the gold plate had also completely vanished. In short, the burglars had possessed themselves of many thousand pounds’ worth of valuable goods.

“Here’s a wreck,” said Rowton, turning to Nance when she appeared. His face was pale, and his underlip shook. “You see what this boasted safe is worth, after all,” he continued.

“Yes, yes; but the jewels are nothing,” panted Nancy, “it is the child. Who minds about the jewels or the plate? Oh, Adrian, it is Murray.”

“Murray!” cried the man; “what in the world do you mean? What has Murray to do with this?”

“Nothing, of course,” said Nancy, tottering as she spoke, “only they seem to have stolen him, too. He cannot be found anywhere; Murray is lost.”

For answer Rowton took his wife’s hand with that grip of iron which had hurt her so much on the night of her arrival at the Heights.

“Come into my study,” he said in a voice which he scarcely recognised as his own. He shut the door when he got there, and turned her round to face him.

“Now, tell me everything,” he said.

“Why do you look like that?” she replied.

“Don’t mind my looks. Tell me everything, quickly.”

Nance repeated the story which Hester had told her.

“A plant!” muttered Adrian under his breath.

“What did you say, Adrian? I did not hear you.”

“The devil is in this job, Nancy,” he replied; “for Heaven’s sake, leave me for a moment.”

“Do you really think any harm has happened to the little fellow?”

“Harm? God only knows. Would I had never been born. Leave me, wife; I shall go mad if your innocent eyes look into mine a moment longer. I must do something, and I must be alone.”

---

Nance left the room. The moment she closed the door behind her the master of the Heights went straight to his desk. His brow was like thunder; his face was white with an awful grey shadow over it.

“Long John has gone one step too far,” he muttered. “The robbery was planned and carried out to perfection. It was done as a blind, and as a blind it will succeed admirably; but this—this blow was aimed at me. I have threatened to throw up the sponge. If I do, it will mean so much that all will be up with the Silver School. Now, hear me, Heaven,” continued the man, clenching his hand and looking up as he spoke, “I swear, I swear that, as I live, if that boy is not back at the Heights within twenty-four hours, I carry out my threat.”

Trembling violently, Rowton sat down before his desk and opened it. He took out some paper of a peculiar make and quality, dipped his pen into a small bottle which contained a preparation not in the least like ordinary ink, and wrote a short sentence. At the end of this sentence he appended a hieroglyphic. The paper was then folded up, put into an envelope and directed. Having done so, Rowton put on his hat and went out.

As he was walking up the avenue, Jacob, the footman, who had been unremitting in his active services and presence of mind during the terrible scare of the morning, also put on his hat, and followed his master at a respectful distance.

With quick strides, Rowton approached the little post office of the small adjacent village. The post-mistress, who had evidently not yet heard anything of the burglary, looked at him with some slight surprise when he entered her shop.

“Am I in time to catch the post, Mrs. Higgins?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, just; Polly and me, we are packing the bags now.”

“Then here is a letter; hold out the bag and I’ll drop it in.”

The woman did so.

“Thank you, sir,” she said.

“Now I want to send off a telegram.”

“Here are the forms, sir, and a new pen.”

Rowton scribbled two words on a telegraph form, added a brief address, and handed it in.

“I want this to go at once,” he said.

“I’ll send it off this moment, sir; it is early, and the wires are sure to be clear.”

“Very well, I’ll wait and see it off; it is of the utmost importance.”

The woman turned to where the little telegraphic apparatus stood, and immediately worked off the message while Rowton stood silently by.

“Thank you,” he answered. He left the post-office as he spoke.

Just outside he ran almost into Jacob’s arms.

“What are you doing here?” cried his master with a scowl.

“I beg your pardon, sir; I saw you go out, and I thought I’d run after you, sir, to suggest that the police should be telegraphed for from Pitstow.”

“Aye, a good thought,” answered Rowton; “go into the office and send a wire off immediately.”

Jacob lingered outside the post-office until his master’s figure had vanished from view. Rowton did not once look round. When Jacob could see him no longer, he too, went into the post-office.

“I want to send a telegram,” he said to the post-mistress; “please give me a form.”

“Dear, dear, you must be all gone mad on the subject of telegrams,” she answered; “there’s Mr. Rowton sending off the queerest words, enough to frighten a body. Oh, I am not going to tell, so don’t you think it, Jacob Short.”

She showed him with a motion of her hand where the telegraph forms were lying. As she did so, his eyes met hers with a fixed and peculiar glance. She faintly nodded to him, and then her face turned pale.

“Run, Polly,” she said to a rosy-cheeked girl who was helping her, “and tell Hudson to be quick; tell him it’s time the post was off, or he will miss the train at Pitstow.”

The girl immediately left the room.

“That was well done,” said Jacob; “now we have not a minute to lose. He brought a letter here, did he not?”

“He did that, Mr. Short; he brought it and dropped it into the mail-bag himself. I can’t find it, so there’s no use in your trying to meddle. It is as much as my place is worth, even talking to you on the subject, and if I was to do more, it’s penal servitude might hang over my head.”

“It might, or it might not,” said Jacob; “we have talked over these matters a few times, haven’t we, Mrs. Higgins? It is rather late in the day for you to take up this tone. I thought the matter was all arranged. You want thirty pounds, don’t you now? You shall have it if you give me one look at the letter which Mr. Rowton has just dropped into the bag.”

The woman hesitated again; she had a weak and somewhat cowardly type of face—her mouth expressed greed. When Jacob spoke of the thirty pounds which might so easily become hers, her eyes glittered with an ugly light.

“Heaven knows I do want that money,” she said, “and I don’t suppose any harm will come of it; be quick, then, or Polly will be back.”

The woman shivered as she spoke. She lifted the flap of the counter.

“I was just about to seal the bag,” she said; “I won’t look—you do.”

Jacob slipped inside the counter. The post-mistress held the bag, half-full of letters, for him to peep in. His eyes which were keen as an eagle’s, quickly discovered the despatch he wanted.

He lifted it out of the bag and coolly deposited it in his pocket.

“No, no; that’s not fair,” she cried in terror.

“Perfectly fair,” he replied; “I’ll post it myself at Pitstow in time to catch the same mail.”

“You cannot; it is impossible.”

“It is quite possible. Don’t keep me now, woman; here’s your thirty pounds.” He laid an envelope on the counter, and vanished before she could utter a word.

Going as quickly as ever his feet could carry him, Jacob approached the nearest inn, ordered a trap and the fleetest horse in the livery stables. He made a very plausible explanation for his hurry.

“You know all about the burglary up at the Heights,” he said—“well, I’m off to see the police at Pitstow; my master told me to telegraph, but it occurred to me it would be best to drive over and bring one or two of them back with me. Now, do be quick. Half a crown to the man who brings round the trap first.”

“It shall be at your service in three minutes at the farthest,” said the burly host of the little village inn. He ran off to the stables, and several men began to loaf round and eagerly question Jacob Short.

