THE MAN WHO LOST HIMSELF

by

H. DE VERE STACPOOLE

Author of "Sea Plunder, " "The Gold Trail, ""The Blue Lagoon, " Etc. 

New York: John Lane CompanyToronto: S. B. Gundy :: MCMXVIII

Copyright, 1917-1918by Street & Smith

Copyright, 1918by John Lane Company

The Plimpton PressNorwood Mass U. S. A. 

CONTENTS

PART I

 CHAPTER PAGE I. Jones 9 II. The Stranger 14 III. Dinner and After 18 IV. Carlton House Terrace 20 V. The Point of the Joke 38

PART II

 VI. The Net 45 VII. Luncheon 52 VIII. Mr. Voles 61 IX. More Intruders 74 X. Lady Plinlimon 85 XI. The Coal Mine 94 XII. The Girl in the Victoria 104 XIII. Teresa 119

PART III

 XIV. The Attack 125 XV. The Attack (Continued) 131 XVI. A Wild Surprise 136 XVII. The Second Honeymoon 148 XVIII. The Mental Trap 158 XIX. Escape Closed 164 XX. The Family Council 179 XXI. Hoover's 200 XXII. An Interlude 212 XXIII. Smithers 222 XXIV. He Runs to Earth 230 XXV. Moths 234 XXVI. A Tramp, and Other Things 241 XXVII. The Only Man in the World Who Would Believe Him 264 XXVIII. Pebblemarsh 274 XXIX. The Blighted City 283 XXX. A Just Man Angered 289 XXXI. He Finds Himself 294

THE MAN WHO LOST HIMSELF

PART I

CHAPTER I

JONES

It was the first of June, and Victor Jones of Philadelphia was seated inthe lounge of the Savoy Hotel, London, defeated in his first reallygreat battle with the thing we call life. 

Though of Philadelphia, Jones was not an American, nor had he anythingof the American accent. Australian born, he had started life in a bankat Melbourne, gone to India for a trading house, started for himself, failed, and become a rolling stone. Philadelphia was his last halt. 

With no financial foundation, Victor and a Philadelphia gentleman hadcompeted for a contract to supply the British Government with Harveyisedsteel struts, bolts, and girders; he had come over to London to pressthe business; he had interviewed men in brass hats, slow moving men whohad turned him over to slower moving men. The Stringer Company, for sohe dubbed himself and Aaron Stringer, who had financed him for thejourney, had wasted three weeks on the business, and this morning theirtender had been rejected. Hardmans', the Pittsburg people, had got theorder. 

It was a nasty blow. If he and Stringer could have secured the contract, they could have carried it through all right, Stringer would have putthe thing in the hands of Laurenson of Philadelphia, and theircommission would have been enormous, a stroke of the BritishGovernment's pen would have filled their pockets; failing that they werebankrupt. At least Jones was. 

And justifiably you will say, considering that the whole business was agigantic piece of bluff--well, maybe, yet on behalf of this bluffer Iwould put it forward that he had risked everything on one deal, and thatthis was no little failure of his, but a disaster, naked and complete. 

He had less than ten pounds in his pocket and he owed money at theSavoy. You see he had reckoned on doing all his business in a week, andif it failed--an idea which he scarcely entertained--on getting backthird class to the States. He had not reckoned on the terrible expensesof London, or the three weeks delay. 

Yesterday he had sent a cable to Stringer for funds, and had got as areply: "Am waiting news of contract. "

Stringer was that sort of man. 

He was thinking about Stringer now, as he sat watching the guests of theSavoy, Americans and English, well to do people with no money worries, so he fancied. He was thinking about Stringer and his own position, with less than ten pounds in his pocket, an hotel bill unreceipted, andthree thousand miles of deep water between himself and Philadelphia. 

Jones was twenty-four years of age. He looked thirty. A serious faced, cadaverous individual, whom, given three guesses you would have judgedto be a Scotch free kirk minister in mufti; an actor in the melodramaticline; a food crank. These being the three most serious occupations inthe world. 

In reality, he had started life, as before said, in a bank, educatedhimself in mathematics and higher commercial methods, by correspondence, and, aiming to be a millionaire, had left the bank and struck out forhimself in the great tumbling ocean of business. 

He had glimpsed the truth. Seen the fact that the art of life is not somuch to work oneself as to make other people work for one, to convert byone's own mental energy, the bodily energy of others into products oractions. Had this Government contract come off, he would have, and tohis own profit, set a thousand hammers swinging, a dozen steel millsrolling, twenty ships lading, hammers, mills and ships he had neverseen, never would see. 

That is the magic of business, and when you behold roaring towns andhumming wharves, when you read of raging battles, you see and read ofthe work of a comparatively small number of men, gentlemen who wearfrock coats, who have never handled a bale, or carried a gun, or steereda ship with their own hands. Magicians!

He ordered a whisky and soda from a passing attendant, to help himthink some more about Stringer and his own awful position, and wastaking the glass from the salver when a very well dressed man of his ownage and build who had entered by the passage leading up from theAmerican bar drew his attention. 

This man's face seemed quite familiar to him, so much so that he startedin his chair as though about to rise and greet him. The stranger, also, seemed for a second under the same obsession, but only for a second; hemade a half pause and then passed on, becoming lost to sight beyond thepalm trees at the entrance. Jones leaned back in his chair. 

"Now, _where_ did I see that guy before?" asked he of himself. "Where onearth have I met him? and he recognised me--where in the--where inthe--where in the--?"

His memory vaguely and vainly searching for the name to go with thatface was at fault. He finished his whisky and soda and rose, and thenstrolled off not heeding much in what direction, till he reached thebook and newspaper stand where he paused to inspect the wares, turningover the pages of the latest best seller without imbibing a word of thetext. 

Then he found himself downstairs in the American bar, with a champagnecocktail before him. 

Jones was an abstemious man, as a rule, but he had a highly strungnervous system and it had been worked up. The unaccustomed whiskey andsoda had taken him in its charge, comforting him and conducting hissteps, and now the bar keeper, a cheery person, combined with thechampagne cocktail, the cheeriest of drinks, so raised his spirits andwarmed his optimism, that, having finished his glass he pushed it acrossthe counter and said, "Give me another. "

At this moment a gentleman who had just entered the bar came up to thecounter, placed half a crown upon it and was served by the assistant barkeeper with a glass of sherry. 

Jones, turning, found himself face to face with the stranger whom he hadseen in the lounge, the stranger whose face he knew but whose name hecould not remember in the least. 

Jones was a direct person, used to travel and the forming of chanceacquaintanceships. He did not hang back. 

"'Scuse me, " said he. "I saw you in the lounge and I'm sure I've met yousomewhere or another, but I can't place you. "

CHAPTER II

THE STRANGER

The stranger, taking his change from the assistant bar tender, laughed. 

"Yes, " said he, "you have seen me before, often, I should think. Do youmean to say you don't know where?"

"Nope, " said Jones--he had acquired a few American idioms--"I'm clearout of my reckoning--are you an American?"

"No, I'm English, " replied the other. "This is very curious, you don'trecognise me, well--well--well--let's sit down and have a talk, mayberecollection will come to you--give it time--it is easier to thinksitting down than standing up. "

Now as Jones turned to take his seat at the table indicated by thestranger, he noticed that the bar keeper and his assistant were lookingat him as though he had suddenly become an object of more than ordinaryinterest. 

The subtlety of human facial expression stands unchallenged, and thefaces of these persons conveyed the impression to Jones that theinterest he had suddenly evoked in their minds had in it a link with thehumorous. 

When he looked again, however, having taken his seat, they were bothwashing glasses with the solemnity of undertakers. 

"I thought those guys were laughing at me, " said Jones, "seems I waswrong, and all the better for them--well, now, let's get to the bottomof this tangle--who are you, anyway?"

"Just a friend, " replied the other, "I'll tell you my name presently, only I want you to think it out for yourself. Talk about yourself andthen, maybe, you'll arrive at it. Who are you?"

"Me, " cried Jones, "I'm Victor Jones of Philadelphia. I'm the partner ofa skunk by name of Stringer. I'm the victim of a British government thatdoesn't know the difference between tin plate and Harveyised steel. I'ma man on the rocks. "

The flood gates of his wrath were opened and everything came out, including the fact of his own desperate position. 

When he had finished the only remark of the stranger was:

"Have another. "

"Not on your life, " cried Jones. "I ought to be making tracks for theconsul or somewhere to get my passage back to the States--well--I don'tknow. No--no more cocktails. I'll have a sherry, same as you. "

The sherry having been despatched, the stranger rose, refusing a returndrink just at that moment. 

"Come into the lounge with me, " said he, "I want to tell you something Ican't tell you here. "

They passed up the stairs, the stranger leading the way, Jonesfollowing, slightly confused in his mind but full of warmth at hisheart, and with a buoyancy of spirit beyond experience. Stringer wasforgotten, the British Government was forgotten, contracts, hotel bills, steerage journeys to the States, all these were forgotten. The warmth, the sumptuous rooms, and the golden lamps of the Savoy were sufficientfor the moment, and as he sank into an easy chair and lit a cigarette, even his interest in the stranger and what he had to say was for amoment dimmed and diminished by the fumes that filled his brain, and theease that lapped his senses. 

"What I have to say is this, " said the stranger, leaning forward in hischair. "When I saw you here some time ago, I recognised you at once as aperson I knew, but, as you put it, I could not place you. But when I gotinto the main hall a mirror at once told me. You are, to put it frankly, my twin image. "

"I beg your pardon, " said Jones, the word image shattering hiscomplacency. "Your twin which do you say?"

"Image, likeness, counterpart--I mean no offence--turn round and glanceat that mirror behind you. "

Jones did, and saw the stranger, and the stranger was himself. Both menbelonged to a fairly common type, but the likeness went far beyondthat--they were identical. The same hair and colour of hair, the samefeatures, shape of head, ears and colour of eyes, the same seriousexpression of countenance. 

Absolute likeness between two human beings is almost as rare asabsolute likeness between two pebbles on a beach, yet it occurs, as inthe case of M. De Joinville and others well known and confirmed, andwhen I say absolute likeness, I mean likeness so complete that a closeacquaintance cannot distinguish the difference between the duplicates. When nature does a trick like this, she does it thoroughly, for it hasbeen noticed--but more especially in the case of twins--the likenessincludes the voice, or at least its timbre, the thyroid cartilage andvocal chords following the mysterious law that rules the duplication. 

Jones' voice and the voice of the stranger might have been the same asfar as pitch and timbre were concerned, the only difference was in theaccent, and that was slight. 

"Well, I'm d-d-d--, " said Jones. 

He turned to the other and then back to the mirror. 

"Extraordinary, isn't it?" said the other. "I don't know whether I oughtto apologise to you or you to me. My name is Rochester. "

Jones turned from the mirror, the two champagne cocktails, the whiskyand the sherry were accommodating his unaccustomed brain to support thismost unaccustomed situation. The thing seemed to him radiantly humorous, yet if he had known it there was very little humour in the matter. 

"We must celebrate this, " said Jones, calling an attendant and givinghim explicit orders as to the means. 

CHAPTER III

DINNER AND AFTER

A small bottle of Böllinger was the means, and the celebration wasmostly done by Jones, for it came about that this stranger, Rochester, whilst drinking little himself, managed by some method to keep up ingaiety and in consequence of mind with the other, though every now andthen he would fall away from the point, as a ship without a steersmanfalls away from the wind, and lapse for a moment into what an acuteobserver might have deemed to be the fundamental dejection of his realnature. 

However, these lapses were only momentary, and did not interfere at allwith the gay spirits of his companion, who having found a friend in themidst of the loneliness of London, and his twin image in the person ofthat friend, was now pouring out his heart on every sort of subject, always returning, and with the regularity of a pendulum to the fact ofthe likeness, and the same question and statement. 

"What's this, your name? Rochester! well, 'pon my soul this beats me. "

Presently, the Bollinger finished, Jones found himself outside the Savoywith this new found friend, walking in the gas lit Strand, and then, without any transition rememberable, he found himself seated at dinnerin a private room of a French restaurant in Soho. 

Afterwards he could remember parts of that dinner quite distinctly. Hecould remember the chicken and salad, and a rum omelette, at which hehad laughed because it was on fire. He could remember Rochester'sgaiety, and a practical joke of some sort played on the waiter byRochester and ending in smashed plates--he could remember remonstratingwith the latter over his wild conduct. These things he could rememberafterwards, and also a few others--a place like Heaven--which was theLeicester Lounge, and a place like the other place which was LeicesterSquare. 

A quarrel with a stranger, about what he could not tell, a taxi cab, inwhich he was seated listening to Rochester's voice giving directions tothe driver, minute directions as to where he, Jones, was to be driven. 

A lamp lit hall, and stairs up which he was being led. 

Nothing more. 

CHAPTER IV

CARLTON HOUSE TERRACE

He awoke from sleep in bed in the dark, with his mind clear as crystaland hot shame clutching at his throat. Rochester was the firstrecollection that came to him, and it was a recollection tinged withevil. He felt like a man who had supped with the devil. Led by Rochesterhe had made a fool of himself, he had made a brute of himself, how wouldhe face the hotel people? And what had he done with the last of hismoney?

These thoughts held him motionless for a few terrific moments. Then heclapped his hand to his unfortunate head, turned on his side, and laygazing into the darkness. It had all come back to him clearly. Rochester's wild conduct, the dinner, the smashed plates, the quarrel. He was afraid to get up and search in his pockets, he guessed theircondition. He occupied himself instead, trying to imagine what wouldbecome of him without money and without friends in this wilderness ofLondon. With ten pounds he might have done something; without, whatcould he do? Nothing, unless it were manual labour, and he did not knowwhere to look for that. 

Then Rochester, never from his mind, came more fully before him--thatlikeness, was it real, or only a delusion of alcohol? And what else hadRochester done? He seemed mad enough to have done anything, plumcrazy--would he, Jones, be held accountable for Rochester's deeds? Hewas fighting with this question when a clock began to strike in thedarkness and close to the bed, nine delicate and silvery strokes, thatbrought a sudden sweat upon the forehead of Jones. 

He was not in his room at the Savoy. There was no clock in the Savoy bedroom, and no clock in any hotel ever spoke in tones like these. On thesound, as if from a passage outside, he heard a voice:

"Took all his money, and sent him home in another chap's clothes. "

Then came the sound of a soft step crossing the carpet, the sound ofcurtain rings moving--then a blind upshrivelled letting the light of dayupon a room never before seen by Jones, a Jacobean bed room, severe, butexquisite in every detail. 

The man who had pulled the blind string, and whose powerful profile wassilhouetted against the light, showed to the sun a face highly butevenly coloured, as though by the gentle painting of old port wine, through a long series of years and ancestors. The typical colour of theold fashioned English Judge, Bishop, and Butler. 

He was attired in a black morning coat, and his whole countenance, make, build and appearance had something grave and archiepiscopal most holdingto the eye and imagination. 

It terrified Jones, who, breathing now as though asleep, watchedthrough closed eyelids whilst the apparition, with pursed lips, dealtwith the blind of the other window. 

This done, it passed to the door, conferred in muted tones with someunseen person, and returned bearing in its hands a porcelain earlymorning tea service. 

Having placed this on the table by the bed, the apparition vanished, closing the door. 

Jones sat up and looked around him. 

His clothes had disappeared. He always hung his trousers on the bed postat the end of his bed and placed his other things on a chair, buttrousers or other things were nowhere visible, they had been spiritedaway. It was at this moment that he noticed the gorgeous silk pyjamas hehad got on. He held out his arm and looked at the texture and pattern. 

Then, in a flash came comfort and understanding. He was in Rochester'shouse. Rochester must have sent him here last night. That apparition wasRochester's man servant. The vision of Rochester turned from an evilspirit to an angel, and filled with a warm sensation of friendlinesstowards the said Rochester he was in the act of pouring out a cup oftea, when the words he had heard spoken in the passage outside came backto him. 

"Took all his money, and sent him home in another chap's clothes. "

What did that mean?

He finished pouring out the tea and drank it; there was thin bread andbutter on a plate but he disregarded it. Whose money had been taken, and who had been sent home in another chap's clothes?

Did those words apply to him or to Rochester? Had Rochester been robbed?Might he, Jones, be held accountable?

A deep uneasiness and a passionate desire for his garments begotten ofthese queries, brought him out of bed and on to the floor. He came tothe nearer window and looked out. The window gave upon the Green Park, acheerful view beneath the sky of a perfect summer's morning. He turnedfrom the window, and crossing the room opened the door through which theapparition had vanished. A thickly carpeted corridor lay outside, acorridor silent as the hypogeum of the Apis, secretive, gorgeous, withtasseled silk curtains and hanging lamps. Jones judged these lamps to beof silver and worth a thousand dollars apiece. He had read the ArabianNights when a boy, and like a waft now from the garden of Aladdin came avague something stirring his senses and disturbing his practical nature. He wanted his clothes. This silent gorgeousness had raised the desirefor his garments to a passion. He wanted to get into his boots and facethe world and face the worst. Swinging lamps of silver, soft carpets, silken curtains, only served to heighten his sensitiveness as to hisapparel and whole position. 

He came back into the room. His anger was beginning to rise, the nervousanger of a man who has made a fool of himself, upon whom a jest is beingplayed, and who finds himself in a false position. 

Seeing an electric button by the fire place he went to it and pressed ittwice, hard, then he opened the second door of the room and found a bathroom. 

A Pompeian bath room with tassellated floor, marble walls and marbleceiling. The bath was sunk in the floor. Across hot water pipes, platedwith silver, hung towels of huck-a-back, white towels with cardinal redfringes. Here too, most un-Pompeian stood a wonderful dressing table, one solid slab of glass, with razors set out, manicure instruments, brushes, powder pots, scent bottles. 

Jones came into this place, walked round it like a cat in a strangelarder, gauged the depth of the bath, glanced at the things on thetable, and was in the act of picking up one of the manicure implements, when a sound from the bed room drew his attention. 

Someone was moving about there. 

Someone who seemed altering the position of chairs and arranging things. 

He judged it to be the servant who had answered the bell; he consideredthat it was better to have the thing out now, and have done with it. Hewanted a full explanation, and bravely, but with the feelings of a manwho is entering a dental parlour, he came to the bath room door. 

A pale faced, agile-looking young man with glossy black hair, a youngman in a sleeved waistcoat, a young man carrying a shirt and set of pinksilk undergarments over his left arm, was in the act of placing a pairof patent leather boots with kid tops upon the floor. A gorgeousdressing gown lay upon the bed. It had evidently been placed there bythe agile one. 

Jones had intended to ask explanations. That intention shrivelled, somehow, in the act of speech. What he uttered was a very mildly framedrequest. 

"Er--can I have my clothes, please?" said Jones. 

"Yes, my Lord, " replied the other. "I am placing them out. "

The instantaneous anger raised by the patent fact that he was beingguyed by the second apparition was as instantly checked by therecollection of Rochester. Here was another practical joke. This housewas evidently Rochester's--the whole thing was plain. Well, he wouldshow that tricky spirit how he could take a joke and turn it on themaker. Like Brer Rabbit he determined to lie low. 