“I think I’ll go and lend a hand in putting the harness on the horse,” said Jacob, who did not want to communicate any of his tidings to the excited bystanders. He had reason for his hurry, for at that moment the cart containing Her Majesty’s mail rattled up the street. Two minutes afterwards Jacob himself was driving as fast as he could in the same direction. He soon overtook the mail cart, nodded to the driver, whom he happened to know slightly, and promising his own driver five shillings if he got to Pitstow ten minutes before the mail, settled down comfortably to consider the present position of affairs.

Pitstow was quite five miles away, and part of the road was very lonely. When Jacob got to the lonely part, the mail-cart was so far behind that it was not even visible. Short’s driver was smoking a cigar supplied to him by that worthy, and happy in his own reflections, was looking the other way. With a hasty movement, Short now took the letter which he had abstracted from the mail-bag out of his pocket. It was addressed in an upright and somewhat cramped hand.

“The sort of hand that ain’t natural to the writer,” muttered Short, a gratified smile spreading over his countenance. “I’ve seen Mr. Rowton’s own hand scores of times—big and flowing and easy, with a sort of dash about it; now, this is as stiff and crabbed as if the writer had got the rheumatics very bad. Let me see, to whom is it addressed?

“‘George Morton, Esq., ⸺, Redcliffe Square, London S.W.’ Well, there’s certainly nothing remarkable in the address. George Morton—the name is respectable, the locality good.”

Jacob held the letter close to his eyes; once again he perused the upright, stiff hand with minute and careful attention. He presently took a pocket-book out of his breast pocket and carefully compared the handwriting on the envelope of the purloined letter with some handwriting which he had in his pocket-book.

“Done, by Jove! Caught at last!” he muttered.

He slipped the pocket-book into its place, put the letter once again into his breast pocket, and began to talk in a cheerful and lively manner to the man who was driving him.

The subject of the burglary was, of course, the only one of the least interest at the present moment.

“It’s the queerest thing going,” said Jacob Short’s driver; “why, that’s the third big robbery that’s taken place in the last month or six weeks—and the police ain’t nabbed one of the fellows yet. I can’t understand it, can you, guv’nor?”

“Oh, the burglars will be nabbed all in good time,” said Jacob; “I should not be a bit surprised if this robbery at the Heights last night did not do for them. Then there’s the child, you know.”

“What child?” asked the man.

“Why, that game little chap, Master Murray Cameron, he was kidnapped, too, last night, as well as the plate and jewels.”

The driver, a stolid-looking fellow, dropped his mouth wide open on hearing this startling intelligence.

“Heaven preserve us!” he cried; “It is enough to terrify a body. There seems a sort of judgment on the place. Don’t it strike you so, guv’nor?”

“It does and it doesn’t,” said Jacob; “you whip up your horse, my man. Ah, here we are, at Pitstow, at last.”

“Shall I drive you straight to the police station?” asked the man.

“No; you put up here at the sign of the Boar; I shall want you to drive me back before long.”

Jacob jumped off the cart and entered the inn.

“A private room, quick,” he said; “a room with a fire in it.”

Jacob was conducted into a small parlour at the back of the inn.

“You can have this room to yourself, sir,” said the landlady. “It so happens that there’s no one using it just now, and the fire is lit all handy.”

“That’s right,” answered Jacob; “now bring me pen, ink, and paper. I am in a desperate hurry—I want to write an important letter to catch the next post to London.”

“You’ll have to be quick, then,” said the landlady, glancing at the clock over the mantelpiece as she spoke, “for the post will be cleared in ten minutes.” She hurried out of the room to procure writing materials, returning with them almost immediately.

“Thank you, ma’am,” answered Jacob; “and now I’ll be all the quicker if I am left alone.”

The landlady took the hint and closed the parlour door behind her.

The moment she did so, Jacob took Rowton’s letter again out of his pocket. He breathed on the flap, which was securely fastened down, holding it to his mouth with one hand, while he wrote a communication of his own, as if for life or death, with the other. At last he took the moist letter from his mouth. With very little difficulty and with consummate skill he unfastened the flap of the envelope and took the letter from beneath. He opened it, to survey nothing whatever except a perfectly blank sheet of paper.

“Ha! invisible ink,” he muttered. “Now, will it make its appearance under the influence of fire or of water? I hope to goodness heat will do it, for I never thought of ordering water, and the mail will be off in a few minutes.”

He rushed to the fire as he spoke, and held the blank sheet of paper at a little distance from the bars. After doing so for a few seconds, a satisfied exclamation fell from his lips. Some writing of a bright blue colour was now perfectly visible on the hitherto blank sheet of paper. Jacob read the words, which, to an unobservant eye, meant very little:

At the foot of this apparently unintelligible sentence was a certain hieroglyphic of a peculiar shape and size.

After once again consulting some memoranda in his pocket-book, Jacob re-enclosed the letter in its envelope. As he did so he observed with satisfaction that the writing had completely disappeared. Slipping this letter with another of his own into his pocket, he now rushed almost on the wings of the wind to the nearest post-office. He opened the door and went in—the mail was just being packed.

“Am I in time to post two letters?”

“Just in time, master, if you look sharp,” said the postmaster. “Here, give ’em to me and I’ll drop ’em into the bag myself.”

Jacob did so; the letters were thrown on the top of a heap of others, and the postmaster began to tie up the bag. Jacob went out of the post-office with a perfectly radiant face.

“Well, Jacob Short, you’ve done a nice stroke of business to-day,” he muttered to himself; “and now I fancy your residence at Rowton Heights has very nearly come to an end.”

His mind was completely relieved with regard to the letter which he had abstracted from Her Majesty’s mail in the little village near Rowton Heights. After all, it would go by exactly the same post to town.

He now went to the police station, gave a circumstantial account of the events of the last night, and, as he expected, was soon accompanied by two or three of her Majesty’s constabulary back to Rowton Heights.

The rest of the day was passed, as might be imagined, in hopeless confusion and excitement. Jacob saw very little of his master and mistress. He was not required to wait at lunch, but was busily occupied taking notes with the police, who required someone to help them.

Most of the guests had left or were leaving the Heights, the ladies being, many of them, in a state of panic, and everyone earnestly wishing to get away from a place over which a tragedy seemed now to hang. The news of the mad lady being confined in the Queen Anne wing had got abroad; that fact, the abstraction of the jewels, and the loss of the child, seemed quite to change the aspect of the place. Rowton Heights was no longer gay, cheerful, the home of brightness and frivolity. Detectives and superintendents of police kept coming and going; the entire house was searched from cellar to attic, the Queen Anne wing not being excepted. Nothing of the least importance was, however discovered, and not the faintest clue to the lost child was obtained.

Rowton, who had busied himself all day seeing to his guests and hastening their departure, came into the room where his wife and Lady Georgina were seated, about six o’clock in the evening.

“I cannot stand this inaction any longer,” he said. “I mean to go up to town to-night myself.”

“Oh, take me with you,” said Nance, springing to her feet; “the fact is, I am quite afraid to stay here alone.”

He fixed his eyes gloomily upon her—they were slightly bloodshot; his face was more or less flushed. He looked so agitated and upset that Lady Georgina seemed scarcely to know him.