He withdrew into the bath room and sat down on the rush bottomed chairby the table, his temper coiled, and ready to fly out like a spring. Hewas seated like this, curling his toes and nursing his resolve, when theAgile One, with an absolute gravity that disarmed all anger, enteredwith the dressing gown. He stood holding it up, and Jones, rising, putit on. Then the A. O. Filled the bath, trying the temperature with athermometer, and so absorbed in his business that he might have beenalone. 

The bath filled, he left the room, closing the door. 

He had thrown some crystals into the water, scenting it with a perfumefragrant and refreshing, the temperature was just right, and as Jonesplunged and wallowed and lay half floating, supporting himself by thesilver plated rails arranged for that purpose, the idea came to himthat if the practical joke were to continue as pleasantly as it hadbegun, he, for one, would not grumble. 

Soothed by the warmth his mind took a clearer view of things. 

If this were a jest of Rochester's, as most certainly it was, where laythe heart of it? Every joke has its core, and the core of this one wasmost evidently the likeness between himself and Rochester. 

If Rochester were a Lord and if this were his house, and if Rochesterhad sent him--Jones--home like a bundle of goods, then the extraordinarylikeness would perhaps deceive the servants and maybe other people aswell. That would be a good joke, promising all sorts of funnydevelopments. Only it was not a joke that any man of self respect wouldplay. But Rochester, from those vague recollections of his antics, didnot seem burdened with self respect. He seemed in his latterdevelopments crazy enough for anything. 

If he had done this, then the servants were not in the business; theywould be under the delusion that he, Jones, was Rochester, doped androbbed and dressed in another man's clothes and sent home. 

Rochester, turning up later in the morning, would have a fine feast ofhumour to sit down to. 

This seemed plain. The born practical joker coming on his own twin imagecould not resist making use of it. This explanation cleared thesituation, but it did not make it a comfortable one. If the servantsdiscovered the imposition before the arrival of Rochester things wouldbe unpleasant. He must act warily, get downstairs and escape from theplace as soon as possible. Later on he would settle with Rochester. Theservants, if they were not partners in the joke, had taken him on hisface value, his voice had evidently not betrayed him. He felt sure onthis point. He left the bath and, drying himself, donned the dressinggown. Tooth paste and a tooth brush stood on a glass tray by a littlebasin furnished with hot and cold water taps, and now, so strangely aremen constituted, the main facts of his position were dwarfed for asecond by the consideration that he had no tooth brush of his own. 

Just that little thing brought his energies to a focus and his growingirritation. 

He, opened the bed-room door. The glossy haired one was putting links inthe sleeves of a shirt. 

"Get me a tooth brush--a new one, " said Jones, brusquely, almostbrutally. "Get it quick. "

"Yes, my Lord. "

He dropped the shirt and left the room swiftly, but not hurriedly, taking care to close the door softly behind him. 

It was the first indication to Jones of a method so complete and amechanism so perfectly constituted, that jolts were all but eliminated. 

"I believe if I'd asked that guy for an elephant, " he said to himself, "he'd have acted just the same--do they keep a drug store on thepremises?"

They evidently kept a store of tooth brushes, for in less than a minuteand a half Expedition had returned with the tooth brush on a littlelacquered tray. 

Now, to a man accustomed to dress himself it comes as a shock to havehis underpants held out for him to get into as though he were a littleboy. 

This happened to Jones--and they were pink silk. 

A pair of subfusc coloured trousers creased and looking absolutely newwere presented to him in the same manner. He was allowed to put on hisown socks, silk and never worn before, but he was not allowed to put onhis own boots. The perfect valet did that kneeling before him, shoe hornand button hook in hand. 

Having inducted him into a pink silk under vest and a soft pleatedshirt, with plain gold links in the sleeves, each button of the saidlinks having in its centre a small black pearl, a collar and a subfusccoloured silk tie were added to him, also a black morning vest and ablack morning coat, with rather broad braid at the edges. 

A handkerchief of pure white cambric with a tiny monogram also in whitewas then shaken out and presented. 

Then his valet, intent, silent, and seeming to move by clockwork, passedto a table on which stood a small oak cabinet. Opening the cabinet hetook from it and placed on the table a watch and chain. 

His duties were now finished, and, according to some prescribed rule, heleft the room carefully and softly, closing the door behind him. 

Jones took up the watch and chain. 

The watch was as thin as a five shilling piece, the chain was a merethread of gold. It was an evening affair, to be worn with dressclothes, and this fact presented to the mind of Jones a confirmation ofthe idea that, not only was he literally in Rochester's shoes, but thatRochester's ordinary watch and chain had not returned. 

He sat down for a moment to consider another point. His own oldWaterbury and rolled gold chain, and the few unimportant letters in hispockets--where were they?

He determined to clear this matter at once, and boldly rang the bell. 

The valet answered it. 

"When I came back last night--er--was there anything in my pockets?"asked he. 

"No, my Lord. They had taken everything from the pockets. "

"No watch and chain?"

"No, my Lord. "

"Have you the clothes I came back in?"

"Yes, my Lord. "

"Go and fetch them. "

The man disappeared and returned in a minute with a bundle of clothesneatly folded on his arm. 

"Mr. Church told me to keep them careful, lest you'd want to put thematter in the hands of the police, my Lord, shockin' old things theyare. "

Jones examined the clothes. They were his own. Everything he had wornyesterday lay there, and the sight of them filled his mind with anostalgia and a desire for them--a home sickness and a clothessickness--beyond expression. 

He was absolutely sure from the valet's manner that the servants werenot "in the know. " A wild impulse came on him to take the exhibitor ofthese remnants of his past into his confidence. To say right out: "I'mJones. Victor Jones of Philadelphia. I'm no Lord. Here, gimme thoseclothes and let me out of this--let's call it quits. "

The word "police" already dropped held him back. He was an impostor. Ifhe were to declare the facts before Rochester returned, what might bethe result? Whatever the result might be one thing was certain, it wouldbe unpleasant. Besides, he was no prisoner, once downstairs he couldleave the house. 

So instead of saying: "I'm Victor Jones of Philadelphia, " he said: "Takethem away, " and finding himself alone once more he sat down to consider. 

Rochester must have gone through his pockets, not for loot, but for thepurpose of removing any article that might cast suspicion, or raise thesuspicion that he, Jones, was not Rochester. That seemed plain enough, and there was an earnestness of purpose in the fact that was disturbing. 

There was no use in thinking, however. He would go downstairs and makehis escape. He was savagely hungry, but he reckoned the Savoy was goodenough for one more meal--if he could get there. 

Leaving the watch and chain--unambitious to add a charge of larceny tohis other troubles, should Fate arrest him before the return ofRochester, he came down the corridor to a landing giving upon a flightof stairs, up which, save for the gradient, a coach and horses mighthave been driven. 

The place was a palace. Vast pictures by gloomy old artists, pictures ofmen in armour, men in ruffs, women without armour or ruffs, or even arag of chiffon, pictures worth millions of dollars no doubt, hung fromthe walls of the landing, and the wall flanking that triumphantstaircase. 

Jones looked over into the well of the hall, then he began to descendthe stairs. 

He had intended, on finding a hat in the hall, to clap it on and make aclean bolt for freedom and the light of heaven, get back to the Savoy, dress himself in another suit, and once more himself, go for Rochester, but this was no hall with a hat-rack and umbrella-stand. Knights inarmour were guarding it, and a flunkey, six feet high, in red plushbreeches, and with calves that would have made Victor Jones scream withlaughter under normal conditions. 

The flunkey, seeing our friend, stepped to a door, opened it, and heldit open for him. Not to enter the room thus indicated would have beenpossible enough, but the compelling influence of that vast flunkey madeit impossible to Jones. 

His volition had fled, he was subdued to his surroundings, for themoment conquered. 

He entered a breakfast room, light and pleasantly furnished, where at abreakfast table and before a silver tea urn sat a lady of forty or so, thin faced, high nosed, aristocratic and rather faded. 

She was reading a letter, and when she saw the incomer she rose fromthe table and gathered some other letters up. Then she, literally, sweptfrom the room. She looked at him as she passed, and it seemed to Jonesthat he had never known before the full meaning of the word "scorn. "

For a wild second he thought that all had been discovered, that thepolice were now sure to arrive. Then he knew at once. Nothing had beendiscovered, the delusion held even for this woman, that glance was meantfor Rochester, not for him, and was caused by the affair of last night, by other things, too, maybe, but that surely. 

Uncomfortable, angry, nervous, wild to escape, and then yielding tocaution, he took his seat at the table where a place was laid--evidentlyfor him. 

The woman had left an envelope on the table, he glanced at it. 

 THE HONBLE: VENETIA BIRDBROOK, 10A Carlton House Terrace, London, S. W. 

Victor read the inscription written in a bold female hand. 

It told him where he was, he was in the breakfast-room of 10A CarltonHouse Terrace, but it told him nothing more. 

Was the Honble: Venetia Birdbrook his wife, or at least the wife of histwin image? This thought blinded him for a moment to the fact that aflunkey--they seemed as numerous as flies in May--was at his elbow witha _menu_, whilst another flunkey, who seemed to have sprung from thefloor, was fiddling at the sideboard which contained cold edibles, tongue, ham, chicken and so forth. 

"Scrambled eggs, " said he, looking at the card. 

"Tea or coffee, my Lord?"

"Coffee. "

He broke a breakfast roll and helped himself mechanically to somebutter, which was instantly presented to him by the sideboard fiddler, and he had just taken a mechanical bite of buttered roll, when the dooropened and the Archiepiscopal gentleman who had pulled up his windowblind that morning entered. Mr. Church, for Jones had already gatheredthat to be his name, carried a little yellow basket filled with lettersin his right hand, and in his left a great sheaf, The Times, DailyTelegraph, Morning Post, Daily Mail, Daily Express, Chronicle, and DailyNews. These papers he placed on a side table evidently intended for thatpurpose. The little letter basket he placed on the table at Jones' leftelbow. 

Then he withdrew, but not without having spoken a couple of murmuredwords of correction to the flunkey near the sideboard, who had omitted, no doubt, some point in the mysterious ritual of which he was anacolyte. 

Jones glanced at the topmost letter. 

 THE EARL OF ROCHESTER, 10A, Carlton House Terrace, London, S. W. 

Ah! now he knew it. The true name of the juggler who had played him thistrick. It was plain, too, now, that Rochester had sent him here as asubstitute. 

But the confirmation of his idea did not ease his mind. On the contraryit filled him with a vague alarm. The feeling of being in a trap cameupon him now for the first time. The joke had lost any semblance ofcolour, the thing was serious. Rochester ought to have been back to putan end to the business before this. Had anything happened to him? Had hegot jailed?

He did not touch the letters. Without raising suspicion, acting asnaturally as possible the part of a peer of the realm, he must escape asswiftly as possible from this nest of flunkeys, and with that object inview he accepted the scrambled eggs now presented to him, and thecoffee. 

When they were finished, he rose from the table. Then he remembered theletters. Here was another tiny tie. He could not leave them unopened anduntouched on the table without raising suspicion. He took them from thebasket, and with them in his hand left the room, the fellow in waitingslipping before to open the door. 

The hall was deserted for a wonder, deserted by all but the men inarmour. A room where he might leave the infernal letters, and find abell to fetch a servant to get him a hat was the prime necessity of themoment. 

He crossed to a door directly opposite, opened it, and found a room halflibrary, half study, a pleasant room used to tobacco, with a ratherwell worn Turkey carpet on the floor, saddle bag easy chairs, and agreat escritoire in the window, open and showing pigeon holes containingnote paper, envelopes, telegraph forms, and a rack containing the A. B. C. Railway Guide, Whitakers Almanac, Ruffs' Guide to the Turf, Who'sWho, and Kelly. 

Pipes were on the mantel piece, a silver cigar box and cigarette box ona little table by one of the easy chairs, matches--nothing was herewanting, and everything was of the best. 

He placed the letters on the table, opened the cigar box and took fromit a Ramon Alones. A blunt ended weapon for the destruction ofmelancholy and unrest, six and a half inches long, and costing perhapshalf-a-crown. A real Havana cigar. Now in London there are only fourplaces where you can obtain a real and perfect Havana cigar. That is tosay four shops. And at those four shops--or shall we call thememporiums--only known and trusted customers can find the sun that shoneon the Vuelta Abajos in such and such a perfect year. 

The Earl of Rochester's present representative was finding it now, withlittle enough pleasure, however, as he paced the room preparatory toringing the bell. He was approaching the electric button for thispurpose, when the faint and far away murmuring of an automobile, as ifadmitted by a suddenly opened hall door, checked his hand. Here wasRochester at last. He waited listening. 

He had not long to wait. 

The door of the room suddenly opened, and the woman of the breakfasttable disclosed herself. She was dressed for going out, wearing a hatthat seemed a yard in diameter, and a feather boa, from which herhen-like face and neck rose to the crowning triumph of the hat. 

"I am going to Mother, " said she. "I am not coming back. "

"Um-um, " said Jones. 

She paused. Then she came right in and closed the door behind her. 

Standing with her back close to the door she spoke to Jones. 

"If you cannot see your own conduct as others see it, who can make you?I am not referring to the disgrace of last night, though heaven knowsthat was bad enough, I am talking of _everything_, of your poor wife wholoves you still, of the estate you have ruined by your lunatic conduct, of the company you keep, of the insults you have heaped on people--andnow you add drink to the rest. That's new. " She paused. 

"That's new. But I warn you, your brain won't stand _that_. You know thetaint in the family as well as I do, it has shewn itself in youractions. Well, go on drinking and you will end in Bedlam instead of theworkhouse. They call you 'Mad Rochester'; you know that. " She choked. "Ihave blushed to be known as your sister--I have tried to keep my placehere and save you. It's ended. " She turned to the door. 

Jones had been making up his mind. He would tell the whole affair. ThisRochester was a thoroughly bad lot evidently; well, he would turn thetables on him now. 

"Look here, " said he. "I am not the man you think I am. "

"Tosh!" cried the woman. 

She opened the door, passed out, and shut it with a snap. 

"Well, I'm d----d, " said Jones, for the second time in connection withRochester. 

The clock on the mantelpiece pointed to a quarter to eleven; the faintsound of the car had ceased. The lady of the feather boa had evidentlytaken her departure, and the house had resumed its cloistral silence. 

He waited a moment to make sure, then he went into the hall where a hugeflunkey--a new one, more curious than the others, was lounging near thedoor. 

"My hat, " said Jones. 

The thing flew, and returned with a glossy silk hat, a tortoiseshellhandled cane, and a pair of new suede gloves of a delicate dove colour. Then it opened the door, and Jones, clapping the hat on his head, walkedout. 

The hat fitted, by a mercy. 

CHAPTER V

THE POINT OF THE JOKE

Out in the open air and sunshine he took a deep satisfying breath. Hefelt as though he had escaped from a cage full of monkeys. Monkeys inthe form of men, creatures who would servilely obey him as Rochester, but who, scenting the truth, would rend him in pieces. 

Well, he was clear of them. Once back in the Savoy he would get into hisown things, and once in his own things he would strike. If he could notget a lawyer to take his case up against Rochester, he would go to thepolice. Yes, he would. Rochester had doped him, taken his letters, takenhis watch. 

Jones was not the man to bring false charges. He knew that in taking hisbelongings, this infernal jester had done so, not for plunder, but forthe purpose of making the servants believe that he, Rochester, had beenstripped of everything by sharks, and sent home in an old suit ofclothes; all the same he would charge Rochester with the taking of histhings, he would teach this practical joker how to behave. 

To cool himself and collect his thoughts before going to the Savoy, hetook a walk in the Green Park. 

That one word "Tosh!" uttered by the woman, in answer to what he hadsaid, told him more about Rochester than many statements. This manwanted a cold bath, he wanted to be held under the tap till he cried formercy. 

Walking, now with the stick under his right arm and his left hand in histrousers pocket, he felt something in the pocket. It was a coin. He tookit out. It was a penny, undiscovered evidently, and unremoved by thevalet. 

It was also a reminder of his own poverty stricken condition. Histhoughts turned from Rochester and his jokes, to his own immediate andtragic position. The whole thing was his own fault. It was quite easy tosay that Rochester had led him along and tempted him; he was a fullgrown man and should have resisted temptation. He had let strong drinkget hold of him; well, he had paid by the loss of his money, to saynothing of the way his self-respect had been bruised by this jester. 

Near Buckingham Palace he turned back, walking by the way he had come, and leaving the park at the new gate. 

He crossed the plexus of ways where Northumberland Avenue debouches onTrafalgar Square. It was near twelve o'clock, and the first eveningpapers were out. A hawker with a bundle of papers under his arm and ayellow poster in front of him like an apron, drew his attention; atleast the poster did. 

"Suicide of an American in London!" were the words on the poster. 

Jones, remembering his penny, produced it and bought a paper. 

The American's suicide did not interest him, but he fancied vaguely thatsomething of Rochester's doings of the night before might have beencaught by the Press through the Police news. He thought it highlyprobable that Rochester, continuing his mad course, had been gaoled. 

He was rewarded. Right on the first page he saw his own name. He hadnever seen it before in print, and the sight and the circumstances madehis tongue cluck back, as though checked by a string tied to its root. 

This was the paragraph:

"Last night, as the 11. 35 Inner Circle train was entering the TempleStation, a man was seen to jump from the platform on to the metals. Before the station officials could interfere to save him, theunfortunate man had thrown himself before the incoming engine. Death wasinstantaneous. 

"From papers in possession of deceased, his identity has been verifiedas that of Mr. V. A. Jones, an American gentleman of Philadelphia, lately resident at the Savoy Hotel, Strand. "

Jones stood with the paper in his hand, appalled. Rochester hadcommitted suicide!

This was the Jest--the black core of it. All last evening, all throughthat hilarity he had been plotting this. Plotting it perhaps from thefirst moment of their meeting. Unable to resist the prompting of theextraordinary likeness, this joker, this waster, done to the world, hadleft life at the end of a last jamboree, and with a burst oflaughter--leaving another man in his clothes, nay, almost one might sayin his body. 

Jones saw the point of the thing at once. 

PART II

CHAPTER VI

THE NET

He saw something else. He was automatically barred from the Savoy, andbarred from the American Consul. And on top of that something else. Hehad committed a very grave mistake in accepting for a moment hisposition. He should have spoken at once that morning, spoken to "Mr. Church, " told his tale and made explanations, failing that he shouldhave made explanations before leaving the house. He had left inRochester's clothes, he had acted the part of Rochester. 

He rolled the paper into a ball, tossed it into the gutter, and enteredCharing Cross to continue his soliloquy. 

He had eaten Rochester's food, smoked one of his cigars, accepted hiscane and gloves. All that might have been explainable with Rochester'said, but Rochester was dead. 

No one knew that Rochester was dead. To go back to the Savoy andestablish his own identity, he would have to establish the fact ofRochester's death, tell the story of his own intoxication, and makepeople believe that he was an innocent victim. 