“Will you have the goodness to stay with my wife?” he asked suddenly, giving her a keen intelligent glance, which also seemed to her to convey to her a certain warning.

“With pleasure,” she replied.

“But don’t leave me behind, Adrian,” cried Nance. “I know Lady Georgina is kind, but I am terrified to be left without you. Please take me with you to town.”

“I’ll send for you if necessary, Nancy,” he replied after a brief pause.

“You are surely not going to stay away long?” she asked with a gasp of terror.

He did not answer her, neither did he kiss her; there was an expression about his face which she could not fathom. Half an hour later he went away.

---

Jacob witnessed the parting between his master and mistress in the great hall of the old house. Without apparently noticing anything, he yet saw with vivid distinctness the queer grey pallor on Adrian Rowton’s face; he noticed how Nance bit her lips, how tightly her hands were locked together; he saw a look in her eyes which touched him in spite of himself. The look was one of agony. As Nance bade a voiceless good-bye to her husband, her soul seemed to look straight into his. Jacob saw it all without appearing to see.

“Poor young lady,” he muttered under his breath; “it ain’t in me to be very sorry for anyone, but if I could have a spice of feeling it would be for Mrs. Adrian Rowton. She is so pretty and so kind. Whatever possessed her to give herself up, heart and soul, to that devil-may-care chap?—and yet, and yet, if he were not what he is, I could find it in my heart not to be greatly surprised. Ah, my fine fellow, you’ll know what Jacob Short has found out about you. You’ll lay low enough before long.”

As these thoughts flitted through his mind, the footman turned slowly in the direction of the servants’ premises. He was met just outside the servants’ hall by the housekeeper.

“Well, now,” she said, “here’s a new trouble.”

“And what is that, ma’am?” asked Jacob.

“Why, as if we had not worries enough, there’s that tiresome girl, Hester Winsome, has gone and been taken real bad.”

“Bad?” echoed Jacob; “how so?”

“You may well ask how so.”

“Now I come to think of it,” answered Jacob, “she did look a bit queer at dinner-time.”

“Well, she is queerer now; she is up in her room sobbing and moaning and clasping her hands, and crying that she wishes to heaven she had never set foot in this place, and that her pain is more than she can bear. Pain of mind, it seems to me, for I can’t make out that there’s anything wrong with her body.”

“I wonder, now,” said Jacob, after a somewhat long pause, during which he was thinking deeply—“I wonder, now, if she would see me. Perhaps you have noticed, ma’am, that I have a soothing sort of way with me.”

“Of course I’ve noticed it,” said the housekeeper. “I remarked it from the very first. It was only half-an-hour ago I was saying to Vickers, ‘if it was not for Jacob Short I really don’t know how we’d have lived through the day.’ He is the only one amongst us who has kept a cool head on his shoulders.”

“Then perhaps I might soothe Hester,” answered Jacob, in his soft and melodious voice, his face exhibiting the utmost kindness and sympathy. “Perhaps you would not mind telling her, Mrs. Ferguson, that if she would like to come downstairs I should be glad to have a chat with her.”

“I will,” said Mrs. Ferguson; “it is a good thought. You may do something to make the girl unburden herself, for mind trouble I am convinced it is.”

Mrs. Ferguson trotted upstairs, and went straight to Hester’s room.

Hester was laying on the bed, face downwards; she was moaning now and then very heavily, but otherwise lay perfectly still.

“Now, you silly girl, have you not recovered your nerve yet?” said the housekeeper.

“It is the ache in my head, ma’am,” replied the girl; “there’s a pain running through me at the back of my head enough to make me screech out.”

“I hope, then, you won’t screech out, for there is confusion and worry enough without that. For my part, I have no patience with people who have not got self-control. You get up, Hester, and come downstairs.”

“It is easy for you to speak, ma’am,” answered Hester; “your conscience lies light enough. It was not you who sent Master Murray to the Queen Anne wing.”

“Well, and if you did it, child,” answered the housekeeper, her voice slightly softening, “you did it, I know, with a good motive; you ain’t to blame for that. Now, cheer up, and come downstairs; it will do you good to eat a bit of supper with the rest of us.”

As Mrs. Ferguson said these last words, she laid her hand on Hester’s shoulder.

“There’s Jacob, too,” she continued. “Now, if there’s a man I do admire, it’s Jacob. He has self-control if you like; he has a head on his shoulders; he don’t think anything of himself. What has not he done this day? Why, everything for everybody. Helping the police to take an inventory of the missing plate, remembering all about it—wonderful, too—better even than Vickers, who has been here for years, and going off on his own accord for the police, and then seeing my master off to town. I never had a better servant in the house, and that I will say. When I told him about you, no one could speak nicer; he said to me at once, looking as concerned as you please:

“‘Mrs. Ferguson, maybe I could soothe her a bit. I have a soothing way, you might remark,’ says he.

“‘That you have,’ says I.

“‘Well, then, send her down to me and I’ll have a bit of a talk,’ says he.

“I answered that I would; so down you go now, Hester, and pour out your mind to him. You tell him how you feel about sending the poor little chap off to the Queen Anne wing. He’ll bring you to your senses if anyone will.”

“I cannot go,” answered Hester, who had thrown herself back again on her bed; “it’s useless to expect it of me—my head is so giddy that I could not rise to save my life; you can tell Mr. Jacob so with my compliments, Mrs. Ferguson. Perhaps I’ll be better in the morning after I have had a bit of sleep.”

“Well, if you are as bad as all that,” answered Mrs. Ferguson, “you had best take off your clothes and get right into bed. I’ll tell Jacob you ain’t well enough to see him, and have gone to bed.”

“Yes, please do,” answered Hester.

Mrs. Ferguson left the room.

As soon as her footsteps died away in the distance, Hester raised her head from the pillow and began to listen intently. Not hearing a sound, she rose, crossed her room, and turned the key in the lock. It turned smoothly, as if the lock had been recently oiled.

Hester then went and stood by the window. Her little room was high up in a certain wing of the old house; it looked out across the garden. Night had fallen over the place, and the moon, clearer and brighter than on the previous night, lit up the landscape with a fantastic and weird distinctness. Hester clasped her two hands above her head and gazed steadily out. Her dark eyes were full of a curious mixture of feeling. Emotion, despair, chased away the almost cruel expression which, on most occasions, characterised them.

“I have gone a step too far,” she muttered. “I thought I was taking in others, and I was took in myself. I am fit to kill myself. There, was that nine that struck?”

A little clock on the mantelpiece had signalled the hour.

Hester went across the room to a wardrobe, which she opened. She took out a cloak and flung it over her shoulders, and then with stealthy and swift movements approached the door. She unlocked it and went into the passage outside. The house was quiet as the grave; the servants were at supper far away; the mad lady was quiet in the Queen Anne wing; Mrs. Rowton and Lady Georgina Strong were at some distance in one of the drawing rooms. Hester’s opportunity had come.

Quick as lightning she flew down the stairs, and a moment later found herself under the shade of a large yew tree. The moonlight fell broadly on the grass, but under the yew there was a shadow nearly black. As she stood there someone touched her on the arm.