An innocent victim who had gone to another man's house and palpablymasqueraded for some hours as that other man, walking out of the housein his clothes and carrying his stick, an innocent victim, who owed abill at the Savoy. 

Why, every man, the family included you may be sure, would be findingthe innocent victim in Rochester. 

What were Jones' letters doing on Rochester? That was a nice questionfor a puzzle-headed jury to answer. 

By what art did Jones, the needy American Adventurer--that was what theywould call him--impose himself upon Rochester, and induce Rochester toorder him to be taken to Carlton House Terrace?

Oh, there were a lot more questions to be asked at that phantom court ofJustice, where Jones beheld himself in the dock trying to explain theinexplicable. 

The likeness would not be any use for white-washing; it would onlydeepen the mystery, make the affair more extravagant. Besides, thelikeness most likely by this time would be pretty well spoiled; by thetime of the Assizes it would be only verifiable by photographs. 

Sitting on a seat in Charing Cross station, he cogitated thus, chasingthe most fantastic ideas, yet gripped all the time by the cold fact. 

The fact that the only door in London open to him was the door of 10A, Carlton House Terrace. 

Unable to return to the Savoy, he possessed nothing in the world but theclothes he stood up in and the walking stick he held in his hand. Dressed like a lord, he was poorer than any tramp, for the simple reasonthat his extravagantly fine clothes barred him from begging and fromthe menial work that is the only recourse of the suddenly destitute. 

Given time, and with his quick business capacity, he might have made afight to obtain a clerk-ship or some post in a store--but he had notime. It was near the luncheon hour and he was hungry. That fact alonewas an indication of how he was placed as regards Time. 

He was a logical man. He saw clearly that only two courses lay beforehim. To go to the Savoy and tell his story and get food and lodging inthe Police Station, or to go to 10A, Carlton House Terrace and get foodand lodging as Rochester. 

Both ideas were hateful, but he reckoned, and with reason, that if hetook the first course, arrest and ignominy, and probably imprisonmentwould be certain, whereas if he took the second he might be able tobluff the thing out till he could devise means of escape from the netthat surrounded him. 

He determined on the second course. The servants, and even thatscarecrow woman in the feather boa had accepted him as good coin; therewas no reason why they should not go on accepting him for a while. Forthe matter of that, there was no reason why they should not go onaccepting him forever. 

Even in the midst of his disturbance of mind and general tribulation, the humour of the latter idea almost made him smile. The idea of livingand dying as Lord Rochester, as a member of the English Aristocracy, always being "My Lorded, " served by flunkeys with big calves, andinducted every morning into his under pants by that guy in the sleevedjacket!

This preposterous idea, more absurd than any dream, was yet based on asubstantive foundation. In fact he had that morning put it in practice, and unless a miracle occurred he would have to continue putting it inpractice for some days to come. 

However, Jones, fortunately or unfortunately for himself, was a man ofaction and no dreamer. He dismissed the ideas and came to practicalconsiderations. 

If he had to hold on to the position, he would have to make more sure ofhis ground. 

He rose, found his way into Charing Cross Station Hotel, and obtained acopy of "Who's Who" from the hotel clerk. 

He turned the pages till he found the R's. Here was his man. 

Rochester. 21st Earl of (cr. 1431) Arthur Coningsby Delamere. BaronConingsby of Wilton, ex Lieut. Rifle Brigade, m. Teresa, 2d daughter ofSir Peter Mason Bart. 9 v. Educ. Heidelberg. Owns about 21, 000 acres. Address 10A, Carlton House Terrace. Rochester Court, Rochester. TheHatch, Colney, Wilts. Clubs, Senior Conservative, National Sporting, Pelican. 

That was only a part of the sayings of "Who's Who" regarding Rochester, Arthur Coningsby, Delamere. The last decadent descendant of a familythat had been famous in long past years for its power, prodigality andprolificacy. 

If Jones could have climbed up his own family tree he might have foundon some distaff branch the reason of his appalling likeness toRochester, Arthur Coningsby, Delamere, but this was a pure matter ofspeculation, and it did not enter the mind of Jones. 

He closed the book, returned it, and walked out. 

Now that his resolve was made, his fighting spirit was roused. In otherwords he felt the same recklessness that a man feels who is going intobattle, the regardlessness of consequence which marks your trueexplorer. For Stanley on the frontier of Darkest Africa, Scott on theice rim of the Beardmore Glacier, had before them positions anddistricts simple in comparison to those that now fronted Jones, who hadbefore him the Western and South Western London Districts, with all theycontained in the way of natives in top hats, natives painted andpowdered, tribes with tribal laws of which he knew little, tricks ofwhich he knew less, convenances, ju-pu's and fetishes. And he wasentering this dark and intricate and dangerous country, not as anexplorer carrying beads and bibles, but disguised as a top man, a chief. 

Burton's position when he journeyed to Mecca disguised as a Mohammedanwas easy compared to the position of Jones. Burton knew the ritual. Hemade one mistake in it it is true, but then he was able to kill the manwho saw him make that mistake. Jones could not protect himself in thisway, even if the valet in the sleeved jacket were to discover him in aposition analogous to Burton's. 

He was not thinking of any of these things at the present moment, however; he was thinking of luncheon. If he were condemned to play thepart of a Lord for awhile, he was quite determined to take his salary inthe way of everything he wanted. Yet it seemed that to obtain anythinghe wanted in his new and extraordinary position, he would have to takesomething he did not want. He wanted luncheon but he did not want to goback to Carlton House Terrace, at least not just now. Thoseflunkeys--the very thought of them gave him indigestion--more than that, he was afraid of them. A fear that was neither physical nor moral, butmore in the nature of the fear of women for mice, or the supposed fearof the late Lord Roberts for cats. 

The solemn Church, the mercurial valet, the men with calves, belonged toa tribe that maybe had done Jones to death in some past life: eitherbored him to death or bludgeoned him, it did not matter, the antipathywas there, and it was powerful. 

At the corner of Northumberland Avenue an idea came to him. ThisRochester belonged to several clubs, why not go and have luncheon at oneof them on credit? It would save him for the moment from returning tothe door towards which Fate was shepherding him, and he might be able topick up some extra wrinkles about himself and his position. The idea wasindicative of the daring of the man, though there was little enoughdanger in it. He was sure of passing muster at a club, since he had doneso at home. He carried the names of two of Rochester's clubs in hismind, the Pelican and the Senior Conservative. The latter seemed themore stodgy, the least likely to offer surprises in the way of shoulderclapping, irresponsible parties who might want to enter into generalconversation. 

He chose it, asked a policeman for directions, and made for Pall Mall. 

Here another policeman pointed out to him the building he was in searchof. 

It stood on the opposite side of the way, a building of grey stone, vastand serious of feature, yet opulent and hinting of the best in allthings relative to comfort. 

It was historical. Disraeli had come down those steps, and the greatLord Salisbury had gone up them. Men, to enter this place, had to beborn, not made, and even these selected ones had to put their names downat birth, if they wished for any chance of lunching there before theylost their teeth and hair. 

It took twenty-one years for the elect to reach this place, and on theway they were likely to be slain by black balls. 

Victor Jones just crossed the road and went up the steps. 

CHAPTER VII

LUNCHEON

He had lunched at the Constitutional with a chance acquaintance pickedup on his first week in London, so he knew something of the ways ofEnglish clubs, yet the vast hall of this place daunted him for a moment. 

However, the club servants seeming to know him, and recognising thatindecision is the most fatal weakness of man, he crossed the hall, andseeing some gentlemen going up the great staircase he followed to a doorin the first landing. 

He saw through the glass swing doors that this was the great luncheonroom of the club, and having made this discovery he came downstairsagain where good fortune, in the form of a bald headed man without hator stick, coming through a passage way, indicated the cloak room to him. 

Here he washed his hands and brushed his hair, and looking at himself ina glass judged his appearance to be conservative and all right. He, ademocrat of the Democrats in this hive of Aristocracy and old crustedconservatism, might have felt qualms of political conscience, but forthe fact that earthly politics, social theories, and social instinctswere less to him now than to an inhabitant of the dark body thattumbles and fumbles around Sirius. Less than the difference between theminnow and the roach to the roach in the landing net. 

Leaving the place he almost ran into the arms of a gentleman who wasentering, and who gave him a curt "H'do. "

He knew that man. He had seen his newspaper portrait in America as wellas England. It was the leader of His Majesty's Opposition, the Queen beeof this hive where he was about to sit down to lunch. The Queen bee didnot seem very friendly, a fact that augured ill for the attitude of theworkers and the drones. 

Arrived at the glass swing doors before mentioned, he looked in. 

The place was crowded. 

It looked to him as though for the space of a mile and a half or so, laytables, tables, tables, all occupied by twos and threes and fours ofmen. Conservative looking men, and no doubt mostly Lords. 

It was too late to withdraw without shattering his own self respect andself confidence. The cold bath was before him, and there was no useputting a toe in. 

He opened the door and entered, walking between the tables and lookingthe luncheon parties in the face. 

The man seated has a tremendous advantage over the man standing in thissort of game. One or two of the members met by the newcomer's glance, bowed in the curious manner of the seated Briton, the eyes of othersfell away, others nodded frigidly, it seemed to Jones. Then, like apilot fish before a shark leading him to his food, a club waiterdeveloped and piloted him to a small unoccupied table, where he took aseat and looked at a menu handed to him by the pilot. 

He ordered fillet of sole, roast chicken, salad, and strawberry ice. They were the easiest things to order. He would have ordered roastelephant's trunk had it been easier and on the menu. 

A man after the storming of Hell Gate, or just dismounted after theCharge of the Light Brigade, would have possessed as little instinct formenu hunting as Jones. 

He had pierced the ranks of the British Aristocracy; that wasnothing--he was seated at their camp fire, sharing their food, and theywere all inimical towards him; that was everything. 

He felt the draught. He felt that these men had a down on him; felt itby all sorts of senses that seemed newly developed. Not a down on him, Jones, but a down on him, Rochester, Arthur Coningsby Delamere, 21stEarl of. 

And the extraordinary thing was that he felt it. What on earth did itmatter to him if these men looked coldly upon another man? It did. Itmattered quite a lot, more than perhaps it ever mattered to the otherman. Is the soul such a shallow and blind thing that it cannot sort thetrue from the false, the material from the immaterial, cannot see thatan insult levelled at a likeness is not an insult levelled at _it_?

Surely not, and yet the soul of Victor Jones resented the coolness ofothers towards the supposed body of Rochester, as though it were apersonal insult. 

It was the first intimation to Jones that when the actor puts on hispart he puts on more than a cloak or trunk hose, that the personality hehad put on had nerves curiously associated with his own nerves, andthat, though he might say to himself a hundred times with respect to theattitudes of other people, "Pah! they don't mean me, " that formula wasno charm against disdain. 

The wine butler, a gentleman not unlike Mr. Church, was now at hiselbow, and he found himself contemplating the wine card of the SeniorConservative, a serious document, if one may judge by the faces of themen who peruse it. 

It is in fact the Almanach de Gotha of wines. The old kings of wine arehere, the princess and all the aristocracy. Unlike the Almanach deGotha, however, the price of each is set down. Unlike the Almanach deGotha, the names of a few commoners are admitted. 

Macon was here, and even Blackways' Cyder, the favourite tipple of theold Duke of Taunton. 

Jones ran his eye over the list without enthusiasm. He had taken adislike to alcohol even in its mildest guise. 

"Er--what minerals have you got?" asked he. 

"Minerals!"

The man with the wine card was nonplussed. Jones saw his mistake. 

"Soda water, " said he. "Get me some soda water. "

The fillet of sole with sauce Tartare was excellent. Nothing, not eventhe minerals could dim that fact. As he ate he looked about him, andwith all the more ease, because he found now that nobody was looking athim; his self consciousness died down, and he began speculating on themen around, their probable rank, fortune, and intellect. It seemed toJones that the latter factor was easier of determination than the othertwo. 

What struck him more forcibly was a weird resemblance between them all, a phantom thing, a link undiscoverable yet somehow there. This tribalexpression is one of the strangest phenomena eternally comforting andbattering our senses. 

Just as men grow like their wives, so do they grow like their fellowtradesmen, waiters like waiters, grooms like grooms, lawyers likelawyers, politicians like politicians. More, it has been undeniablyproved that landowners grow like landowners, just as shepherds grow likesheep, and aristocrats like aristocrats. 

A common idea moulds faces to its shape, and a common want of ideasallows external circumstances to do the moulding. 

So, English Conservative Politicians of the higher order, being workedupon by external circumstances of a similar nature, have perhaps acertain similar expression. Radical Politicians on the other hand, shapeto a common idea--evil--but still an idea. Jones was not thinking this, he was just recognising that all these men belonged to the same class, and he felt in himself that, not only did he not belong to that class, but that Rochester also, probably, had found himself in the sameposition. 

That might have accounted for the wildness and eccentricity ofRochester, as demonstrated in that mad carouse and hinted at by thewoman in the feather boa. The wildness of a monkey condemned to liveamongst goats, hanging on to their horns, and clutching at their scuts, and playing all the tricks that contrariness might suggest to a contrarynature. 

Something of this sort was passing through Jones' mind, and as heattacked his strawberry ice, for the first time since reading thatmomentous piece of news in the evening newspaper his mental powersbecame focussed on the question that lay at the very heart of all thisbusiness. It struck him now so very forcibly that he laid down his spoonand stared before him, forgetful of the place where he was and thepeople around him. 

"Why did that guy commit suicide?"

That was the question. 

He could find no answer to it. 

A man does not as a rule commit suicide simply because he is eccentricor because he has made a mess of his estates, or because being apractical joker he suddenly finds his twin image to defraud. Rochesterhad evidently done nothing to bar him from society. Though perhapscoldly received by his club, he was still received by it. Had he donesomething that society did not know of, something that might suddenlyobtrude itself?

Jones was brought back from his reverie with a snap. One of theconfounded waiters was making off with his half eaten ice. 

"Hi, " cried he. "What you doing? Bring that back. "

His voice rang through the room, people turned to look. He mentallycursed the ice and the creature who had snapped it from him, finishedit, devoured a wafer, and then, rising to his feet, left the room. Itwas easier to leave than to come in, other men were leaving, and in thegeneral break up he felt less observed. 

Downstairs he looked through glass doors into a room where men weresmoking, correct men in huge arm chairs, men with legs stretched out, men smoking big cigars and talking politics no doubt. He wanted tosmoke, but he did not want to smoke in that place. 

He went to the cloak room, fetched his hat and cane and gloves and leftthe club. 

Outside in Pall Mall he remembered that he had not told the waiter tocredit him with the luncheon, but a trifle like that did not bother himnow. They would be sure to put it down. 

What did trouble him was the still unanswered question, "Why did thatguy commit suicide?"

Suppose Rochester had murdered some man and had committed suicide toescape the consequences? This thought gave him a cold grue such as hehad never experienced before. For a moment he saw himself hauled beforea British Court of Justice; for a moment, and for the first time in hislife, he found himself wondering what a hangman might be like. 

But Victor Jones, though a visionary sometimes in business, was at basea business man. More used to his position now, and looking it fairly inthe face, he found that he had little to fear even if Rochester hadcommitted a murder. He could, if absolutely driven to it, prove hisidentity. Driven to it, he could prove his life in Philadelphia, bringwitnesses and relate circumstances. His tale would all hang together, simply because it was the truth. This inborn assurance heartened him alot, and, more cheerful now, he began to recognise more of the truth. His position was very solid. Every one had accepted him. Unless he camean awful bump over some crime committed by the late defunct, he could goon forever as the Earl of Rochester. He did not want to go on forever asthe Earl of Rochester; he wanted to get back to the States and just behimself, and he intended so to do having scraped a little moneytogether. But the idea tickled him just as it had done in Charing CrossStation, and it had lost its monstrous appearance and had becomehumorous, a highly dangerous appearance for a dangerous idea to take. 

Jones was a great walker, exercise always cleared his mind andstrengthened his judgment. He set off on a long walk now, passing theNational Gallery to Regent Circus, then up Regent Street and OxfordStreet, and along Oxford Street towards the West. He found himself inHigh Street Kensington, in Hammersmith, and then in those dismal regionswhere the country struggles with the town. 

Oh, those suburbs of London! Within easy reach of the city! Thosebattalions of brick houses, bits of corpses, of what once were fields;those villas, laundries----

The contrast between this place and Pall Mall came as a suddenrevelation to Jones, the contrast between the power, ease, affluence andsplendour of the surroundings of the Earl of Rochester, and thesurroundings of the bank clerks and small people who dwelt here. 

The view point is everything. From here Carlton House Terrace seemedalmost pleasing. 

Jones, like a good Democrat, had all his life professed a contempt forrank. Titles had seemed as absurd to him as feathers in a monkey's cap. It was here in ultra Hammersmith that he began to review this questionfrom a more British standpoint. 

Tell it not in Gath, he was beginning to feel the vaguest antipatheticstirring against little houses and ultra people. 

He turned and began to retrace his steps. It was seven o'clock when hereached the door of 10A, Carlton House Terrace. 

CHAPTER VIII

MR. VOLES

The flunkey who admitted him, having taken his hat, stick and gloves, presented him with a letter that had arrived by the midday post, alsowith a piece of information. 

"Mr. Voles called to see you, my Lord, shortly after twelve. He statedthat he had an appointment with you. He is to call again at quarter pastseven. "

Jones took the letter and went with it to the room where he had sat thatmorning. Upon the table lay all the letters that he had not opened thatmorning. He had forgotten these. Here was a mistake. If he wished tohold to his position for even a few days, it would be necessary to guardagainst mistakes like this. 

He hurriedly opened them, merely glancing at the contents, which for themost part were unintelligible to him. 

There was a dinner invitation from Lady Snorries--whoever she mightbe--and a letter beginning "Dear old Boy" from a female who signedherself "Julie, " an appeal from a begging letter writer, and a letterbeginning "Dear Rochester" from a gentleman who signed himself simply"Childersley. "

The last letter he opened was the one he had just received from theservant. 

It was written on poor paper, and it ran:

 "Stick to it--if you can. You'll see why I couldn't. There's a fiver under the papers of the top right hand drawer of bureau in smoke room. 

 "ROCHESTER. "

Jones knew that this letter, though addressed to the Earl of Rochester, was meant for him, and was written by Rochester, written probably onsome bar counter, and posted at the nearest pillar box just before hehad committed the act. 

He went to the drawer in the bureau indicated, raised the papers in itand found a five pound note. 

Having glanced at it he closed the drawer, placed the note in hiswaistcoat pocket and sat down again at the table. 

"Stick to it--if you can. " The words rang in his ears just as though hehad heard them spoken. 

Those words, backed by the five pound note, wrought a great change inthe mind of Jones. He had Rochester's permission to act as he wasacting, and a little money to help him in his actions. 

The fact of his penury had been like a wet blanket upon him all day. Hefelt that power had come to him with permission. He could think clearlynow. He rose and paced the floor. 