“So you’ve come,” said a man’s voice in a muffled tone.

“Yes, I am here, Jim Scrivener,” panted the girl.

“We can’t talk so near the house,” answered Scrivener.

“I know a place where we’ll be safe; follow me and keep in the shade.”

He turned abruptly. Hester, trembling in every limb, followed in his wake.

---

Nance received Crossley’s letter about noon on the following day. Lady Georgina was, of course, still with her. Nance and this lady were standing by the drawing-room window when Jacob brought in the letter. Before he left the room, he perceived the death like hue which spread over his young mistress’s face.

“When all is said and done, mine is an odious calling,” he muttered to himself. He went straight to the housekeeper’s room.

“Mrs. Ferguson,” he said, “even at the risk of incurring your displeasure, I must ask you to give me another holiday.”

“What, Jacob, another! Really, what servants are coming to in this day passes belief. The old business, is it?”

“Yes, ma’am, the old trouble,” answered Jacob.

“Well, well, I am sorry for you. You’ll be back to-morrow?”

“Certain, sure, ma’am, and I am much obliged.”

Jacob left the room.

He had scarcely done so when the drawing-room bell summoned him to appear there.

Mrs. Rowton was standing by a table—she was taking up and putting down some new magazines—there was an abstracted and somewhat alarmed look on her face. When Jacob appeared she started.

“Did you ring, madam?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “Will you, please, go to the stables at once, and desire the coachman to bring the carriage round to meet the next train to town?”

“The covered carriage, madam?”

“Yes, the brougham with the basket on top for luggage.”

“Very well, madam; the next train leaves for town at 3.30,” answered Jacob.

“Desire the carriage to be round in good time.”

“Now it is my turn,” said Lady Georgina, who had sat quite silent during all this time by the window. She approached the table where Nance was standing. “May I ask, Nancy Rowton,” she said, “if that mysterious letter was from your husband?”

“It was not,” answered Nance.

“Ah! that is strange; and yet the letter was a summons for you to go to town?”

“Yes, it was,” replied Nance.

“And not from your husband?”

“No.”

“You are going to obey the summons, child?”

“I am, Lady Georgina.”

“You won’t tell me what it is all about?”

“I cannot; you must not question me.”

“Then, at least understand one thing,” said Lady Georgina in a determined voice—“where you go, I go.”

“You!” answered Nance, looking up with a queer expression in her eyes. Her mouth suddenly twitched with emotion which she could scarcely control.

“No,” she said, “you are kind—you are very kind, you are my best friend after my husband, but I must do this thing alone. It is part of the agony that it must be done alone and without help; I must consult no one. I must go to town by myself.”

“My dear little girl, you must do nothing of the kind. I have no wish to spy into your secret. You can see whoever you wish to see by yourself, but your husband put you into my care, and where you go, Nancy, I go.”

“As you please; I have no strength to argue about the matter,” said Nancy in a faint voice.

She went up to her room to put on her travelling cloak and bonnet, and found Hester waiting for her. Hester was neatly dressed in her travelling things.

“Of course you want me to go with you, madam?” she said.

“I think not, Hester,” replied Nance, “If I stay in town for any length of time I will telegraph to you to join me, but you are not to accompany me to-day.”

“As you please, of course, madam. I have packed everything you will require, and, of course, shall be in readiness to go to town the moment I receive your telegram.” Hester took off her hat as she spoke. Her face was very pale.

“You don’t look well,” said Nancy, whose heart was never too much troubled to forget to notice the pains and sorrows of others.

“I have been having bad head-aches lately,” replied the girl, turning crimson; then she added after a pause, as she held out her mistress’s cloak for her to put on, “I don’t know if Mrs. Ferguson acquainted you with the fact, madam, that I must leave your service.”

“Indeed,” replied Nance. She would have liked to have added that she was sorry, but the words were arrested on her lips. She knew in her heart of hearts that Hester’s absence would be a relief.

“Yes, madam,” continued the girl, “I am leaving in about a fortnight. Mrs. Ferguson says she can easily supply my place, and as I am to be married——”

“Married!” cried Nancy; “you are leaving because of that?”

“Yes, madam, I expect to be married in a fortnight from now.”

The sound of wheels was heard crunching the gravel outside.

“I must go,” said Nance, catching up her gloves and muff. “Good-bye, Hester; you can tell me all about your future prospects when next we meet—who your husband is to be, and all about it. Good-bye.”

Nance nodded kindly and left the room. A moment or two later, she and Lady Georgina were driving to Pitstow station. They reached it in good time, took their train, and presently found themselves steaming quickly in the direction of London. They had a first-class compartment to themselves.

“I have a fear,” said Nance suddenly, “which I cannot account for, nor explain away.”

“You mean that you dread our dear little Murray may not be quickly found?” said Lady Georgina.

“No,” answered Nance after a pause; “it would be wrong to deceive you or to make you think me better than I am. I love Murray, but my fear is not about him.”

“Then what is it about, child? Ah, you need not tell me—you are troubled about your husband?”

“He is unhappy, and he is away. I am much, much troubled.”

“You are naturally nervous,” replied Lady Georgina. “Now, if you had known that good Adrian Rowton as long as I have, nothing that he did or said would surprise you—in short, you would cease to be nervous about one who is unaccountable. His ways are unaccountable, so is his mind, so also doubtless is his heart.”

“No, no, there never was a heart like his,” interrupted Nance.

“It shows its sunny side to you,” replied Lady Georgina; “to others——” she paused, her bright dancing eyes became grave. “Adrian comes of an eccentric family,” she continued, “eccentric to the verge—yes, I may as well say it, of insanity. His sister, poor thing! has been insane for years. Report whispers that Adrian gave her a dreadful shock, soon after Murray’s birth. Anyhow she went completely off her head, and has been insane ever since. As to Adrian himself, he has his own mad points. Oh, my dear child, there have been occasions when I have thought him as mad as a hatter, but all the same, I repeat once again, I have never met a more fascinating, a braver or more attractive man.”

“Thank you for those good words,” Nance said impulsively.

She left her seat, crossed the carriage, put her arms round Lady Georgina’s neck, and kissed her.

“Thank you,” she repeated; “when even for a moment you see my husband as he really is, you give me inexpressible comfort.”

“It is my honest opinion,” continued Lady Georgina, “that the only very great trouble you have to bear at present is the mysterious absence of dear little Murray. Your husband is doubtless taking steps to discover his whereabouts in town. As to his conduct in other respects, remember that I think nothing at all about it. He is queer, but not mad; he will never kick over the traces, or go too far in any one direction. You will most likely meet him to-morrow or the next day in London. By the way, do you know his address?”

“No.”

“I thought as much. Does he never give you his address when he leaves you?”

“He has not done so hitherto.”

“Again I may say, that I thought as much,” replied Lady Georgina, tapping her foot impatiently. “Did you really have no directions where letters are to be forwarded to?”

“No.”

“Where do you propose to spend the night yourself?”

“I cannot tell, Lady Georgina. I only know that I am going to town; after that all is blank.”