"Stick to it--if you can. "

Why not--why not--why not? He found himself laughing out loud, a greatgush of energy had come to him. Jones was a man of that sort, a new andgreat idea always came to him on the crest of a wave of energy; theBritish Government Contract idea had come to him like that, and the wavehad carried him to England. 

Why not be the Earl of Rochester, make good his position finally, standon the pinnacle where Fate had placed him, and carry this thing throughto its ultimate issue?

It would not be all jam. Rochester must have been very much pressed bycircumstances; that did not frighten Jones, to him the game waseverything, and the battle. 

He would make good where Rochester had failed, meet the difficultiesthat had destroyed the other, face them, overcome them. 

His position was unassailable. 

Coming over from New York he had read Nelson's shilling edition of theLife of Sir Henry Hawkins. He had read with amazement the story ofBritish credulity expressed in the Tichborne Case. How Arthur Orton, abutcher, scarcely able to write, had imposed himself on the Public asRoger Tichborne, a young aristocrat of good education. 

He contrasted his own position with Orton's. 

He was absolutely unassailable. 

He went to the cigar box, chose a cigar and lit it. 

There was the question of hand writing! That suddenly occurred to him, confronting his newly formed plans. He would have to sign cheques, write letters. A typewriter could settle the latter question, and asfor the signature, he possessed a sample of Rochester's, and would haveto imitate it. At the worst he could pretend he had injured histhumb--that excuse would last for some time. "There's one big thingabout the whole business, " said he to himself, "and that is the chap'seccentricity. Why, if I'm shoved too hard, I can pretend to have lost mymemory or my wits--there's not a blessed card I haven't either in myhand or up my sleeve, and if worst comes to worst, I can always prove myidentity and tell my story. " He was engaged with thoughts like thesewhen the door opened and the servant, bearing a card on a salver, announced that Mr. Voles, the gentleman who had called earlier in theday, had arrived. 

"Bring him in, " said Victor. The servant retired and returnedimmediately ushering in Voles, who entered carrying his hat before him. The stranger was a man of fifty, a tubby man, dressed in a black frockcoat, covered, despite the summer weather, by a thin black overcoat withsilk facings. His face was evil, thick skinned, yellow, heavy nosed, thehair of the animal was jet black, thin, and presented to the eyes of thegazer a small Disraeli curl upon the forehead of the owner. 

The card announced:

 MR. A. S. VOLES 12B. Jermyn Street

Voles himself, and unknown to himself, announced a lot of other things. 

Victor Jones had a sharp instinct for men, well whetted by experience. 

He nodded to the newcomer, curtly, and without rising from his chair;the servant shut the door and the two men were alone. 

Just as a dog's whole nature livens at the smell of a pole cat, so didJones' nature at the sight of Voles. He felt this man to be an enemy. 

Voles came to the table and placed his hat upon it. Then he turned, wentto the door and opened it to see if the servant was listening. 

He shut the door. 

"Well, " said he, "have you got the money for me?"

Another man in Jones' position might have asked, and with reason. "Whatmoney?"

Jones simply said "No. "

This simple answer had a wonderful effect. Voles, about to take a seat, remained standing, clasping the back of the chair he had chosen. Then heburst out. 

"You fooled me yesterday, and gave me an appointment for to-day. Icalled, you were out. "

"Was I?"

"Were you? You said the money would be here waiting for me--well, here Iam now, I've got a cab outside ready to take it. "

"And suppose I don't give it to you?" asked Jones. 

"We won't suppose any nonsense like that!" replied Voles taking hisseat, "not so long as there are policemen to be called at a minute'snotice. "

"That's true, " said the other, "we don't want the police. "

"You don't, " replied Voles. He was staring at Jones. The Earl ofRochester's voice struck him as not quite the same as usual, more springin it and vitality--altered in fact. But he suspected nothing of thetruth. Passed as good coin by Voles, Jones had nothing to fear from anyman or woman in London, for the eye of Voles was unerring, the ear ofVoles ditto, the mind of Voles balanced like a jeweller's scales. 

"True, " said Jones. "I don't--well, let's talk about this money. Couldn't you take half to-night, and half in a week's time?"

"Not me, " replied the other. "I must have the two thousand to-night, same as usual. "

Jones had the whole case in his hands now, and he began preparing thetoast on which to put this most evident blackmailer when cooked. 

His quick mind had settled everything. Here was the first obstacle inhis path, it would have to be destroyed, not surmounted. He determinedto destroy it. If the worst came to the worst, if whatever crimeRochester had committed were to be pressed home on him by Voles, hewould declare everything, prove his identity by sending for witnessesfrom the States, and show Rochester's letter. The blackmailing wouldaccount for Rochester's suicide. 

But Jones knew blackmailers, and he knew that Voles would neverprosecute. Rochester must indeed have been a weak fool not to havegrasped this nettle and torn it up by the roots. He forgot thatRochester was probably guilty--that makes all the difference in theworld. 

"You shall have the money, " said he, "but see here, let's make an end ofthis. Now let's see. How much have you had already?"

"Only eight, " said Voles. "You know that well enough, why ask?"

"Eight thousand, " murmured the other, "you have had eight thousandpounds out of me, and the two to-night will make ten. Seems a good pricefor a few papers. " He made the shot on spec. It was a bull's eye. 

"Oh, those papers are worth a good deal more than that, " said Voles, "agood deal more than that. "

So it was documents not actions that the blackmailer held in suspenseover the head of Rochester. It really did not matter a button to Jones, he stood ready to face murder itself, armed as he was with Rochester'sletter in his pocket, and the surety of being able to identity himself. 

"Well, " said he, "let's finish this business. Have you a cheque book onyou?"

"I have a cheque book right enough--what's your game now?"

"Just an idea of mine before I pay you--bring out your cheque book, you'll see what I mean in a minute. "

Voles hesitated, then, with a laugh, he took the cheque book from thebreast pocket of his overcoat. 

"Now tear out a cheque. "

"Tear out a cheque, " cried the other. "What on earth are you gettingat--one of my cheques--this is good. "

"Tear out a cheque, " insisted the other, "it will only cost you a penny, and you will see my meaning in a moment. "

The animal, before the insistent direction of the other, hesitated, thenwith a laugh he tore out a cheque. 

"Now place it on the table. "

Voles placed it on the table. 

Jones going to the bureau fetched a pen and ink. He pushed a chair tothe table, and made the other sit down. 

"Now, " said Jones, "write me out a cheque for eight thousand pounds. "

Voles threw the pen down with a laugh--it was his last in that room. 

"You won't?" said Jones. 

"Oh, quit this fooling, " replied the other. "I've no time for suchstuff--what are you doing now?"

"Ringing the bell, " said Jones. 

Voles, just about to pick up the cheque, paused. He seemed to findhimself at fault for a moment. The jungle beast, that hears the twigcrack beneath the foot of the man with the express rifle, pauses likethat over his bloody meal on the carcass of the decoy goat. 

The door opened and a servant appeared, it was the miracle with calves. 

"Send out at once, and bring in an officer--a policeman, " said Jones. 

"Yes, my Lord. "

The door shut. 

Voles jumped up, and seized his hat. Jones walked to the door and lockedit, placing the key in his pocket. 

"I've got you, " said he, "and I'm going to squeeze you, and I'm going tomake you squeal. "

"You're going to--you're going to--you're going to--" said Voles. He wasthe colour of old ivory. 

"I'm going to make you go through this--"

"Here, d--n this nonsense--stop it--you fool, I'll smash you, " saidVoles. "Here, open that door and stop this business. "

"I told you I was going to make you squeal, " said Jones, "but that'snothing to what's coming. "

Voles came to the table and put down his hat. Then, facing Jones, herapped with the knuckles of his right hand on the table. 

"You've done it now, " said he, "you've laid yourself open to a nicecharge, false imprisonment, that's what you've done. A nice thing in thepapers to-morrow morning, and intimidation on top of that. Over and abovethose there's the papers. _I'll_ have no mercy--those papers go to LordPlinlimon to-morrow morning, you'll be in the divorce court this daymonth, and so will she. Reputation! she won't have a rag to coverherself with. "

"Oh, won't she?" said Jones. "This is most interesting. " He felt a greatuplift of the heart. So this blackmail business had to do with a woman. The idea that Rochester was some horrible form of criminal had weighedupon him. It had seemed to him that no man would pay such a huge sum aseight thousand pounds in the way of blackmail unless his crime were inproportion. Rochester had evidently paid it to shield not only his ownname, but the name of a woman. 

"Most interesting, " said Voles. "I'm glad you think so--" Then in aburst, "Come, open that door and stop this nonsense--take that key outof your pocket and open the door. You always were a fool, but this isbeyond folly--the pair of you are in the hollow of my hand, you knowit--I can crush you like that--like that--like that!"

He opened and shut his right hand. A cruel hand it was, hairy as to theback, huge as to the thumb. 

Jones looked at him. 

"You are wasting a lot of muscular energy, " said he. "My determinationis made, and it holds. You are going to prison, Mr. Filthy Beast, Voles. I'm up against you, that's the plain truth. I'm going to cut you open, and show your inside to the British Public. They'll be so lost inadmiration at the sight, they won't bother about the woman or me. They'll call us public benefactors, I reckon. You know men, and you knowwhen a man is determined. Look at me, look at me in the face, yousumph--"

A knock came to the door. 

Jones took the key from his pocket and opened the door. 

"The constable is here, my Lord, " said the servant. 

"Tell him to come in, " said Jones. 

Voles had taken up his hat again, and he stood now by the table, hat inhand, looking exactly what he was, a criminal on his defence. 

The constable was a fresh-looking and upstanding young man; he hadremoved his helmet and was carrying it by the chin strap. He had nobludgeon, no revolver, yet he impressed Jones almost as much as heimpressed the other. 

"Officer, " said Jones. "I have called you in for the purpose of givingthis man in charge for attempting--"

"Stop, " cried Voles. 

Then something Oriental in his nature took charge of him. He rushedforward with arms out, as though to embrace the policeman. 

"It is all a mistake, " cried he, "constable, one moment, go outside onemoment, leave me with his lordship. I will explain. There is nothingwrong, it is all a big mistake. "

The constable held him off, glancing for orders at Jones. 

Jones felt no vindictiveness towards Voles now; disgust, such as hemight have felt towards a vulture or a cormorant, but no vindictiveness. 

He wanted that eight thousand pounds. 

He had determined to make good in his new position, to fight the worldthat Rochester had failed to fight, and overcome the difficulties sureto be ahead of him. Voles was the first great difficulty, and lo, itseemed, that he was about not only to destroy it, but turn it to aprofit. He did not want the eight thousand for himself, he wanted it forthe game; and the fascination of that great game he was only justbeginning to understand. 

"Go outside, officer, " said he to the constable. 

He shut the door. "Sit down and write, " said he. Voles said not a word. 

He went to the table, sat down and picked up the pen. The cheque wasstill lying there. He drew it towards him. Then he flung the pen down. Then he picked it up, but he did not write. He waved it between fingerand thumb, as though he were beating time to a miniature orchestrastaged on the table before him. Then he began to write. 

He was making out a cheque to the Earl of Rochester for the sum of eightthousand pounds, no shillings, no pence. 

He signed it A. S. Voles. 

He was about to cross it, but Jones stopped him. "Leave it open, " saidhe, "and now one thing more, I must have those papers to-morrow morningwithout fail. And to make certain of them you must do this. "

He went to the bureau and took a sheet of note paper, which he laidbefore the other. 

"Write, " said he. "I will dictate. Begin June 2nd. "

Voles put the date. 

 "'My Lord, '" went on the dictator. "'This is to promise you that to-morrow morning I will hand to the messenger you send to me all the papers of yours in my possession. I confess to having held those papers over you for the purpose of blackmail, and of having obtained from you the sum of eight thousand pounds, and I promise to amend my ways, and to endeavour to lead an honest life. 

 Signed. A. S. VOLES. '" To The Earl of Rochester. 

That was the letter. 

Three times the rogue at the table refused to go on writing, and threetimes his master went to the door, the rattle of the door handle alwaysinspiring the scribe to renewed energy. 

When the thing was finished Jones read it over, blotted it, and put itin his pocket with the cheque. 

"Now you can go, " said he. "I will send a man to-morrow morning at eighto'clock to your home for the papers. I will not use this letter againstyou, unless you give trouble--Well, what do you want?"

"Brandy, " gasped Voles. "For God's sake some brandy. "

CHAPTER IX

MORE INTRUDERS

The little glass that had held the _fin champagne_ stood on the table, the door was shut, Voles was gone, and the incident was ended. 

Jones, for the first time in his life, felt the faintness that comesafter supreme exertion. He could never have imagined that a thing likethat would have so upset him. He was unconscious during the whole of thebusiness that he was putting out more energy than ordinary, he knew itnow as he contemplated the magnitude of his victory, sitting exhaustedin the big saddle-bag chair on the left of the fire place and facing thedoor. 

He had crushed the greatest rogue in London, taken from him eightthousand pounds of ill gotten money, and freed himself of an incubusthat would have made his position untenable. 

Rochester could have done just the same, had he possessed daring, andenergy, and courage enough. He hadn't, and there was an end of it. 

At this moment a knock came to the door, and a flunkey--a newone--appeared. 

"Dinner is served, my Lord. "

Jones sat up in his chair. 

"Dinner, " said he. "I'm not ready for it yet. Fetch me a whisky andsoda--look here, tell Mr. Church I want to see him. "

"Yes, my Lord. "

Jones, as stated before, possessed that very rare attitude--an eye formen. It was quite unknown to him; up to this he had been condemned totake men as he found them; the pressure of circumstances alone had madehim a business partner with Aaron Stringer. He had never trustedStringer. Now, being in a position of command, he began to use thisprecious gift, and he selected Church for a first officer. He wanted ahenchman. 

The whisky and soda arrived, and, almost immediately on it, Church. 

Jones, placing the half empty glass on the table, nodded to him. 

"Come in, " said he, "and shut the door. "

Church closed the door and stood at attention. This admirable man's facewas constructed not with a view to the easy interpretation of emotions. I doubt if an earthquake in Carlton House Terrace and the vicinity couldhave altered the expression of it. 

He stood as if listening. 

Jones began: "I want you to go to-morrow at eight o'clock to No. 12BJermyn Street to get some documents for me. They will be handed to youby A. S. Voles. "

"Yes, my Lord. "

"You will bring them back to me here. "

"Yes, my Lord. "

"I have just seen the gentleman, and I've just dealt with him. He is avery great rogue and I had to call an officer--a constable in. I settledhim. "

Mr. Church opened his mouth as though he were going to speak. Then heshut it again. 

"Go on, " said Jones. "What were you going to say?"

"Well, your Lordship, I was going to say that I am very glad to hearthat. When you told me four months ago, in confidence, what Voles washaving out of you, you will remember what advice I gave your Lordship. 'Don't be squeezed, ' I said. 'Squeeze him. ' Your Lordship's solicitor, Mr. Mortimer Collins, I believe, told you the same. "

"I have taken your advice. I find it so good that I am going to ask youradvice often again--Do you see any difference in me, Mr. Church?"

"Yes, my Lord, you have changed. If your Lordship will excuse me forsaying so. "

"How?"

"You have grown younger, my Lord, and more yourself, and you speakdifferent--sharper, so to say. "

These words were Balm of Gilead to Jones. He had received no opinion ofhimself from others till now; he had vaguely mistrusted his voice, unable to estimate in how much it differed from Rochester's. Theperfectly frank declaration of Church put his mind at rest. He spokesharper--that was all. 

"Well, " said he. "Things are going to be different all round; bettertoo. "

He turned away towards the bureau, and Church opened the door. 

"You don't want me any longer, my Lord?"

"Not just now. "

He opened Kelly's directory, and looked up the solicitors, till he cameto the name he wanted. 

 Mortimer Collins, 10, Sergeant's Inn, Fleet Street. 

"That's my man, " said he to himself, "and to-morrow I will see him. " Heclosed the book and left the room. 

He did not know the position of the dining room, nor did he want to. Aservant seeing him, and taking it for granted that at this late hour hedid not want to dress, opened a door. 

Next minute he was seated alone at a large table, stared at by defunctRochesters and their wives, and spreading his table napkin on his knees. 

The dinner was excellent, though simple enough. English society hasdrifted a long way from the days when Lord Palmerston sat himself downto devour two helpings of turtle soup, the same of cod and oyster sauce, a huge plateful of York ham, a cut from the joint, a liberal supply ofroast pheasant, to say nothing of kickshaws and sweets; the days whenthe inside of a nobleman after dinner was a provision store floating insherry, hock, champagne, old port, and punch. 

Nothing acts more quickly upon the nervous system than food; before theroast chicken and salad were served, Jones found himself enjoying hisdinner, and, more than that, enjoying his position. 

The awful position of the morning had lost its terrors, the fog that hadsurrounded him was breaking. Wrecked on this strange, luxuriant, yethostile coast, he had met the natives, fed with them, fought them, andmeasured their strength and cunning. 

He was not afraid of them now. The members of the Senior ConservativeClub Camp had left him unimpressed, and the wild beast Voles hadbequeathed to him a lively contempt for the mental powers of the man hehad succeeded. 

Rightly or wrongly, all Lords caught a tinge of the lurid light thatshewed up Rochester's want of vim and mental hitting power. 

But he did not feel a contempt for Lords as such. He was longing toappreciate the fact that to be a Lord was to be a very great thing. Evena Lord who had let his estates run to ruin--like himself. 

A single glass of iced champagne--he allowed himself onlyone--established this conviction in his mind, also the recognition thatthe flunkeys no longer oppressed him, they rather pleased him. They knewtheir work and performed it perfectly, they hung on his every word andmovement. 

Yesterday, sitting where he was, he would have been feeling out ofplace, and irritable and awkward. Even a few hours ago he would havefelt oppressed and wanting to escape somewhere by himself. What lent himthis new magic of assurance and sense of mastery of his position?Undoubtedly it was his battle with Voles. 

Coffee was served to him in the smoking room, and there, sitting alonewith a cigar, he began clearly and for the first time to envisage hisplans for the future. 

He could drop everything and run. Book a passage for the United States, enter New York as Lord Rochester, just as a diver enters the sea, andemerge as Jones. He could keep the eight thousand pounds with a clearconscience--or couldn't he?

This point seemed a bit obscure. 

He did not worry about it much. The main question had not to do withmoney. The main question was simply this, shall I be Victor Jones forthe future, or shall I be the Earl of Rochester? The twenty-first Earlof Rochester?

Shall I clear out, or stick to my guns? Remain boss of this show and tryand make something of the wreckage, or sneak off with nothing to showfor the most amazing experience man ever underwent?

Rochester had sneaked off. He was a quitter. Jones had once read a storyin the Popular Magazine, in which a Railway Manager had cast scorn on ane'er-do-well. "God does surely hate a quitter, " said the manager. 

These words always remained with him. They had crystallised hissentiments in this respect: the quitter ranked in his mind almost withthe sharper. 

All the same the temptation to quit was strong, even though thetemptation to stay was growing. 