“Then, my dear, it is a blessing I am with you. We will put up at the Universal Hotel. It is large and central, and the very moment we take rooms there we will wire to Rowton Heights to tell the servants our whereabouts.”

---

When the train arrived at King’s Cross, Crossley was waiting on the platform. A quick glance showed him Nancy’s pale face in the window of a first-class compartment. He went forward to meet her.

“Thank you for answering my letter so promptly, Mrs. Rowton,” he said. “I have a carriage outside; may I take you at once to my house?”

At this moment Lady Georgina touched Nancy on the arm.

“Introduce me to the gentleman,” she said.

“Mr. Crossley, Lady Georgina Strong,” said Nance.

Crossley bowed. Lady Georgina favoured him with an intensely earnest glance. She saw a man of middle height, dressed in the correct garb of an ordinary gentleman. He had a pleasant face, and looked eminently respectable.

“Lady Georgina has been kind enough to accompany me to town, Mr. Crossley,” said Mrs. Rowton.

“Yes,” said Lady Georgina, “I have come with this lady because she is too young and inexperienced to take care of herself—also because her husband left her in my charge. She says that she has come up to London on receipt of a letter. May I ask, sir, if you are the writer?”

“I am, madam. I am anxious to see Mrs. Rowton on a private matter of much importance.”

“Yes, Lady Georgina, it is quite a secret,” said Nance.

“I am aware of that fact,” said Lady Georgina. “Well, sir,” she continued, “here is Mrs. Rowton. You are at liberty to tell her what you please. Where do you propose to take her to communicate your tidings?”

“To my own house, madam.”

“And where is your house?”

“It is a good way from here—near Clapham Common—but, expecting the lady, I ordered a private carriage, which is waiting for us at the present moment, and we can reach the house in about an hour from now.”

“Very well,” answered Lady Georgina, “only please understand that where Mrs. Rowton goes I go.”

The luggage was secured and put upon the top of the private carriage, which Crossley had hired from a livery stable not far from his own house. Lady Georgina and Nance entered, but the detective preferred sitting with the driver on the box, he said.

“The mystery thickens, but excitement suits me,” said Lady Georgina with a sigh, which she quickly suppressed as the horses started forward at a good pace, and they soon left King’s Cross behind them.

In the course of an hour they reached Crossley’s house. The moment they got within, Nance, who had been absolutely silent during the long drive, spoke.

“I am anxious to see you alone at once, Mr. Crossley,” she said.

She raised her eyes to the detective’s face as she spoke. He was placing his hat on the stand in the little narrow hall.

“Very well, madam, I wish to tell you my tidings without delay,” he replied.

“Then will you kindly show Lady Georgina to one room and take me to another?”

“May I take you to my drawing-room, madam?” said Crossley, bowing to Lady Georgina.

He opened a door on one side of the hall as he spoke, and ushered Lady Georgina into a small room, furnished in the ordinary style of a drawing-room of that class of house. There was a centre table on which some newspapers and one or two gaudily-bound books were placed. A paraffin lamp stood in the centre of the table, a bright fire burned in the grate; an easy-chair of old-fashioned make stood beside the fire.

“I shall do well here,” said Lady Georgina. “Do not pray give me another thought, only let me know when you have quite done with Mrs. Rowton.”

“One word, madam,” said Crossley, dropping his voice to a whisper. “I count it a providential arrangement that you are with the young lady. I have sore tidings for her. Heaven knows she will need help.”

There was a note in the detective’s voice which startled Lady Georgina, who was not a woman affected by nerves. She made no reply, however, beyond an emphatic nod of her head. The detective left the room, closing the door behind him. He took Nance at once into his private study, and motioned her to a chair. She loosened her cloak, but did not sit.

“I prefer to stand,” she said. “I want, Mr. Crossley, to learn your tidings at once and without preface.” She fixed her eyes on him as she spoke.

“How will she bear it?” thought the detective to himself. “I wish I had never gone into this business. Who would have thought that it would have come out as it has? Poor young lady, I cannot bear to meet her eyes.”

“You have prepared me for something very dreadful,” said Nance; “but please understand it is not the news itself, but the suspense which is really killing me. Speak! tell me what you have discovered.”

“I have very grave tidings, Mrs. Rowton,” said the man. “It is impossible for me to tell them you in half a dozen words. You have got to listen to a certain story. Believe me, I will not keep you in suspense a minute longer than I can help.”

“Begin, then,” said Nance.

A chair was standing near. She caught the back of it with one trembling hand, and stood very upright, facing the detective, who placed himself on the hearth-rug with his back to the fire.

“I believe,” said Crossley, in a low but very firm voice, “that I have at last found the man who murdered your brother.”

“I thought as much,” said Nance. She spoke faintly.

“His name?” she said then after a pause.

“I will come to the name in a few minutes, madam. I have, I believe, found the man. You remember when I visited you at the Heights about two months ago that I then spoke of certain suspicions?”

“You did. Pardon me, why must we go into that? Can you not put me out of suspense at once?”

“I must tell my story in my own way, Mrs. Rowton. Believe me, my task is no easy one.”

“I will have patience,” said Nance. “I beg you to forgive me for showing want of self-control.”

“I more than forgive you, my young lady. I will say something more; I wish to Heaven I had never touched this business. But, now to proceed. The suspicions I had two months ago led me to place a detective belonging to my own staff on your premises.”

“Yes,” said Nance, “you sent Jacob Short, our very excellent footman, down to the Heights. He was a good servant, and for my part, I seldom remembered that he was anything else. But I recall now your words at the time. You said the scent lay red round Rowton Heights. I did not understand you.”

“Very likely not,” said Crossley. “Nevertheless, before I proceed any further, allow me to remind you, madam, that I earnestly begged of you to give up the search.”

“And I refused to do so,” said Nancy. “We need not revert to that again. I had vowed to go on with the thing—my vow was given to a dying man. I will go on with it to the bitter end.”

“Very well, madam, I have now to proceed with my story. Jacob Short went to Rowton Heights and did the work which I had expected him to do. The suspicions which I entertained before he arrived there were abundantly confirmed by evidence which he was able to collect.”

Nance came a step nearer.

“What do you mean?” she said. “Do you infer,” she moistened her lips, they were so dry she could scarcely get out the words—“do you really infer that the murderer, the man who took the life of my young brother, was really an inmate of Rowton Heights?”

The detective nodded.

“This is fearful! Who could it be? One of the servants? Surely not Vickers—not Hamley.”

“You must have patience, madam; you will know all in a few minutes.”

Nance again grasped the back of the chair and stood firm.

“You remember,” continued Crossley, looking fixedly at her as he spoke, “the evidence which I had in hand from the beginning. There was found near the body of the murdered man a torn piece of paper, which contained some writing in cipher; at the bottom of the cipher was a hieroglyphic of peculiar shape and size. On the night of the murder, a friend of the murdered man saw a man escaping from the café—a tall, dark, fine-looking man, with a peculiar mark on his upper lip. That man was searched for by the police, but he was not heard of again. On that evidence I had to work up my case. The most important part of the evidence was contained in the torn paper which held the cipher.