A loophole remained open to him. It was not necessary to decide at once;he could throw down his cards at any moment and rise from the table ifthe game was getting too much for him, or if he grew tired of it. 

He saw difficult times ahead for him in the mess in which Rochester hadleft his affairs--that was, perhaps, his strongest incentive to remain. 

He was roused from his reverie by voices in the hall. Loud cheeryvoices. 

A knock came to the door and a servant announced: "Sir Hugh Spicer andCaptain Stark to see you, my Lord. " Jones sat up in his chair. "Showthem in, " said he. 

The servant went out and returned ushering in a short bibulous lookingyoung man in evening dress covered with a long fawn coloured overcoat;this gentleman was followed by a half bald, evil looking man of fifty orso, also in evening attire. 

This latter wore a monocle in what Jones afterwards mentally called, "his twisted face. "

"Look at him!" cried the young man, "sitting in his blessed arm chairand not dressed. Look at him!"

He lurched slightly as he spoke, and brought up at the table where hehit the inkstand with the cane he was carrying, sending inkpot and pensflying. Jones looked at him. 

This was Hughie. Pillar of the Criterion bar, President of the Rag TagClub, baronet and detrimental--and all at twenty three. 

"Leave it alone, Hughie, " said Stark, going to the silver cigar box andhelping himself. "Less of that blessed cane, Hughie--why, Jollops, whatails you?"

He stared at Jones as he lit a cigar. Jones looked at him. 

This was Spencer Stark, late Captain in His Majesty's Black Hussars, gambler, penniless, always well dressed, and always well fed--Terrible. Just as beetles are beetles, whether dressed in tropical splendour orthe funereal black of the English type, so are detrimentalsdetrimentals. Jones knew his men. 

"I beg your pardon, " said he, "did you mean that name for me?"

He rose as he spoke, and crossing to the bell rang it. They thought hewas speaking in jest and ringing for drinks; they laughed, and Hughiebegan to yell, yell, and slash the table with his cane in time to whathe was yelling. 

This beast, who was never happy unless smashing glasses, making a noiseor tormenting his neighbours, who had never been really sober for thespace of some five years, who had destroyed a fine estate, and brokenhis mother's heart, seemed now endeavouring to break his wanghee cane onthe table. 

The noise was terrific. 

The door opened and calves appeared. 

"Throw that ruffian out, " said Jones. 

"Out with him, " cried Hughie, throwing away his cane at this joke. "Comeon, Stark, let's shove old Jollops out of doors. "

He advanced to the merry attack, and Stark, livened up by the other, closed in, receiving a blow on the midriff that seated him in thefender. 

The next moment Hughie found himself caught by a firm hand, that hadsomehow managed to insert itself between the back of his collar and hisneck, gripping the collar. 

Choking and crowing he was rushed out of the room and across the hall tothe front door, a running footman preceding him. The door was opened andhe was flung into the street. 

The ejection of Stark was an easier matter. The hats and coats wereflung out and the door shut finally. 

"If either of those guys comes here again, " said Jones to the acolyte, "call an officer--I mean a constable. "

"Yes, my Lord. "

"I wonder how many more people I will have to fling out of this house, "said he to himself, as he returned to the smoking room. "My God, what amess that chap Rochester must have made all round. Bar bummers likethose! Heu!"

He ordered the ink to be cleared up, and then he sent for Mr. Church. Hewas excited. 

"Church, " said he. "I've shot out two more of that carrion. You know allthe men I have been fool enough to know. If they come here again tellthe servants not to let them in. "

But he had another object in sending for Church. "Where's my chequebook?" he asked. 

Church went to the bureau and opened a lower drawer. 

"I think you placed it here, my Lord. " He produced it. 

When he was gone Jones opened the book; it was one of Coutt's. 

He knew his banker now as well as his solicitor. Then he sat down, andtaking Rochester's note from his pocket began to study the handwritingand signature. 

He made a hundred imitations of the signature, and found for the firsttime in his life that he was not bad at that sort of work. 

Then he burnt the sheets of paper he had been using, put the cheque bookaway and looked at the clock; it pointed to eleven. 

He switched out the lights and left the room, taking his way upstairs. 

He felt sure of being able to find the bed-room he had left that morning, and coming along the softly lit corridor he had no difficulty inlocating it. He had half dreaded that the agile valet in the sleevedjacket might be there waiting to tuck him up, but to his relief the roomwas vacant. 

He shut the door, and going to the nearest window pulled the blind upfor a moment. 

The moon was rising over London, and casting her light upon the GreenPark. A huge summer moon. The sort of moon that conjures up ideas aboutguitars and balconies. 

Jones undressed, and putting on the silk pyjamas that were laid out forhim, got into bed, leaving only the light burning by the bedside. 

He tried to recall the details of that wonderful day, failed utterly, switched out the light, and went to sleep. 

CHAPTER X

LADY PLINLIMON

The most curious thing in the whole of Jones' extraordinary experienceswas the way in which things affecting Rochester affected him. Thecoldness of the club members was an instance in point. He knew thattheir coldness had nothing to do with him, yet he resented itpractically just as much as though it had. 

Then again, the case of Voles. What had made him fight Voles with suchvigour? It did not matter to him in the least whether Voles gaveRochester away or not, yet he had fought Voles with all the feeling ofthe man who is attacked, not of the man who is defending another manfrom attack. 

The attitude of Spicer and the other scamp had roused his ire on accountof its want of respect for him, the supposed Earl of Rochester. Rochester's folly had inspired that want of respect, why should he, Jones, bother about it? He did. It hit him just as much as though itwere levelled against himself. He had found, as yet to a limited degree, but still he had found that anything that would hurt Rochester wouldhurt him, that his sensibility was just as acute under his new guise, and, wonder of wonders, his dignity as a Lord just as sensitive as hisdignity as a man. 

If you had told Jones in Philadelphia that a day would come when hewould be angry if a servant did not address him as "my Lord, " he wouldhave thought you mad. Yet that day had come, or was coming, and thatchange in him was not in the least the result of snobbishness, it wasthe result of the knowledge of what was due to Rochester, ArthurConingsby Delamere, 21st Earl of, from whom he could not disentanglehimself whilst acting his part. 

He was awakened by Mr. Church pulling up his window blinds. 

He had been dreaming of the boarding-house in Philadelphia where he usedto live, of Miss Wybrow, the proprietress, and the other guests, MissSparrow, Mr. Moese--born Moses--Mr. Hoffman, the part proprietor ofSharpes' Drug Store, Mrs. Bertine, and the rest. 

He watched whilst Mr. Church passed to the door, received the morningtea tray from the servant outside, and, placing it by the bed, withdrew. This was the only menial service which Mr. Church ever seemed toperform, with the exception of the stately carrying in of papers andletters at breakfast time. 

Jones drank his tea. Then he got up, went to the window, looked out atthe sunlit Green Park, and then rang his bell. He was not depressed nornervous this morning. He felt extraordinarily fit. The powerful goodspirits natural to him, a heritage better than a fortune, were hisagain. Life seemed wonderfully well worth living, and the game beforehim the only game worth playing. 

Then the Mechanism came into the room and began to act. James was thename of this individual. Dumb and serious and active as an insect, thisman always filled Jones' mind with wonderment; he seemed less a man thana machine. But at least he was a perfect machine. 

Fully dressed now, he was preparing to go down when a knock came to thedoor and Mr. Church came in with a big envelope on a salver. 

"This is what you requested me to fetch from Jermyn Street, my Lord. "

"Oh, you've been to Jermyn Street?"

"Yes, my Lord, directly I had served your tea at quarter to eight, Itook a taxi. "

"Good!" said Jones. 

He took the envelope, and, Church and the Mechanism having withdrawn, hesat down by the window to have a look at the contents. 

The envelope contained letters. 

Letters from a man to a woman. Letters from the Earl of Rochester toSapphira Plinlimon. The most odiously and awfully stupid collection oflove letters ever written by a fool to be read by a wigged counsel in adivorce court. 

They covered three months, and had been written two years ago. 

They were passionate, idealistic in parts, drivelling. He called her his"Ickle teeny weeny treasure. " Baby language--Jones almost blushed as heread. 

"He sure was moulting, " said he, as he dropped letter after letter onthe floor. "And he paid eight thousand to hold these things back--well, I don't know, maybe I'd have done the same myself. I can't fancy seeingmyself in the _Philadelphia Ledger_ with this stuff tacked on to the endof my name. "

He collected the incriminating documents, placed them in the envelope, and came downstairs with it in his hand. 

Breakfast was an almost exact replica of the meal of yesterday; the pileof letters brought in by Church was rather smaller, however. 

These letters were a new difficulty, they would all have to be answered, the ones of yesterday, and the ones of to-day. 

He would have to secure the services of a typist and a typewriter: thatcould be arranged later on. He placed them aside and opened a newspaper. He was accustomed enough now to his situation to be able to take aninterest in the news of the day. At any moment his environment mightsplit to admit of a new Voles or Spicer, or perhaps some more dangerousspectre engendered from the dubious past of Rochester; but he scarcelythought of this, he had gone beyond fear, he was up to the neck in thebusiness. 

He glanced at the news of the day, reading as he ate. Then he pushed thepaper aside. The thought had just occurred to him that Rochester hadpaid that eight thousand not to shield a woman's name but to shield hisown. To prevent that gibberish being read out against him in court. 

This thought dimmed what had seemed a brighter side of Rochester, thatobscure thing which Jones was condemned to unveil little by little andbit by bit. He pushed his plate away, and at this moment Mr. Churchentered the breakfast room. 

He came to the table and, speaking in half lowered voice said:

"Lady Plinlimon to see you, your Lordship. "

"Lady Plinlimon?"

"Yes, your Lordship. I have shown her into the smoking room. "

Jones had finished breakfast. He rose from the table, gathered theletters together, and with them in his hand followed Church from thebreakfast room to the smoking room. A big woman in a big hat was seatedin the arm chair facing the door. 

She was forty if an hour. She had a large unpleasant face. A dominatingface, fat featured, selfish, and made up by art. 

"Oh, here you are, " said she as he entered and closed the door. "You seeI'm out early. "

Jones nodded, went to the cigarette box, took a cigarette and lit it. 

The woman got up and did likewise. She blew the cigarette smoke throughher nostrils, and Jones, as he watched, knew that he detested her. Thenshe sat down again. She seemed nervous. 

"Is it true what I hear, that your sister has left you and gone to livewith your mother?"

"Yes, " said Jones, remembering the bird woman of yesterday morning. 

"Well, you'll have some peace now, unless you let her back--but Ihaven't come to talk of her. It's just this, I'm in a tight place. "

"Oh!"

"A very tight place. I've got to have some money--I've got to have itto-day. "

"Oh!"

"Yes. I ought to have had it yesterday, but a deal I had on fellthrough. You've got to help me, Arthur. "

"How much do you want?"

"Fifteen hundred. I'll pay it back soon. "

"Fifteen hundred pounds?"

"Yes, of course. "

A great white light, cold and clear as the dawn of Truth, began to stealacross the mind of Jones. Why had this woman come to him this morning soquickly after the defeat of Voles who held her letters? How had Volesobtained those letters? This question had occurred to him before, andthis question seemed to his practical mind pregnant now withpossibilities. 

"What do you want the money for?" asked he. 

"Good heavens, what a question, what does a woman want money for? I wantit, that's enough--What else will you ask?"

"What was the deal you expected money from yesterday?"

"A stock exchange business. "

"What sort of business?"

She crimsoned with anger. 

"I haven't come to talk of that. I came as a friend to ask you for help. If you refuse, well, there that ends it. "

"Oh, no, it doesn't, " said he. "I want to ask you a question. "

"Well, ask it. "

"It's just a simple question. "

"Go on. "

"You expected to receive fifteen hundred pounds yesterday?"

"I did. "

"Did you expect to receive it from Mr. A. S. Voles?"

He saw at once that she was guilty. She half rose from her chair, thenshe sat down again. 

"What on earth do you mean?" she cried. 

"You know quite well what I mean, " replied he, "you would have hadfifteen hundred of Voles' takings on those letters. You heard last nightI had refused to part. He was only your agent. There's no use in denyingit. He told me all. "

Her face had turned terrible, white as death, with the rouge showing onthe white. 

"It is all untrue, " she stuttered. "It is all untrue. " She rosestaggering. He did not want to pursue the painful business, the pursuitof a woman was not in his line. He went to the door and opened it forher. 

"It is all untrue. I'll write to you about this--untrue. "

She uttered the words as she passed out. He reckoned she knew the way tothe hall door, and, shutting the door of the room, he turned to the fireplace. 

He was not elated. He was shocked. It seemed to him that he had nevertouched and handled wickedness before, and this was a woman in thehighest ranks of life!

She had trapped Rochester into making love to her, and used Voles toextort eight thousand pounds from him on account of his letters. 

She had hypnotized Rochester like a fowl. She was that sort. Held thedivorce court over him as a threat--could Humanity descend lower? Hewent to "Who's Who" and turned up the P's till he found the man hewanted. 

Plinlimon: 3rd Baron, created 1831, Albert James, b. March 10th 1862. O. S. Of second Baron and Julia d. Of J. H. Thompson, of Clifton, m. Sapphira. D. Of Marcus Mulhausen, educ. Privately. Address The Roost, Tite Street, Chelsea. 

Thus spake, "Who's Who. "

"I bet my bottom dollar that chap's been in it as well as she, " saidJones, referring to Plinlimon, Albert James. Then a flash of humour litthe situation. Voles had returned eight thousand pounds; as an agent hehad received twenty five per cent. , say, therefore, he stood to lose atleast six thousand. This pleased Jones more even than his victory. Hehad a racial, radical, soul-rooted antipathy to Voles. Not an angeragainst him, just an antipathy. "Now, " said he, as he placed "Who'sWho" back on the bureau, "let's get off and see Mortimer Collins. "

He left the house, and, calling a taxi cab, ordered the driver to takehim to Sergeant's Inn. He had no plan of campaign as regards Collins. Hesimply wanted to explore and find out about himself. Knowledge to him inhis extraordinary position was armour, and he wanted all the armour hecould get, fighting, as he was, not only the living present, but alsoanother man's past--and another man's character, or want of character. 

CHAPTER XI

THE COAL MINE

Sergeant's Inn lies off Fleet Street, a quiet court surrounded withhouses given over to the law. The law has always lived there ever sincethat time when, as Stow quaintly put it, "There is in and about the citya whole University as it were, of students, practicers, and pleaders, and judges of the laws of this realm, not living of common stipends, asin other universities it is for the most part done, but of their ownprivate maintenance, as being fed either by their places or practices, or otherwise by their proper revenue, or exhibition of parents orfriends--of their houses, there be at this day fourteen in all; whereofnine do stand within the liberties of this city, and five in the suburbsthereof. "

Sergeant's Inn stood within the liberties, and there to-day it stillstands, dusty, sedate, once the abode of judges and sergeants, now thehome of solicitors. On the right of entrance lay the offices of MortimerCollins, an elderly man, quiet, subfusc in hue, tall, sparsely bearded, a collector of old prints in his spare hours, and one of the mostrespected members of his profession. 

His practice lay chiefly amongst the nobility and landed gentry, a factvaguely hinted at by the white or yellow lettering on the tin deedboxes that lined the walls of his offices, setting forth such names andstatements as: "The Cave Estate, " "Sir Jardine Jardine, " "The BlundellEstate, " and so forth and so on. He knew everyone, and everything abouteveryone, and terrible things about some people, and he was to be metwith at the best houses. People liked him for himself, and he inspiredthe trust that comes from liking. 

It was to this gentleman that Jones was shown in, and it was by thisgentleman that he was received coldly, it is true, but politely. 

Jones, with his usual directness, began the business. 

"I have come to have a serious talk with you, " said he. 

"Indeed, " said the lawyer, "has anything new turned up?"

"No. I want to talk about my position generally. I see that I have madea fool of myself. "

The man of law raised his hands lightly with fingers spread, the gesturewas eloquent. 

"But, " went on the other, "I want to make good, I want to clear up themess. "

The lawyer sighed. Then he took a small piece of chamois leather fromhis waistcoat pocket and began to polish his glasses. 

"You remember what I told you the day before yesterday, " said he; "haveyou determined to take my advice? Then you had nothing to offer me butsome wild talk about suicide. "

"What advice?"

Collins made an impatient gesture. 

"Advice--why to emigrate and try your luck in the Colonies. "

"H'm, h'm, " said Jones. "Yes, I remember, but since then I have beenthinking things out. I'm going to stay here and make good. "

Again the lawyer made a gesture of impatience. 

"You know your financial position as well as I do, " said he. "How areyou to make good, as you express it, against that position? You can't, you are hopelessly involved, held at every point. A month ago I told youto reduce your establishment and let Carlton House Terrace; you said youwould and you didn't. That hurt me. I would much sooner you had refusedthe suggestion. Well, the crash if it does not come to-day will cometo-morrow. You are overdrawn at Coutts', you can raise money on nothing, your urgent debts to tradesmen and so forth amount, as you told me theday before yesterday, to over two thousand five hundred pounds. See foryourself how you stand. "

"I say again, " said Jones, "that I am going to make good. All theseaffairs seem to have gone to pieces because--I have been a fool. "

"I'm glad you recognise that. "

"But I'm a fool no longer. You know that business about Voles?"

The man of affairs nodded. 

"Well, what do you think of that?" He took Voles' cheque from his pocketand laid it before the lawyer. 

"Why, what is this?" said the other. "Eight thousand pounds. "

"He called on me for more blackmail, " replied Jones, "and I squeezedhim, called in a--policeman, made him disgorge, and there's his cheque. Do you, think he has money enough to meet it?"

"Oh, yes, he is very wealthy, but you told me _distinctly_ he had onlygot a thousand out of you. "

Jones swore mentally. To take up the life and past of a rogue is bad, totake up the life and past of a weak-kneed and shifty man is almostworse. 

"I told you wrong, " said he. 

Collins suppressed a movement of irritation and disgust. He was used todealing with Humanity. 

"What can a doctor do for a patient who holds back essential facts?"asked he. "Nothing. How can I believe what you say?"

"I don't know, " replied the other. "But I just ask you to. I ask you tobelieve I'm changed. I've had a shock that has altered my whole nature. I'm not the same man who talked to you the day before yesterday. "

Collins looked at him curiously. 

"You have altered, " said he, "your voice is different, somehow, too. Iam not going to ask you _what_ has brought about this change in yourviews. I only trust it may be so--and permanent. "

"Bedrock, " said Jones. "I'm going to begin right now. I'm going to letthat caravan--"

"Caravan!"

"The Carlton House place, your idea is good, will you help me throughwith it? I don't know how to start letting places. "

"I will certainly assist you. In fact I believe I can get you a tenantat once. The Bracebridges want just such a house, furnished. I will getmy clerk to write to them--if you really mean it. "

"I mean it. "

"Well, that's something. I pressed the point about your really meaningit, because you were so violently opposed to such a course when I spokeof it before. In fact you were almost personal, as though I had proposedsomething disgraceful--though it was true you came to agree with me atlast. "

"I guess the only disgrace is owing money and not being able to pay, "said the present Lord Rochester. "I've come to see that now. "

"Thank God!" said Collins. 