“After long toil and weeks of labour I became acquainted with the key of the cipher, and was able to read what was written on the torn bit of paper. It was incriminating to the last degree, showing that the murder was premeditated, for it was an appointment to meet your brother at the café where he lost his life. From that day to now my object, madam, has been to find the man who used that cipher and that hieroglyphic. I obtained a certain clue which made me think it probable that I should find him in your house. Yes, Mrs. Rowton, in your house.

“I sent Jacob there for the purpose of rendering my suspicions certainties. He worked well, his object being to find the cipher and hieroglyphic, which had already been used on the piece of paper found close to the murdered man in the possession of the suspected party. For this purpose he made friends with a woman who kept a small post-office in the village near your home. He also left not a stone unturned to make investigations at the Heights itself. Yesterday morning, madam, a man living on your premises wrote a letter to town in the same cipher and signed it with the same hieroglyphic which was used when your brother was murdered more than six years ago.

“This is terrible! it excites me beyond measure. Go on; tell me the rest quickly.”

“Jacob Short sent me full particulars,” continued Crossley, “and acting on them I went to see a woman last night whose husband belongs to a celebrated gang or school of burglars, known to us police as the Silver School. The man has not long ago been arrested on a charge of uttering a forged cheque. I thought it possible that the wife might know something about the man who wrote the cipher and who lived at Rowton Heights. I went to her last night and taxed her with her knowledge, believing, as I will explain, that her husband and this man belonged to the same School. Under pressure, she told me what she knew. She described the man who used that cipher and who signed his name with that special hieroglyphic. She described him as I expected her to describe him, but she could not tell me his name, for that had always been hidden from her. I had a photograph in my possession, however, which I showed her, and she identified the photograph with the man. There is no doubt that this man and the woman’s husband had been employed in the same nefarious work.”

“You absolutely bewilder me,” said Nance. “Then this ruffian has not only taken human life, but he is also a burglar. And you tell me calmly to my face that this fiend has lived in the house with my husband and myself. Have you arrested him, Mr. Crossley?”

Nancy Rowton’s eyes became full of fire—a passion of absolute revenge gave to her face a totally foreign appearance.

“Have you arrested the scoundrel?” she repeated.

“I cannot arrest him at present,” answered Crossley. “To complete my evidence there is one last link wanting. The man who murdered your young brother not only used the cipher which I have discovered and the hieroglyphic, but he wore on his face a peculiar mark, a mark so uncommon and so impossible to hide that by that alone he might be identified at any time. My man, Short, found the cipher and the hieroglyphic, but it was, as he said, completely outside his province to discover the mark. When we find the man with the mark on his upper lip, we have found, beyond doubt, the murderer of your brother. I regret to say, madam, that no one can give us that last evidence but yourself.”

“I?” said Nance. “Impossible! You cannot know what you are saying. I?”

“Yes, Mrs. Rowton, that is your painful duty—that is, if you still wish me to go on with the search.”

“Of course I wish you to go on with it. My heart is on fire—my noble young brother—my father’s life sacrificed. Go on with the search? Yes, yes, I say to the bitter end. I would see that man on the gallows if I could. I have taken a vow in this matter.”

“There are some vows which are bad,” said the detective; “some vows are better broken than kept. I speak against my own calling when I remind you of that, Mrs. Rowton. I am interested in this case. It is, I admit, a very terrible one. Madam, you must prepare for a blow. It belongs to my calling to know something of human nature. I think I read you right. I think I am not mistaken. You love your husband?”

“Love him,” said Nance. Her face, which had looked fierce and unwomanly, underwent an instant change. “You have no right to ask me that question,” she continued. “Nevertheless,” she added, raising her voice and speaking with sudden and unlooked for strength, “I will answer it. Yes, I love my husband. There are no words in any language to express my unalterable love.”

She no longer leant against the chair—she stood upright, her hands hung at her sides, her head was flung back. There was not the faintest suspicion in her voice, in her face, of the awful news which the detective was trying to break to her. He was silent for nearly a minute, puzzled how to proceed. She herself helped him at last.

“I cannot understand,” she said, “why it is left to me to make the final and last discovery. If you have done all else, why not complete it? The man who possesses the cipher and who has used it, who possesses the hieroglyphic and who has used it, must be the man who also possesses the mark. Find the mark for yourself, Mr. Crossley.”

“The mark, Mrs. Rowton, is on the face—on the upper lip. It is small, but distinct. It alters the complete character of the mouth, being a death’s head and arrow tattooed on the lip. How done and for what purpose I cannot tell you. Now, the man whom we suspect has covered that mark by means of a moustache. My servant would have completed the task himself, but he found it difficult—impossible.”

“A man who lives at Rowton Heights with a moustache,” said Nance, laughing somewhat unsteadily. “You must surely be mistaken, for I know everyone in my own house. The servants, of course, do not wear hair on their faces. In fact, no one wears a moustache except my husband.” She stopped, and looked with dilated eyes at the detective.

“That is true, Mrs. Rowton. No one wears a moustache but your husband, Adrian Rowton.”

“What can you mean? You look at me in a very queer way. What is your meaning? Speak.”

“I mean this, Mrs. Rowton. I have discovered this: your husband, Adrian Rowton, is also known as Silver, the leader of the Silver Mob or School. This man, madam, is the one who murdered Anthony Follett many years ago!”

There was a silence in the room which might almost be felt when Crossley ceased speaking. Nancy’s voice broke into it after a moment. She laughed—her laugh was wild and a little unsteady.

“My husband!” she said. “How dare you say that to my face? Do you think for one moment I believe you?”

“I knew it would be a blow to you, madam.”

“It is no blow; you are absolutely mistaken. Anything else might have been a blow, but not that. My husband kill my young brother! My husband take a man’s life! Oh! come—this is too much.”

“Satisfy yourself, then, Mrs. Rowton. Discover if his lip is smooth. Find out if he wears the mark.”

“I will find out. I thank you. You thought to have terrified and crushed me, but you only excite my anger and my contempt. My husband! I myself rather than he.”

She turned to the door as she spoke, opened it, and walked out with a steady step. Crossley followed her into the hall. It had never occurred to him that she would take his tidings with utter disbelief.

“Lady Georgina,” said Nancy, opening the door of the little drawing-room, “my business with this gentleman is now concluded, and I am ready to go away.”

Lady Georgina jumped up. She did not know Mrs. Rowton’s voice with the new quality in it. The ring of defiance, the vibration of strength and courage, were altogether a revelation to her. The carriage was waiting at the door. The ladies drove to the Universal Hotel.

---

When Long John arrived at the club in the street off the Chelsea Embankment he found several members of the School waiting to receive him. They were all assembled in a large room on the first floor of the house. As usual, they were smoking, and as the chief entered the dense smell of reeking tobacco filled the air. Scrivener was amongst the men present. He looked pale and excited. The other members of the School wore their habitual expressions, some of surly indifference, some of bravado, not a few of ill-concealed fear. For some reason there was a shadow in the air, and the men felt it without knowing that they did so. Scrivener was seated close to the fire smoking very strong tobacco when Long John appeared on the scene.