"I'll take rooms at a quiet hotel, " went on the other, "with this eightthousand and the rent from that Gazabo, I ought to tide over the rocks. "

"I don't see why not, I don't really see why not, " replied Collinscheerfully, "if you are steadfast in your purpose. Fortunately yourwife's property is untouched, and how about her?"

"Yes, " said Jones, with a cold shiver. 

"The love of a good wife, " went on the other, "is a thing not to bebought, and I may say I have very good reason to believe that, despiteall that has occurred, you still have your wife's affection. Leavingeverything else aside I think your greatest mistake was having yoursister to live with you. It does not do, and, considering MissBirdbrook's peculiar temper, it especially did not do in your case. Nowthat things are different would you care to see your wife, and have aquiet talk over matters?"

"No, " said Jones, hurriedly. "I don't want to see her--at least, notyet. "

"Well, please yourself, " replied the other. "Perhaps later on you willcome to see things differently. "

The conversation then closed, the lawyer promising to let him knowshould he secure an offer for the house. 

Jones, so disturbed by this talk about his wife that he was revolving inhis mind plans to cut the whole business, said good-bye and took hisdeparture. But he was not destined to leave the building just yet. 

He was descending the narrow old stairs when he saw some people comingup, and drew back to let them pass. 

A stout lady led the way and was followed by an elderly gentleman and ayounger lady in a large hat. 

"Why it is Arthur, " cried the stout woman. "How fortunate. Arthur, wehave come to see Mr. Collins, such a terrible thing has happened. "

The unfortunate Jones now perceived that the lady with the huge hat wasthe bird woman, the elderly gentleman he had never seen before, but theelderly gentleman had evidently often seen him, was most probably a nearrelative, to judge by the frigidity and insolence of his nod and generaldemeanour. This old person had the Army stamp about him, and a verydecided chin with a cleft in it. 

"Better not talk out here, " said he, "come in, come in and see Collins. "

Jones did not want in the least to go in and see Collins, but he wasburning to know what this dreadful thing was that had happened. He halfdreaded that it had to do with Rochester's suicide. He followed theparty, and next moment found himself again in Collins' room, where thelawyer pointed out chairs to the ladies, closed the door, and came backto his desk table where he seated himself. 

"Oh, Mr. Collins, " said the elderly lady, "such a dreadful thing hashappened--coal--they have found coal. " She collapsed. 

The old gentleman with the cleft chin took up the matter. 

"This idiot, " said he, indicating Jones, "has sold a coal mine, worthmaybe a million, for five thousand. The Glanafwyn property has turned upcoal. I only heard of it last night, and by accident. Struthers said tome straight out in the club, 'Do you know that bit of land in Glamorgan, Rochester sold to Marcus Mulhausen?' Yes, I said. 'Well, ' said he, 'it'snot land, it's the top of the biggest coal mine in Wales, steam coal, and Mulhausen is going to work it himself. He was offered two hundredand fifty thousand for the land last week, they have been boring therefor the last half year, ' that's what he told me, and I verified it thismorning. Of course Mulhausen spotted the land for what it was worth, andlaid his trap for this fool. "

Jones restrained his emotions with an effort, not knowing in the leasthis relationship to the violent one. Mr. Collins made it clear. 

"Your nephew has evidently fallen into a trap, your Grace, " said he. Then turning to Jones:

"I warned you not to sell that land--Heaven knows I knew little enoughof the district and less of its mineral worth; still, I was adverse fromparting with land--always am--and especially to such a sharp customer asMulhausen. I told you to have an expert opinion. I had not minerals inmy mind. I thought, possibly, it might be some railway extension inprospect--and it was your last bit of property without mortgage on it. Yes, I told you not to do it, and it's done. "

"Oh, Arthur, " sighed the elderly woman. "Your last bit of land--and tothink it should go like that. I never dreamed I should have to say thosewords to my son. " Then stiffening and turning to Collins. "But I did notcome to complain, I came to see if justice cannot be done. This isrobbery. That terrible man with the German name has robbed Arthur. It isquite plain. What can be done?"

"Absolutely nothing, " replied Collins. 

"Nothing?"

"Your ladyship must believe me when I say nothing can be done. Whatground can we have for moving? The sale was perfectly open and aboveboard. Mulhausen made no false statement--I am right in saying that, amI not?" turning to Jones. 

Jones had to nod. 

"And that being the case we are helpless. "

"But if it can be proved that he knew there was coal in the land, and ifhe bought it concealing that knowledge, surely, surely the law can makehim give it back, " said the simple old lady, who it would seem stood inthe place of Rochester's unfortunate mother. 

Mr. Collins almost smiled. 

"Your ladyship, that would give no handle to the law. Now, for instance, if I knew that the Canadian Pacific Railway, let us say, had discoveredlarge coal bearing lands, and if I used that private knowledge to buyyour Canadian Pacific stock at, say, one hundred, and if that stock roseto three hundred, could you make me give you your stock back? Certainlynot. The gain would be a perfectly legitimate product of my ownsharpness. "

"Sharpness, " said the bird woman, "that's just it. If Arthur had hadeven sense, to say nothing of sharpness, things would have been verydifferent all round--all round. "

She protruded her head from her boa and retracted it. Jones, furious, dumb, with his hands in his pockets and his back against the window, said nothing. 

He never could have imagined that a baiting like this, over a matterwith which he had nothing to do, could have made him feel such a fool, and such an ass. 

He saw at once how Rochester had been done, and he felt, against allreason, the shame that Rochester might have felt--but probably wouldn't. His uncle, the Duke of Melford, for that was the choleric one's name, his mother, the dowager Countess of Rochester, and his sister, the Hon. Venetia Birdbrook, now all rose up and got together in a covey beforemaking their exit, and leaving this bad business and the fool who hadbrought it about. 

You can fancy their feelings. A man in Rochester's position may beanything, almost, as long as he is wealthy, but should he add the crimeof poverty to his other sins he is lost indeed. And Rochester had notonly flung his money away, he had flung a coal mine after it. 

No wonder that his uncle did not even glance at him again as he left theroom, shepherding the two women before him. 

"It's unfortunate, " said Collins, when they found themselves alone. Itwas the mildest thing he could say, and he said it. 

CHAPTER XII

THE GIRL IN THE VICTORIA

When Jones found himself outside the office at last, and in the bustleof Fleet Street, he turned his steps west-wards. 

He had almost forgotten the half formed determination to throw down hiscards and get up from this strange game, which he had formed whenCollins had asked him whether he would not have an interview with hiswife. This coal mine business pushed everything else aside for themoment; the thought of that deal galvanized the whole business side ofhis nature, so that, as he would have said himself, bristles stood onit. A mine worth a million pounds, traded away for twenty five thousanddollars!

He was taking the thing to heart, as though he himself had been trickedby Mulhausen, and now as he walked, a block in the traffic brought himback from his thoughts, and suddenly, a most appalling sensation cameupon him. For a moment he had lost his identity. For a moment he wasneither Rochester nor Jones, but just a void between these two. For amoment he could not tell which he was. For a moment he was neither. Thatwas the terrible part of the feeling. It was due to over taxation of thebrain in his extraordinary position, and to the intensive manner inwhich he had been playing the part of Rochester. It lasted perhaps, onlya few seconds, for it is difficult to measure the duration of mentalprocesses, and it passed as rapidly as it had come. 

Seeing a bar he entered it, and a small glass of brandy closed theincident and made him forget it. He asked the way to Coutts' Bank, whichin 1692 was situated at the "Three Crowns" in the Strand, next door tothe Globe Tavern, and which still holds the same position in the worldof commerce, and nearly the same in the world of bricks and mortar. 

He reached the door of the bank and was about to enter, when somethingchecked him. It was the thought that he would have to endorse the chequewith Rochester's signature. 

He had copied it so often that he felt competent to make a fairimitation, but he had begun life in a bank and he knew the awful eye abank has for a customer's signature. His signature--at leastRochester's--must be well known at Coutts'. It would never do to puthimself under the microscope like that, besides, and this thought onlycame to him now, it might be just as well to have his money in someplace unknown to others. Collins and all that terrible family knew thathe was banking at Coutts', events might arise when it would be verynecessary too for him to be able to lay his hands on a secret store ofmoney. 

He had passed the National Provincial Bank in the Strand, the namesounded safe and he determined to go there. 

He reached the bank, sent his name into the manager, and was at onceadmitted. The manager was a solid man, semi-bald, with side whiskers, and an air of old English business respectability delightful in thesenew and pushing days, he received the phantom of the Earl of Rochesterwith the respect due to their mutual positions. 

Jones, between Coutts' and the National Provincial, had done a lot ofthinking. He foresaw that even if he were to give in a passableimitation of Rochester's signature, all cheques signed in future wouldhave to tally with that signature. Now a man's handwriting, thoughvarying, has a personality of its own, and he very much doubted as towhether he would be able to keep up that personality under themicroscopic gaze of the bank people. He decided on a bold course. Hewould retain his own handwriting. It was improbable that the NationalProvincial had ever seen Rochester's autograph; even if they had, it wasnot a criminal thing for a man to alter his style of writing. Heendorsed the cheque Rochester, gave a sample of his signature, gavedirections for a cheque book to be sent to him at Carlton House Terrace, and took his departure. 

He had changed Rochester's five pound note before going to Collins, andhe had the change in his pocket, four pounds sixteen and sixpence. Fivepounds, less the price of a cigar at the tobacconist's where he hadchanged his note, the taxi to Sergeants' Inn, and the glass of liqueurbrandy. He remembered that he still owed for his luncheon yesterday atthe Senior Conservative, and he determined to go and pay for it, andthen lunch at some restaurant. Never again would he have luncheon atthat Conservative Caravanserai, so he told himself. 

With this purpose in mind, he was standing waiting to cross the roadnear Southampton Street, when a voice sounded in his ear and an arm tookhis. 

"Hello, Rochy, " said the voice. 

Jones turned, and found himself arm in arm with a youth of eighteen--sohe seemed, a gilded youth, if there ever was a gilded youth, immaculately dressed, cheery, and with a frank face that was entirelypleasing. 

"Hello, " said Jones. 

"What became of you that night?" asked the cheery one, as they crossedthe road still arm in arm. 

"Which night?"

"Which night? Why the night they shot us out of the Rag Tag Club. Areyou asleep, Rawjester--or what ails you?"

"Oh, I remember, " said Jones. 

They had unlinked now, and walking along together they passed upSouthampton Street and through Henrietta Street towards LeicesterSquare. The unknown doing all the talking, a task for which he seemedwell qualified. 

He talked of things, events, and people, absolutely unknown to hislistener, of horses, and men, and women. He talked Jones into BondStreet, and Jones went shopping with him, assisting him in the choice oftwo dozen coloured socks at Beale and Inmans. Outside the hosier's, theunknown was proposing luncheon, when a carriage, an open Victoria, going slowly on account of the traffic, drew Jones' attention. 

It was a very smart turn out, one horsed, but having two liveriedservants on the box. A coachman, and a footman with powdered hair. 

In the Victoria was seated one of the prettiest girls ever beheld byJones. A lovely creature, dark, with deep, dreamy, vague blue-greyeyes--and a face! Ah, what pen could describe that face, so mobile, piquante, and filled with light and inexpressible charm. 

She had caught Jones' eye, she was gazing at him curiously, halfmirthfully, half wrathfully, it seemed to him, and now to his amazementshe made a little movement of the head, as if to say, "come here. " Atthe same moment she spoke to the coachman. 

"Portman, stop please. "

Jones advanced, raising his hat. 

"I just want to tell you, " said the Beauty, leaning a little forward, "that you are a silly old ass. Venetia has told me all--It's nothing tome, but don't do it--Portman, drive on. "

"Good Lord!" said Jones, as the vehicle passed on its way, bearing offits beautiful occupant, of whom nothing could now be seen but the lacecovered back of a parasol. 

He rejoined the unknown. 

"Well, " said the latter, "what has your wife been saying to you?"

"My _wife_!" said Jones. 

"Well, your late wife, though you ain't divorced yet, are you?"

"No, " said Jones. 

He uttered the word mechanically, scarcely knowing what he was saying. 

That lovely creature his wife! Rochester's wife!

"Get in, " said the unknown. He had called a taxi. 

Jones got in. 

Rochester's wife! The contrast between her and Lady Plinlimon suddenlyarose before him, together with the folly of Rochester seen giganticallyand in a new light. 

The taxi drew up in a street off Piccadilly; they got out; the unknownpaid and led the way into a house, whose front door presented a modestbrass door plate inscribed with the words:

 "MR. CARR"

They passed along a passage, and then down stairs to a large room, wheresmall card tables were set out. An extraordinary room, for, occupyingnearly half of one side of it stood a kitchen range, over which a cookwas engaged broiling chops and kidneys, and all the other elements of amixed grill. Old fashioned pictures of sporting celebrities hung on thewalls, and opposite the range stood a dresser, laden with priceless oldfashioned crockery ware. Off this room lay the dining room, and thewhole place had an atmosphere of comfort and the days gone by when dayswere less laborious than our days, and comfort less allied to glitterand tinsel. 

This was Carr's Club. 

The unknown sat down before the visitor's book, and began to write hisown name and the name of his guest. 

Jones, looking over his shoulder, saw that his name was Spence, PatrickSpence. Sir Patrick Spence, for one of the attendants addressed him asSir Patrick. A mixed grill, some cheese and draught beer in heavy pewtertankards, constituted the meal, during which the loquacious Spence keptup the conversation. 

"I don't want to poke my nose into your affairs, " said he, "but I cansee there's something worrying you; you're not the same chap. Is itabout the wife?"

"No, " said Jones, "it's not that. "

"Well, I don't want to dig into your confidences, and I don't want togive you advice. If I did, I'd say make it up with her. You know verywell, Rochy, you have led her the deuce of a dance. Your sister got meon about it the other night at the Vernons'. We had a long talk aboutyou, Rochy, and we agreed you were the best of chaps, but too much givento gaiety and promiscuous larks. You should have heard me holding forth. But, joking apart, it's time you and I settled down, old chap. You can'tput old heads on young shoulders, but our shoulders ain't so young asthey used to be, Rochy. And I want to tell you this, if you don't hitchup again in harness, the other party will do a bolt. I'm dead serious. It's not the thing to say to another man, but you and I haven't anysecrets between us, and we've always been pretty plain one to theother--well, this is what I want to say, and just take it as it's meant. Maniloff is after her. You know that chap, the _attaché_ at the RussianEmbassy, chap like a billiard marker, always at the other end of acigarette--other name's Boris. Hasn't a penny to bless himself with. Iknow he hasn't, for I've made kind enquiries about him through Lewis, reason why--he wanted to buy one of my racers for export to Roosia. Seven hundred down and the balance in six months. Lewis served up hispast to me on a charger. The chap's rotten with debt, divorced from hiswife, and a punter at Monte Carlo. That's his real profession, and cardplaying. He's a sleepy Slav, and if he was told his house was on firehe'd say, "nichévo, " meaning it don't matter, it's well insured--if hehad a house to insure, which he hasn't. But women like him, he's thatsort. But Heaven help the woman that marries him. He'd take her moneyand herself off to Monte, and when he'd broken her heart and spoiled herlife and spent her coin, he'd leave her, and go off and be Russian_attaché_ in Japan or somewhere. I know him. Don't let her do it, Rochy. "

"But how am I to help it?" asked the perplexed Jones, who saw themeaning of the other. It did not matter in reality to him, whether awoman whom he had only seen once were to "bolt" with a Russian and findruination at Monte Carlo, but this world is not entirely a world ofreality, and he felt a surprisingly strong resentment at the idea ofthe girl in the Victoria "bolting" with a Russian. 

It will be remembered that in Collins' office, the lawyer's talk abouthis "wife" had almost decided him to throw down his cards and quit. Thisshadowy wife, first mentioned by the bird woman, had, in fact, been theone vaguely felt insuperable obstacle in the way of his granddetermination to make good where Rochester had failed, to fightRochester's battles, to be the Earl of Rochester permanently maybe, or, failing that, to retire and vanish back to the States with honourablepickings. 

The sight of the real thing had, however, altered the whole position. Romance had suddenly touched Victor Jones; the gorgeous but sordid veilsthrough which he had been pushing had split to some mystic wand, and hadbecome the foliage of fairy land. 

"I want to tell you--you are an old ass. "

Those words were surely enough to shatter any dream, to turn to pathosany situation. In Jones' case they had acted as a most potent spell. Hecould still hear the voice, wrathful, but with a tinge of mirth in it, golden, individual, entrancing. 

"How are you to help it?" said Spence. "Why, go and make up with heragain, kick old Nichévo. Women like chaps that kick other chaps; theypretend they don't, but they do. Either do that or take a gun and shoother, she'd be better shot than with that fellow. "

He lit a cigarette and they passed into the card room, where Spence, looking at his watch, declared that he must be off to keep anappointment. They said good-bye in the street, and Jones returned toCarlton House Terrace. 

He had plenty to think about. 

The pile of letters waiting to be answered on the table in the smokingroom reminded him that he had forgotten a most pressing necessity--atypist. He could sign letters all right, with a very good imitation ofRochester's signature, but a holograph letter in the same hand wasbeyond him. Then a bright idea came to him, why not answer these letterswith sixpenny telegrams, which he could hand in himself?

He found a sheaf of telegraph forms in the bureau, and sat down beforethe letters, dealing with them one by one, and as relevantly as hecould. It was a rather interesting and amusing game, and when he hadfinished he felt fairly satisfied. "Awfully sorry can't come, " was thereply to the dinner invitations. The letter signed "Childersley" worriedhim, till he looked up the name in "Who's Who" and found a Lordanswering to it at the same address as that on the note paper. 

He had struck by accident on one of the alleviations of a major miseryof civilized life, replying to Letters, and he felt like patenting it. 

He left the house with the sheaf of telegrams, found the nearest postoffice--which is situated directly opposite to Charing CrossStation--and returned. Then lighting a cigar, he took the friendly andindefatigable "Who's Who" upon his knee, and began to turn the pagesindolently. It is a most interesting volume for an idle moment, full ofscattered romance, tales of struggle and adventure, compressed into afew lines, peeps of history, and the epitaphs of still living men. 

"I want to tell you--you are an old ass. "

The words still sounding in his ears made him turn again to the namePlinlimon. The contrast between Lady Plinlimon and the girl, whosevision dominated his mind, rose up again sharply at sight of the printedname. 

Ass! That name did not apply to Rochester. To fit him with anappropriate pseudonym would be impossible. Fool, idiot, sumph--Jonestried them all on the image of the defunct, but they were too small. 

"Plinlimon: 3rd Baron, " read Jones, "created 1831, Albert James, b. March 10th, 1862. O. S. Of second Baron and Julia d. Of J. H. Thompsonof Clifton, m. Sapphira, d. Of Marcus Mulhausen, educ. Privately. Address The Roost, Tite Street, Chelsea. "

Mulhausen! He almost dropped the book. Mulhausen! Collins, his office, and that terrible family party all rose up before him. Here was thescamp who had diddled Rochester out of the coal mine, the father of thewoman who had diddled him out of thousands. The paragraph in "Who's Who"turned from printed matter to a nest of wriggling vipers. He threw thebook on the table, rose up, and began to pace the floor. 

The girl-wife in the Victoria, his own position--everything wasforgotten, before the monstrous fact half guessed, half seen. 

Rochester had been plucked right and left by these harpies. He hadreceived five thousand pounds for land worth a million from the father, he had paid eight thousand, or a good part of eight thousand to thedaughter. Fine business that!

I compared Jones, when he was fighting Voles, to a terrier. He had agood deal of the terrier in his composition, the honesty, the rootingout instinct, and the fury before vermin. Men run in animal groups, andif you study animals you will be surprised by nothing so much as the oldrace fury that breaks out in the most civilized animal before the oldrace quarry or enemy. 

For a few seconds, as he paced the floor, Jones was in the mentalcondition of a dog in proximity to a hutched badger. Then he began tothink clearly. The obvious fact before him was that Voles, thePlinlimons and Mulhausen were a gang; the presumptive fact was that themoney paid in blackmail had gone back to Mulhausen, or at least a greatpart of it. 

Was Mulhausen the spider of the web? Were all the rest his tools andimplements?

Jones had a good deal of instinctive knowledge of women. He did not inhis heart believe that a woman could be so utterly vile as to use loveletters directed to her for the purpose of extracting money from the manwho wrote them. Or rather that, whilst she might use them, it wasimprobable that she would invent the method. The whole business had thestamp of a mind masculine and utterly unscrupulous. Even at first he hadglimpsed this vaguely, when he considered it probable that LordPlinlimon had a hand in the affair. 

"Now, " thought Jones, "if I could bring this home to Mulhausen, I couldsqueeze back that coal mine from him. I could sure. "

He sat down and lit another cigar to assist him in dealing with thisproblem. 

It was very easy to say "squeeze Mulhausen, " it was a different thing todo it. He came to this conclusion after a few minutes' earnestconcentration of mind on that problematical person. Hitherto he had beendealing with small men and wasters. Voles was a plain scoundrel, quiteeasily overthrown by direct methods. But Marcus Mulhausen he guessed tobe a big man. The first thing to be done was to verify this supposition. He rang the bell and sent for Mr. Church. 

"Come in, " said he, when the latter appeared, "and shut the door. I wantto ask you something. "

"Yes, my Lord. "

"It's just this. I want you to tell me what you think of Lord Plinlimon, and what you have heard said about him. I have my own opinions--I wantyours. "

"Well, my Lord, " began Church. "It's not for me to say anything againsthis Lordship, but since you ask me I will say that it's generally theopinion that his Lordship is a bit--soft. "

"Do you think he's straight?"

"Yes, my Lord--that is to say--"

"Spit it out, " said Jones. 

"Well, my Lord, he owes money, that's well known; and I've heard it saida good deal of money has been lost at cards in his house, but notthrough his fault. Indeed, you yourself said something to me to thateffect, my Lord. "

"Yes, so I did--But what I want to get at is this. Do you think he's aman who would do a scoundrelly thing--that's plain?"

"Oh, no, my Lord, he's straight enough. It's the other party. "

"Meaning his wife?"

"No, my Lord--her brother, Mr. Julian. "

"Ah!"

Church warmed a bit. "He's always about there, lives with them mostly. You see, my Lord, he has no what you may call status of his own, but hemanages to get known to people through her Ladyship. "

"Kind of sucker, " said Jones. 

Mr. Church assented. The expression was new to him, but it seemed toapply. 

Then Jones dismissed him. 

The light was becoming clearer and clearer. Here was another member ofthe gang, another instrument of Marcus Mulhausen. 

"To-morrow, " said Jones to himself, "I will go for these chaps. Voles isthe key to the lot of them, and I have Voles completely under my thumb. "

Then he put the matter from his mind for a while, and fell to thinkingof the girl--his wife--Rochester's wife. 

The strange thought came to him that she was a widow and did not knowit. 

He dined out that night, going to a little restaurant in Soho, and hereturned to bed early, so as to be fresh for the business of the morrow. 

He had looked himself up again in "Who's Who, " and found that his wife'sname was Teresa. Teresa. The name pleased him vaguely, and now that hehad captured it, it stuck like a burr in his mind. If he could only makegood over the Mulhausen proposition, re-capture that mine, provehimself--would she, if he told her all--would she--?

He fell asleep murmuring the word Teresa. 

CHAPTER XIII

TERESA

He woke up next morning, to find the vision of Teresa, Countess ofRochester--so he called her--standing by his bedside. 

Have you ever for a moment considered the influence of women? Go to apublic meeting composed entirely of men and see what a heavy affair itcan be, especially if you are a speaker; sprinkle a few women throughthe audience, and behold the livening effect. At a party or a publicmeeting in the Wheat Pit or the battlefield, women, or the recollectionof a woman, form or forms one of the greatest liveners to conversation, speech, or action. Most men fight the battle of life for a woman. Jones, as he sat up and drank his morning tea, gazing the while at the visionof Teresa, Countess of Rochester, had found, almost unknown to himself, a new incentive to action. 

The position yesterday had begun to sag, very little would have made him"quit, " take a hundred pounds from the eight thousand and a passage bythe next boat to the States; but that girl in the Victoria, those eyes, that voice, those words--they had altered everything. 

Was he in love? Perhaps not, but he was fascinated, held, dazzled. 

More than that, the world seemed strange--brighter; he felt younger, filled with an energy of a new brand. He whistled as he crossed thefloor to look out of the window, and as he tubbed he splashed the waterabout like a boy. 

It was easy to see that the unfortunate man had tumbled into a positionmore fantastic and infinitely more dangerous than any position he hadhitherto occupied since setting foot in the house of Rochester. 

That vanished and fantastic humourist would have found plenty to feedhis thoughts could he have returned. 

The cheque book from the National Provincial Bank arrived by the firstpost, and after breakfast he put it aside in a drawer of the bureau inthe smoking room. He glanced through the usual sheaf of letters fromunknown people, tradesmen, whose accounts were marked "account rendered"and gentlemen who signed themselves with the names of counties. One ofthe latter seemed indignant. 

 "I take this d--d bad of you, Rochester, " said he. "I've found it out at last, you are the man responsible for that telegram. I lost three days and a night's sleep rushing up to Cumberland on a wild goose chase, and I'm telling people all about it. Some day you'll land yourself in a mess. Jokes that may be funny amongst board school boys are out of place amongst men. 

 "LANGWATHBY. "

Jones determined to send Langwathby a telegram of apology when he hadtime to look his name up in "Who's Who"; then he put the letters aside, called for his hat and cane and left the house. 

He was going to Voles first. 

Voles was his big artillery. He guessed that the fight with MarcusMulhausen would be a battle to the death. He reckoned a lot on Voles. InTrafalgar Square he called a taxi and told the driver to take him toJermyn Street. 

PART III

CHAPTER XIV

THE ATTACK

A. S. Voles, money lender and bill discounter, lived over his business. That is to say his office was his dining room. He owned the house inJermyn Street. Jones, dismissing the taxi, rang the bell and wasadmitted by a man servant, who, not sure whether Mr. Voles was in ornot, invited the visitor into a small room on the right of the entrancehall and closed the door on him. 

The room contained a desk table, three chairs, a big scale map ofLondon, a Phoenix Insurance Almanac, and a photogravure reproduction ofMona Lisa. The floor was covered with linoleum, and the window gave upona blank wall. 

This was the room where creditors and stray visitors had to wait. Jonestook a chair and looked about him. 

Humanity may be divided into three classes: those who, having seen, adore, those who tolerate, and those who detest Mona Lisa. Jonesdetested her. That leery, sleery, slippery, poisonous face was hatefulto him as the mask of a serpent. 

He was looking at the lady when the door opened and in came Voles. 

Voles looked yellower and older this morning, but his face showednothing of resentment. The turning of the Earl of Rochester upon him hadbeen the one great surprise of his life. He had always fancied that heknew character, and his fancy was not ill founded. His confidence inhimself had been shaken. 

"Good morning, " said Jones. "I have come to have a little talk withyou. "

"Sit down, " said Voles. 

They seated themselves, Voles before the desk. 

"I haven't come to fight, " said Jones, "just to talk. You known thatMarcus Mulhausen has got that Welsh land from me for five thousand, andthat it is worth maybe a million now. "

Voles nodded. 

"Well, Mulhausen has to give that property back. "

Voles laughed. 

"You needn't laugh. You have seen my rough side. I'm holding the smoothtowards you now--but there is no occasion to laugh. I'm going to skinMulhausen. "

"Well, " said Voles. "What have I to do with that?"

"You are the knife. "

"Oh!"

"Yes, indeed. Let's talk. When you got that eight thousand from me, youwere only the agent of the Plinlimon woman, and she was only the agentof Marcus. She got something, you got something, but Marcus got themost. Julian got something too, but it was Marcus got the joints. Hegave you three the head, and the hoofs, and the innards, and the tail. I've had it out with the Plinlimon woman and I know. You were a gang. "

Voles heaved up in his chair. 

"What more have you to say?" asked he thickly. 

"A lot. There is nothing more difficult to get at than a gang, becausethey cover each other's traces. I pay you a certain sum in cash, youdeduct your commission and hand the remainder over to the Plinlimonwoman, she pays her Pa, and gets a few hundred to pay her milliner. Who's to prove anything? No cheques have passed. "

"Just so, " said Voles. 

"I'm glad you see my point, " replied Jones. "Now if you can't untie aknot, you can always cut it if you have a knife--can't you?"

Voles shrugged his shoulders. 

"Well, I said you were a knife, didn't I, and I'm going to cut this knotwith you, see my point?"

"Not in the least. "

"I'm sorry, because that makes me speak plain, and that's unpleasant. This is my meaning. I have to get that property back, or else I will goto the police and rope in the whole gang. Tell the whole story. I willaccuse Marcus. Do you understand that? Marcus, and Marcus' daughter, andMarcus' son, and you. And I won't do that to-morrow, I'll do it to-day. To-night the whole caboodle of you will be in jail. "

"You said you hadn't come to fight, " cried Voles. "What do you want?Haven't you had enough from me? Yet you drive me like this. It'sdangerous. "

"I have not come to fight. At least not you. On the contrary, when I getthis property back, if it turns out worth a million, I'll maybe pay youyour losses. You've been paying the piper for Marcus, it seems to me. "

"I have, " groaned Voles. 

The two words proved to Jones that he was right all through. 

"Well, it's Marcus I'm up against, and you have to help me. "

Then Voles began to speak. The something Oriental in his nature, thesomething that had driven him rushing with outspread arms at theconstable that evening, began now to talk. 

Help against Marcus! What could he do against Marcus? Why MarcusMulhausen held him in the hollow of his hand. Marcus held everyone: hisdaughter, her husband, his own son Julian, to say nothing of A. S. Volesand others. 

Jones listened with patient attention to all this, and when the otherhad finished and wiped the palms of his hands on his handkerchief, said:

"But all the same, Marcus is held by the fact that he forms one of agang. "

Voles made a movement with his hand. 

"Don't interrupt me. The head of a shark is the cleverest part of it, but it has to suffer with the body when the whole shark is caught;that's the fix Marcus is in. When I close on the lot of you, Marcuswill be the first to go into the jug. Now, see here, you have got totake my orders; they won't be hard. "

"What are they?"

"You have got to write me a note, which I will take to Marcus, tellinghim the game's up, the gang's burst, and to deliver. "

"Why d--n it, what ails you?" said Voles. 

"What ails me?"

"You aren't talking like yourself--you have never been like yourselfsince you've taken this line. "

Jones felt himself changing colour. In his excitement he had let hisvoice run away with him. 

"It doesn't matter a button whether I'm like myself or not, " said he, "you've got to write that note, and do it now while I dictate. "

Voles drummed on the desk with his fingers, then he took a sheet ofpaper and an envelope from a drawer. 

"Well, " said he, "what is it to be?"

"Nothing alarming, " said the other. "Just three words. 'It's allup'--how do you address him?"

Without reply Voles wrote. 

 "Dear M. 

 "It's all up. "

"That'll do, " said Jones, "now sign your name and address the envelope. "

Voles did so. 

Jones put the letter in his pocket. 

"Well, " said he, "that ends the business. I hope, with this, and what Ihave to say to him, Marcus will part, and as I say, if things turn outas I hope, maybe I'll right your losses--I have no quarrel withyou--only Marcus. "

Suddenly Voles spoke. 

"For God's sake, " said he, "mind how you deal with that chap; he's neverbeen got the better of, curse him. Go cautiously. "

"You never fear, " said Jones. 

CHAPTER XV

THE ATTACK (Continued)

Jones had already obtained Marcus Mulhausen's address from theinvaluable Kelly. 

Mulhausen was a financier. A financier is a man who makes money withouta trade or profession, and Mulhausen had made a great deal of money, despite this limitation, during his twenty years of business life, whichhad started humbly enough behind the counter of a pawnbroker's in theMinories. 

His offices were situated in Chancery Lane. They consisted of threerooms: an outer waiting room, a room inhabited by three clerks, that isto say a senior clerk, Mr. Aaronson, and two subordinates, and an innerroom where Mulhausen dwelt. 

Jones, on giving his name, was shown at once into the inner room whereMulhausen was seated at his desk. 

Mulhausen was a man of sixty or so, small, fragile looking, with greyside whiskers and drowsy heavy-lidded eyes. 

He nodded to Jones and indicated a chair. Then he finished his work, thereading of a letter, placed it under an agate paper weight, and turnedto the newcomer. 

"What can I do for you this morning?" asked Mulhausen. 

"You can just read this letter, " said Jones. 

He handed over Voles' letter. 

Mulhausen put on his glasses, opened the letter, and read it. Then heplaced the open letter on top of the one beneath the agate paper weight, tore up the envelope, and threw the two fragments into the waste paperbasket behind him. 

"Anything more?" asked he. 

"Yes, " replied the other, "a lot more. Let us begin at the beginning. You have obtained from me a piece of real estate worth anything up to amillion pounds; you paid five thousand for it. "

"Yes!"

"You have got to hand me that property back. "

"I beg your pardon, " said Mulhausen. "Do you refer to the Glanafwynlands?"

"Yes. "

"I see. And I have to hand those back to you--anything more?"

"No, that's all. I received your daughter's letters back from Volesyesterday--Let's be plain with one another. Voles has confessedeverything. I have his confession under his own handwriting, you are allin a net, the whole gang of you--you, your daughter, your son and Voles. You plucked me like a turkey. You know the whole affair as well as I do, and if I do not receive that property back before five o'clock to-day, Ishall go to the nearest police office and swear an information againstyou. "

"I see, " said Mulhausen, without turning a hair, "you will put us all inprison, will you not? That would be very unpleasant. Very unpleasantindeed. "

He rose, went to some tin boxes situated on a ledge behind him, took outhis keys and opened one. 

Jones, fancying that he was going to produce the title deeds, felt alittle jump at his thyroid cartilage. This was victory without a battle. But Mr. Marcus Mulhausen took no title deeds from the box. He produced aletter case, came back with it to the table, and sat down. 

Then holding the letter case before him he looked at Jones over hisglasses. 

"You rogue, " said Mulhausen. 

That was the most terrific moment in Jones' life. Mulhausen from acriminal had suddenly become a judge. He spoke with such absoluteconviction, ease, sense of power and scorn, that there could be nomanner of doubt he held the winning cards. He opened the letter case andproduced a paper. 

"Here is the bill of exchange for two hundred and fifty pounds, to whichyou forged Sir Pleydell Tuffnell's name, " said Marcus Mulhausen, spreading the paper before him. "That was two years ago. We all know SirPleydell and his easy going ways. He is so careless you thought he wouldnever find out; so good, he would never prosecute. But it came into myhands, it is my property, and I have no hesitation in dealing withrogues. Now do you suppose for a moment that if I were moving againstyou in any unlawful way--which I deny--I would have done so without aprotector? Could you find a better protection than this? The punishmentfor forgery let me remind you, is five years penal servitude at theleast. " He looked down at the document with a cold smile, and then heglanced up again at his victim. Jones saw that he was done; done not byMarcus Mulhausen, but by Rochester. He had tripped over a kink inRochester's character, just as a man trips over a kink in a carpet. Thenrage came to him. The sight of the horrible scoundrel with whiskers, triumphant and gloating, roused the dog in his nature, and all the craftthat lay hidden in him. 

He heaved a sigh, rose brokenly, and approached the desk, and thecreature behind it. 

"You are a cleverer man than I am, " said he, "shake hands and call itquits. "

Next moment he had snatched the paper from the fingers that held it, crumpled it, crammed it into his mouth. He rushed to the door and lockedit, whilst Mulhausen, screaming like a woman, reached him and clutchedhim by the shoulders. 

Then, swiftly turning, Jones gripped the financier by both arms and heldhim so, chewing, chewing, chewing, mute and facing the shouting otherone. 

They were hammering at the door outside. Mr. Aaronson and the clerks, useless people for breaking-down-door purposes, were assisting theiremployer with their voices--mainly, the whole block of offices wasraised, and boys and telephones were summoning the police. 

Meanwhile, Jones was chewing, and the bill was slowly being convertedinto what the physiologist terms a bolus. It took three minutes beforethe bolus, properly salivated and raised by the tongue, passed theanterior pillars of the fauces, then the epiglottis shut down, and thebolus slipping over it and seized by the muscles of the esophagus passedto its destined abode. 

Jones had swallowed Rochester's past, or at least a most important partof it. The act accomplished, he sat down as a boa constrictor recoilsitself, still gulping. Marcus Mulhausen rushed to the door and openedit. A vast policeman stood before him, behind the policeman crowded Mr. Aaronson and the clerks, and behind these a dozen or two of the blockdwellers, eager for gory sights at a distance. 

Marcus looked round. 

"What's all this?" said he. "There is nothing wrong, just a littledispute with a gentleman. It is all over--Mr. Aaronson, clear theoffice. Constable, here is two shillings for your trouble. Good day. "

He shut the door on the disappointed crowd and turned to Jones. 

The battle was over. 

CHAPTER XVI

A WILD SURPRISE

At five o'clock that day the transference of the property was made outand signed by Marcus Mulhausen in Mortimer Collins' office, and theGlanafwyn lands became again the property of the Earl of Rochester--"forthe sum of five thousand pounds received and herewith acknowledged, "said the document. 

Needless to say no five thousand pounds passed hands. Collins, mystified, asked no questions in the presence of Mulhausen. When thelatter had taken his departure, however, he turned to Jones. 

"Did you pay him five thousand?" asked the lawyer. 

"Not a cent, " replied the other. 

"Well, how have you worked the miracle, then?"

Jones told. 