“You have come; you are welcome,” said Scrivener, starting up and going a few steps forward to meet his chief.

“Yes,” replied Long John in a voice of irritation, “of course I’ve come. There is not much time to lose,” he added; “the night is already late, and it does not do to arouse suspicion by keeping this sort of place open too long. Let us to business at once. You managed the kidnapping of the child very well, Scrivener.”

“What child?” asked Simpkins in an eager voice.

Simpkins, as the proprietor of the club, was always treated with a certain amount of respect, but on this occasion Long John favoured him with a scowling glance.

“You’ll know all if you’ll keep quiet,” he said. “A child has been kidnapped by my orders—that child from this moment belongs to our School; we bring him up in our ways, to do our business, perhaps to lead us in his turn. He is the nephew of your gentleman leader, my men. He is Adrian Rowton’s nephew.”

“Silver’s nephew! Good Heaven!” cried Simpkins. He bit his lips and looked across to one of his neighbours with a glance which was half scared, half appalled. “I thought,” he said after a pause, “that matter was settled. It was proposed in this room that the child should be brought to us, but Rowton objected. It was arranged, was it not, that if Rowton did what we wanted, the child was to be let alone?”

“I was in my right when I kidnapped the boy,” said Piper in that snappy voice which always characterised him when his temper was getting the upper hand. “Now, Scrivener, to business; you took the child. Where is he?”

“I have him, sir.”

“Where?”

“In a room just above the shop in Cheapside.”

“Ah! that was a good thought. Is the lad safe? Any chance of his escaping?”

“None whatever,” answered Scrivener. “I need not go into particulars,” he added, “but the boy is safe enough; he won’t escape.”

“That’s right; you can keep him for the present. I shall want him by-and-by. What sort of lad is he?”

“I told you already, Long John, that he is about the pluckiest youngster I ever came across. To be honest, now,” continued Scrivener, “I didn’t like the job of taking that little game chap away a bit, and I hope—yes, I do—that he’ll soon have his liberty. I don’t hold with bringing up boys to our trade, that I don’t.”

“Nor do I,” said Simpkins. “It’s ⸺ hard,” he added, “and it don’t seem a bit fair to a straightforward fellow like Silver.”

“Silence!” said Piper. “Simpkins, when I want your opinion I’ll ask for it. The boy is not to have his liberty. I shall probably send him to America by-and-by.”

“To America!” cried Scrivener.

“Yes, why not? Am I your head, or am I not, men?”

“Of course you’re our head, Long John,” said a surly bulldog-looking man who stood near.

“Well, then, am I to direct proceedings, or am I not?”

“You are, you are, Piper,” said several.

“Let me hear no more grumbling, then. I propose to send the kid to America before long. The members of our School there will receive him with effusion, and the puppy can be brought up from tender years to walk in the way in which he should go. There’s only one thing now to be said, and it is this; that boy never returns to Rowton Heights. Should any member of this club be base enough to reveal his whereabouts, or even give the slightest hint to Adrian Rowton, he gets the black mark.”

There was no need to explain what the black mark meant: the men all looked lowering and discontented.

“I have had a letter and a telegram from Rowton,” said Long John; “both need attention. The man is in a high state of insurrection, and must be dealt with in a very summary manner. He is likely to come here at any moment.”

“That is true,” said Scrivener. “I know for a fact,” he added, “that Rowton is in town. He will, of course, demand the boy. What is your object, Piper, in keeping the lad from him?”

Piper, otherwise Long John, did not reply for a minute. He stood up looking gloomy and depressed. Then he said, abruptly:

“I refuse to disclose all my plans, but enough can be said to explain my reasons for the very strong move which I have just taken. Rowton is the gentleman leader of this School, but I, my men, am the real boss; but for me, where would any of you be now?”

“True for you, guv’nor,” said a couple of voices.

“I am the boss of this School. Two leaders cannot exist at the same time—one must fall. Rowton has defied me too long. All our plans will go to pieces, the police will get an inkling of our whereabouts, clues will be furnished to them, the scheme which we have formed to undermine society for our own best interest will fail, if there is a division in the camp. In short, the School will come to absolute and open grief. Rowton has defied me. I got the boy into my power because I intend to show Rowton who is master.”

“That’s fair enough,” said one or two again.

“’Tain’t fair to my way of thinking,” said Simpkins suddenly. “There ain’t one of us like Silver. No one has done us the good turns Silver has done, and he’s straight. I’d trust him—I’d trust him to the death.”

“Silence!” said Long John.

There was a heavy oak chair at one end of the room. Piper now approached it, seated himself, and looked down the long room. His face was even thinner and more cadaverous than usual, his eyes more luminous, his lips firmer and more cruel. Scrivener watched him in silence; then he went up the room and asked him a question.

“What do you want done,” he said, “with the plate and jewels which we have just taken from Rowton Heights?”

“They belong to Silver, and he must have them back again,” answered Long John with a weary sigh. “That plant on public credulity was the finest stroke of business we have done for a long time. We crown all when we not only punish and completely gull the public, but also take the desire of his eyes from Rowton.”

“Aye, but that, to my way of thinking, was the step too far,” muttered Scrivener under his breath.

“What are you saying, Scrivener? Speak out! I allow no mutterings here.”

“I am saying this,” answered Scrivener; “we put ourselves into danger when we aroused the indignation of a man like Rowton. You may push your authority too far, Long John. I have spoken, now; I won’t say another word.”

“You had better not. Now about the plate and jewels. You can keep them at your place in Cheapside, Scrivener, for a bit, can’t you?”

“I can, Piper, but to be frank with you, I don’t want them to remain there. They might implicate me.”

“Not a bit of it. The best plan would be to convert them into money, which you can easily do. You have crucibles, and can melt down the plate. The jewels can be taken from their settings, and one of our men can go over to Holland with a part of them in the course of the next fortnight. Rowton would as lief have a good large sum of money as the goods back again. In fact, he cannot have them back; it might arouse suspicion.”

“How about this?” said Scrivener after a pause. “You think yourselves safe enough,” he added, looking at the chief, his ugly small eyes flashing, “but I said we did wrong to get to the black side of a man like Rowton. How about this?” He put his hand into his breast pocket, drew out a small morocco case, and touched a spring. The case flew open, and the black diamond was revealed to view.

Long John was a man not easily moved; his outward calm seldom or never deserted him. He took the diamond from its case, looked at it, and put it back again.

“That black diamond,” he said, “was, by my orders, to be sold by Rowton in Spain. He came here and told a dastardly lie about it. Did I not say that fighting-cock, that bravado, wanted humiliating, crushing, defying? He said he had received fifteen hundred pounds for the gem; five hundred, as I told him at the time, too little. He gave me the money in your presence, mates.”

“He did that,” said a man who stood near. “I don’t know what all this row is about,” he continued, “we never had a straighter fellow among us than Silver.”

“Hush, there! When I want your opinion I’ll ask for it. Now, Scrivener, speak. How did you come by this diamond?”

“There’s treachery in the matter,” said Scrivener.

“Well, man, speak up, out with it.”

“It is this,” said Scrivener; “Silver has played us a scurvy trick. Instead of selling the gem and putting it out of the power of the police to trace it to us, he kept it and gave it to his wife. Mrs. Rowton wore the black diamond in her hair on the night of the ball at Rowton Heights.”

“You swear this as a fact?” said Long John.

“My proof, sir, is that I have the diamond,” said Scrivener. “A girl of the name of Hester Winsome, whom I heavily bribed while staying at Pitstow, managed to secure it for me. She took it out of her mistress’s wardrobe after the lady had retired for the night. And here it is, sir.” Scrivener pointed to the gem as he spoke.

“Yes, the proof is convincing,” said Long John.

A growl came from one or two throats near. Long John took up the diamond, looked at it again, and then replaced it on the table.

At that moment there came a knock at the door.

“Silver’s knock,” said Scrivener; “you won’t betray me, Piper?”

“You dog! Get along and let me alone,” said Piper. “Open the door, someone.”

Simpkins went down the room and threw the door open.

“Welcome, Silver,” he said in a voice which slightly shook.

Rowton nodded to him and entered. Without looking to right or left he came straight up the room. It was not his way to be ungracious, and the men resented what they termed his haughty bearing.

“You received my letter?” he said in a curt voice, looking full at Long John.

“I did, my fine fellow. You crow loud and fierce, my fighting cock. How dare you address your boss in that tone?”

“What I dare to do is my own affair,” answered Rowton. “Your part of the business is this; you keep your faith with me; if you break it, I’ll stick to my word. Unless the boy is given back to me in two hours, I break with the Silver School.”

“There are two words to that,” said Long John; “and as to my breaking faith with you, wait a while—we may equalise the balance. Give me that case here, Scrivener. Ha! what do you say to this, Rowton? How did this come into your possession?”

“That is the black diamond,” said Rowton in a cool voice. “I bought it for my wife. I forgot that it was stolen with the other things.”

He took up the gem as he spoke, looked at it with a peculiar expression, and then laid it back on the table.

“My wife wore it the night of the ball,” he said.

His tone was thoughtful. For a moment he ceased to see the scene which surrounded him; a fair vision rose before his mental eyes—he felt clinging arms round his neck. The next, the vision had faded and the black present was alone with him. He started from his reverie and spoke abruptly.

“That robbery was very well planned, Piper,” he said. “I must congratulate you on the whole way the thing was executed. But for the one step too far—but for the kidnapping of my lad—I could admire the pluck and courage of my confederates.” He looked round the room at the men, whose eyes glowed with delight at his words of praise.

“Hold your tongue and listen,” said Long John, interlarding his words with a terrific oath. “How did that diamond get into your possession?”

“I bought it,” answered Rowton. “I gave you fifteen hundred pounds for it.”

“Then, do you know what you have done? By this act alone you have sold us. There are ugly stories known to the police in connection with this black diamond. I could lay my hands at the present moment on three men in this room whom this precious gem of infernal night might bring to the gallows.”

“Hush, for Heaven’s sake!” said Scrivener, “walls have ears.”

“There are moments when one must speak out, danger or not,” said Long John. “The fact is plainly this. By your action, Rowton, you have imperilled us all. You broke faith with us when you appropriated this diamond for your own purposes. It is a lucky chance which brings it again into our possession. Understand, now, that this matter makes us quits, and that you have nothing whatever to do with the child.”

“Then my letter to you holds good,” said Rowton. “My men, I must wish you good evening.”

He took up his hat, walked down the length of the room, opened the door, and went out.

“Follow him,” said Long John, nodding to Simpkins as he spoke.

Without a word Simpkins also left the room.

When the two men had departed, and the sound of their footsteps going downstairs had completely died away, Long John seated himself once more in the old oak chair. He remained gloomy and silent for a moment. Then his voice sounded full and sonorous.

“Come up near me, all of you,” he said; “we have an important matter to discuss.”

All the men flocked, without a word, to the upper end of the room. Scrivener stood exactly in front of Long John. Long John’s eyes, pathetic to almost unbearable sadness, gazed full into the shifty eyes of his spy, his lips became thin as a line, his face showed white and cadaverous, even more deathly in hue than usual. On each cheek there came out slowly an angry spot of flame about the size of a halfpenny; the eyes grew brighter as the spot deepened. The lips were now so thin that they looked like a mere thread. The men all waited in perfect silence. They knew this mood of their leader, and trembled before it.

“There is only one thing to be done,” said Long John; “I name it with regret, but it must be done.”

“What is that?” asked Scrivener.

“We have had too much to do with our gentleman leader—he has defied us and put us in peril. Men, if we do not wish, each one of us, to taste the sweets of penal servitude, if three or four of us do not wish to swing by the neck until they die, Rowton must go.”

“He must go, it is true,” echoed Scrivener.

“It don’t seem to me as if that verdict was fair,” said a man on the outer edge of the circle.

Long John fixed him with his glittering eyes.

“What do you mean, Danvers?” he said.

“What I say,” replied the man, getting a little bolder. “Silver may have been wrong about that diamond, but after all, when all’s said and done, he give it to his wife, and, except for the black diamond, we never did have a straighter feller to work with.”

“If the black diamond is found by the police,” continued Long John, “we are all undone. The police have information with regard to it which will hang three men. Must three hang for one? I repeat that Adrian Rowton must go.”

All the men were silent now. One or two looked eager and impressed, one or two alarmed. Long John, after a silence which might almost be felt, spoke again.

“If we don’t give him away, he gives us away.”

“No,” said the man called Danvers, “’tain’t in Silver to give evidence agin his pals.”

“We have him in a cleft stick,” continued Long John. “Seeing himself at our mercy he will turn round and defy us. Has he not done so already? To-night, in your presence, mates, he named impossible conditions; when they were not acceded to, he went away with threatening words on his lips. He has done us harm, and, I repeat again, he must go. A diamond, well known to the police, has been found in his establishment. His wife has worn it. It is, doubtless, even now written in their records as part of the stolen goods from Rowton Heights. I repeat once again, the man must go. Do not let us discuss the fact of his going. A word or two as to the means and this meeting may break up.”

Just then there came a timid knock at the door.

Scrivener went on tiptoe to open it. The servant girl who brought it stood without. She handed a little twisted note.

Scrivener took it to Long John. He opened it, read the contents, and thrust it into his pocket.

“I have grave information here,” he said. “Spider is in town, and has been acting the spy for us as usual. We have no time to lose, mates. The police have already got wind of Silver’s identity. Spider has informed me in this note that they identify him with Adrian Rowton, master of Rowton Heights. Before twenty-four hours are over he will be arrested. Now, look here, we arrest him first. You understand, don’t you?”

“Yes,” answered several voices. They were all eager now. Their apathy had vanished.

“We have a wine party here to-morrow night,” said Long John, rising as he spoke. “Scrivener, it will be your duty to bring Silver here as guest. Use fair means to get him to come, if necessary; if not, lie to him. Good-night, men. We meet to-morrow evening at nine.”

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