"You see how I had them coopered, " finished he. "Well, just as I wasgoing to grab the kitty he played the ace of spades, produced an olddocument he held against me. "

"Yes?"

"I pondered for a moment--then I came to a swift conclusion--took thedoc from him and ate it. "

"You ate the document?"

"Sure. "

Jones rubbed his stomach and laughed. 

"Well, well, " said the solicitor with curious acquiescence and want ofastonishment after the first momentary start caused by this surprisingstatement, "we have the property back, that's the main thing. "

"You remember, " said Jones, "I talked to you about letting that place. "

"Carlton House Terrace?"

"Yes--well, that's off. I've made good. Do you see?"

"M--yes, " replied Collins. 

"I'll have enough money now to pay off the mortgages and things. "

"Undoubtedly, " said Collins, "but, now, don't you think it would be agood thing if you were to tie this property up, so that mischance can'ttouch it. You have no children, it is true, but one never knows. Honestly, I think you would be well advised if you were to takeprecautions. "

"Don't worry, " said Jones brightly. "I'll give the whole lot to--mywife--when I can come to terms with her. "

"That's good hearing, " replied the other. Then Jones took his departure, leaving the precious documents in the hands of the lawyer. 

He was elated. He had proved the facts which he had only guessed byinstinct up to this, that a rogue is the weakest person in the worldbefore a plain dealer, if the plain dealer has a weapon in his hand. Thealmost instantaneous collapse of Voles and Mulhausen was due to thefact that they stood on rotten foundations. He told himself now as hewalked along homeward that he need not have eaten that document. Mulhausen would never have used it. If he had just gone out and calledin a policeman, Mulhausen, seeing him in earnest, would have collapsed. 

However the thing was eaten and done with and there was no use introubling any more on the matter. He had other things to think of. Hehad made good. He had saved the Rochester name and estates, he hadrecaptured one million, eight thousand pounds, reckoning that the coalbearing lands were worth a million, and, more than that; he was a saneman, able to look after what he had recaptured. 

The Rochester family, if they knew, would have no cause to grumble atthe interloper and the substitution of new brains and push in the placeof decadence, craziness and sloth. The day when he had changed placeswith Rochester was the best day that had ever dawned for them. 

He was thinking this when all of a sudden that horrible, unreal feelinghe had suffered from once before, came upon him again. This time it wasnot a question of losing his identity, it was a shuffle of his own taxedbrain between two identities. Rochester--Jones--Jones--Rochester. Itseemed to him for the space of a couple of seconds that he could nottell which of those two individuals he was, then the feeling passed andhe resumed his way, reaching Carlton House Terrace shortly after six. 

He gave his hat and cane and gloves to the flunkey who opened the doorfor him--He had obtained a latch-key from Church that morning but forgotto use it--and was crossing the hall when a strain of music brought himto a halt. The tones of a piano came from a door on the right. Someonewas playing Chaminade's _Valse Tendre_ and playing it to perfection. 

Jones turned to the man-servant. 

"Who is that?" he asked. 

"It is her ladyship, my Lord, she arrived half an hour ago. Her luggagehas gone upstairs. "

Her ladyship!

Jones thrown off his balance hesitated for a moment, _what_ ladyshipcould it be. Not, surely, that awful mother!

He crossed to the door, opened it, found a music-room, and there, seatedat a piano, the girl of the Victoria. 

She was in out-door dress and had not removed her hat. 

She looked over her shoulder at him as he came in, her face wore a halfsmile, but she did not stop playing. Anything more fascinating, morelovely, more distracting than that picture it would be hard to imagine. 

As he crossed the room she suddenly ceased playing and twirled round onthe music-stool. 

"I've come back, " said she. "Ju-ju, I couldn't stand it. You are bad butyou are a lot, lot better than your mother--and Venetia. I'm going totry and put up with you a bit longer--_Ju-Ju_, what makes you look sostiff and funny?"

"I don't know, " said Jones, passing his hand across his forehead. "I'vehad a hard day. " She looked at him curiously for a moment, thenpityingly, then kindly. 

Then she jumped up, made him sit down on a big couch by the wall, andtook her seat beside him. 

Then she took his hand. 

"Ju-Ju--why will you be such a fool?"

"I don't know, " said Jones. 

The caress of the little jewelled hand destroyed his mental powers. Hedared not look at her, just sat staring before him. 

"They told me all about the coal mine, " she went on, "at least Venetiadid, and how they all bully-ragged you--Venetia was great on that. Venetia waggled that awful gobbly-Jick head of hers while she wastelling me--they're _mad_ over the loss of that coal thing--oh, Ju-Ju, I'm so glad you lost it. It's wicked, I suppose, but I'm glad. That'swhat made me come back, the way they went on about you. I listened andlistened and then I broke out. I said all I've wanted to say for thelast six months to Venetia. You know she told me how you came home theother night. I said nothing then, just listened and stored it up. Then, last night, when they all got together about the coal mine I went onlistening and storing it up. Blunders was there as well as your motherand Venetia. Blunders said he had called you an ass and that you were. Then I broke out. I said a whole lot of things--well, there it is. So Icame back--there were other reasons as well. I don't want to be alone. Iwant to be cared for--I want to be cared for--when I saw you in BondStreet, yesterday--I--I--I--Ju-Ju, do you care for me?"

"Yes, " said Jones. 

"I want to confess--I want to tell you something. "

"Yes. "

"If you didn't care for me--if I felt you didn't, I'd--"

"Yes. "

"Kick right over the traces. I would. I couldn't go on as I have beengoing, lonely, like a lost dog. "

She raised his fingers and rubbed them along her lips. 

"You will not be lonely, " said the unfortunate man in a muted voice. "You need not be afraid of that. " The utter inadequacy of the remarkcame to him like one of those nightmare recognitions encountered as arule only in Dreamland. Yet she seemed to find it sufficient, her mindperhaps being engaged elsewhere. 

"What would you have said if I had run away from you for good?" askedshe. "Would you have been sorry?"

"Yes--dreadfully. "

"Are you glad I've come back?"

"I am. "

"Honestly glad?"

"Yes. "

"Really glad?"

"Yes. "

"Truthfully, really, honestly glad?"

"Yes. "

"Well, so am I, " said she. She released his hand. 

"Now go and play me something. I want something soothing afterVenetia--play me Chopin's Spianato--we used to be fond of that. "

Now the only thing that Jones had ever played in his life was the StarSpangled Banner and that with one finger--Chopin's Spianato!

"No, " he said. "I'd rather talk. "

"Well, talk then--mercy! There's the first gong. "

A faint and far away sound invaded the room, throbbed and ceased. Sherose, picked up her gloves, which she had cast on a chair, and thenpeeped at herself in a mirror by the piano. 

"You have never kissed me, " said she, speaking as it were half toherself and half to him, seeming to be more engaged in a momentarypiercing criticism of the hat she was wearing than in thoughts ofkisses. He came towards her like a schoolboy, then, as she held up herface he imprinted a chaste kiss upon her right cheek bone. 

Then the most delightful thing that ever happened to mortal man happenedto him. Two warm palms suddenly took his face between them and two moistlips met his own. 

Then she was gone. 

He took his seat on the music stool, dazed, dazzled, delighted, shocked, frightened, triumphant. 

The position was terrific. 

Jones was no Lothario. He was a straight, plain, common-sensical manwith a high respect for women, and the position of leading character ina bad French comedy was not for him. Jones would just as soon havethought of kissing another man's wife as of standing on his head in themiddle of Broadway. 

To personate another man and to kiss the other man's wife under thatdisguise would have seemed to him the meanest act any two-leggedcreature could perform. 

And he had just done it. And the other man's wife had--heu! his facestill burned. 

She had done it because of his deception. 

He found himself suddenly face to face with the barrier that Fate hadbeen cunningly constructing and had now placed straight before him. 

There was no getting over it or under it, he would have to declare hisposition _at once_--and what a position to declare!

She loved Rochester. 

All at once that terrific fact appeared before him in its trueproportions and its true meaning. 

She loved Rochester. 

He had to tell her the truth. Yet to tell her the truth he would have totell her that the man she loved was dead. 

Then she would want proofs. 

He would have to bring up the Savoy Hotel people, fetch folk fromAmerica--disinter Rochester. Horror! He had never thought of that. Whathad become of Rochester? Up to this he had never thought once of whathad become of the mortal remains of the defunct jester, nor had he careda button--why should he?

But the woman who loved Rochester would care. And he, Jones, wouldbecome in her eyes a ghoul, a monstrosity, a horror. 

He felt a tinge of that feeling towards himself now. Up to thisRochester had been for him a mechanical figure, an abstraction, but thefact of this woman's love had suddenly converted the abstraction into ahuman being. 

He could not possibly tell her that he had left the remains of thishuman being, this man she loved, in the hands of unknown strangers, callously, as though it were the remains of an animal. 

He could tell her nothing. 

The game was up, he would have to quit. Either that, or to continue themasquerade which was impossible; or to tell her all, which was equallyimpossible. 

Yet to quit would be to hit her cruelly. She loved Rochester. 

Rochester, despite all his wickedness, frivolity, shiftlessness andgeneral unworthiness--or perhaps because of these things--had been ableto make this woman love him, take his part against his family and returnto him. 

To go away and leave her now would be the cruelest act. Cruel to her andjust as cruel to himself, fascinated and held by her as he was. Yetthere was no other course open to him. So he told himself--so he triedto tell himself, knowing full well that the only course open to him as aman of honour was a full confession of the facts of the case. 

To sneak away would be the act of a coward; to impose himself on her asRochester, the act of a villain; to tell her the truth, the act of aman. 

The result would be terrific, yet only by facing that result could hecome clear out of this business. For half an hour he sat, scarcelymoving. He was up against that most insuperable obstacle, his owncharacter. Had he been a crook, everything would have been easy; being afairly straight man, everything was impossible. 

He had got to this bed-rock fact when the door opened and a servant madehis appearance. 

"Dinner is served, my Lord. "

Dinner!

He rose up and came into the hall. Standing there for a moment, undecided, he heard a laugh and looked up. She was standing in eveningdress looking over the balustrade of the first landing. 

"Why, you are not dressed!" she said. 

"I--I forgot, " he answered. 

Something fell at his feet, it was a rose. She had cast it to him andnow she was coming down the stairway towards him, where he stood, therose in his hand and distraction at his heart. 

"It is perfectly disgraceful of you, " said she, looking him up and downand taking the rose from him, "and there is no time to dress now; youusen't to be as careless as that, " she put the rose in his coat. "Isuppose it's from living alone for a fortnight with Venetia--what woulda month have done!" She pressed the rose flat with her little palm. 

Then she slipped her fingers through the crook of his elbow and led himto the breakfast-room door. 

She entered and he followed her. 

The breakfast table had been reduced in size and they dined facing oneanother across a bowl of blush roses. 

That dinner was not a conversational success on the part of Jones, afact which she scarcely perceived, being in high spirits and full ofinformation she was eager to impart. 

It did not seem to matter to her in the least whether the flunkeys inwaiting were listening or not, she talked of the family, of "your mater"and "Blunders" and "V" and other people, touching, it seemed on the mostintimate matters and all with a lightness of tone and spirit that wouldhave been delightful, no doubt, had he known the discussed ones moreintimately, and had his mind been open to receive pleasurableimpressions. 

He would have to tell her directly after dinner the whole of histerrible story. It was as though Fate were saying to him, "You will haveto kill her directly after dinner. "

All that light-hearted chatter and new found contentment, all thatbrightness would die. Grief for the man she loved, hatred of the man whohad supplanted him, anguish, perplexity, terror, would take theirplaces. 

When the terrible meal was over, she ordered coffee to be served in themusic-room. He lingered behind for a moment, fiddling with a cigarette. Then, when he came into the hall with the sweat standing in beads uponhis forehead, he heard the notes of the piano. 

It was a Mazurka of Chopin's, played with gaiety and brilliancy, yet nofuneral march ever sounded more fatefully in the ears of mortal. 

He could not do it. Then--he turned the handle of the music-room doorand entered. 

CHAPTER XVII

THE SECOND HONEYMOON

Only three of the electric lights were on in the music-room. In the rosylight and half shadows the room looked larger than when seen indaylight, and different. 

She had wandered from the Mazurka into Paderewski's Mélodie Op. 8. No. 3, a lonesome sort of tune it seemed to him, as he dropped into a chair, crossed his legs and listened. 

Then as he listened he began to think. Up to this his thoughts had beenin confusion, chasing one another or pursued by the monstrosity of thesituation. Now he was thinking clearly. 

She was his, that girl sitting there at the piano with the light uponher hair, the light upon her bare shoulders and the sheeny fabric of herdress. He had only to stretch out his hand and take her. Absolutely his, and he had only met her twice. She was the most beautiful woman inLondon, she had a mind that would have made a plain woman attractive, and a manner delightful, full of surprises and contrarieties andtendernesses--and she loved him. 

The Arabian Nights contained nothing like this, nor had the brain thatconceived Tantalus risen to the heights achieved by accident andcoincidence. 

She finished the piece, rose, turned over some sheets of music and thencame across the room--floated across the room, and took her perch on thearm of the great chair in which he was sitting. Then he felt her fingerson his hair. 

"I want to feel your bumps to see if you have improved--Ju-ju, your headisn't so flat as it used to be on top. It seems a different shapesomehow, nicer. Blunders is as flat as a pancake on top of his head. Flatness runs in families I suppose. Look at Venetia's feet! Ju-ju, haveyou ever seen her in felt bath slippers?"

"No. "

"I have--and a long yellow dressing gown, and her hair on her shouldersall wet, in rat tails. I'm not a cat, but she makes me feel like one andtalk like one. I want to forget her. Do you remember our honeymoon?"

"Yes. "

She had taken his hand and was holding it. 

"We were happy then. Let's begin again and let this be our secondhoneymoon, and we won't quarrel once--will we?"

"No, we won't, " said Jones. 

She slipped down into the chair beside him, pulled his arm around herand held up her lips. 

"Now you're kissing me really, " she murmured; "you seemed halffrightened before--Ju-ju, I want to make a confession. "

"Yes?"

"Well--somebody pretended to care for me very much a little while ago. "

"Who was that?"

"Never mind. I went last night to a dance at the Crawleys' and he wasthere. "

"Yes. "

"Yes--is that all you have to say? You don't seem to be very muchinterested. "

"I am though. "

"I don't want you to be too much interested, and go making scenes andall that--though you couldn't for you don't know his name. Suffice totell you--as the books say--he is a very handsome man, much, muchhandsomer than you, Ju--Well, listen to me. He asked me to run off withhim. "

"Run off with him?"

"Yes--to Spain. We were to go to Paris first and then to Spain--Spain, at this time of year!"

"What did you say?"

"I said: 'Please don't be stupid. ' I'd been reading a novel where a girlsaid that to a man who wanted to run off with her--she died at theend--but that's what she said at first--Fortunate I remembered it. "

"Why?"

"Because--because--for a moment I felt inclined to say 'yes. ' I know itwas dreadful, but think of my position, you going on like that, and meall alone with no one to care for me--It's like a crave for drink. Imust have someone to care for me and I thought you didn't--so I nearlysaid 'yes. ' Once I had said what I did I felt stronger. "

"What did he say?"

"He pleaded passionately--like the man in the book, and talked of rosesand blue seas--he's not English--I sat thinking of Venetia in her feltbath room slippers and yellow wrapper. You know she reads St. Thomas àKempis and opens bazaars. She opened one the other day, and came backwith her nose quite red and in a horrid temper--I wonder what was insidethat bazaar?--Well, I knew if I did anything foolish Venetia wouldexult, and that held me firm. She's not wicked. I believe she is reallygood as far as she knows how, and that's the terrible thing about her. She goes to church twice on Sunday, she takes puddings and things to oldwomen in the country, she opens bazaars and subscribes to raggedschools--yet with one word she sets everyone by the ears--Well, when Igot home from the dance I began to think, and to-day, when they were allout, I had my boxes packed and came right back here. I'd have givenanything to see their faces when they got home and found me gone. "

She sprang up suddenly. A knock had come to the door, it opened and aservant announced Miss Birdbrook. 

Venetia had not changed that evening, she was still in her big hat. Sheignored Jones, and, standing, spoke tersely to Teresa. 

"So you have left us?"

"Yes, " replied the other. "I have come back here, d'you mind?"

"I?" said Venetia. "It's not a question of my minding in the least, onlyit was sudden, and as you left no word as to where you were going wethought it best to make sure you were all right. "

She took her seat uncomfortably on a chair and the Countess of Rochesterperched herself again by Jones. 

"Yes, I am all right, " said she, with her hand resting on his shoulder. 

Venetia gulped. 

"I am glad to know it, " she said. "We tried to make you comfortable--Icannot deny that mother feels slightly hurt at having no word from youbefore leaving, and one must admit that it cannot but seem strange tothe servants your going like that--but of course that is entirely aquestion of taste. "

"You mean, " said Teresa, "that it was bad taste on my part--well, Iapologise. I am sorry, but the sudden craving to get--back here was morethan I could resist. I would have written to-night. "

"Oh, it does not matter, " said Venetia, "the thing is done. Well, I mustbe going--but have you both thought over the future and all that itimplies?"

"Have we, Ju-ju?" asked the girl, caressingly stroking Jones' head. 

"Yes, " said Jones. 

"I'm sure, " went on Venetia with a sigh, "I have always done my best tokeep things together. I failed. Was it my fault?"

"No, " said Teresa, aching for her to be gone. "I am sure it was not. "

"I am glad to hear you say that. I always tried to avoid interfering inyour life. I never did--or only when ordinary prudence made me speak, asfor instance, in that baccarat business. "

"Don't rake up old things, " said Teresa suddenly. 

"And the Williamson affair, " got in Venetia. "Oh, I am the very last torake up things, as you call it. I, for one, will say no more of thingsthat have happened, but I _must_ speak of things that affect myself. "

"What is affecting you?"

"Just this. You know quite well the financial position. You know whatthe upkeep of this house means. You can't do it. You plainly can't doit. Your income is not sufficient. "

"But how does that affect you?"

"When tradespeople talk it affects me; it affects us all. Why not letthis house and live quietly, somewhere in the country, 'til things blowover?"

"What do you mean by things blowing over?" asked Teresa. "One wouldthink that you were talking of some disgrace that had happened. "

Venetia pulled up her long left hand glove and moved as though about todepart. She said nothing but looked at her glove. 

During the whole of this time she had neither looked at nor spoken toJones, nor included him by word in the conversation. Her influence hadbeen working upon him ever since she entered the room. He began nowmore fully to understand the part she had played in the life ofRochester. He felt that he wanted to talk to Venetia as Rochester had, probably, never talked. 

"A man once said to me that the greatest mistake a fellow can make is tohave a sister to live with him after his marriage, " said Jones. 

Venetia pulled up her right hand glove. 

"A sister that has had to face mad intoxication and _worse_, can endorsethat opinion, " said she. 

"What do you mean by worse?" fired Teresa. 

"I mean exactly what I say, " replied Venetia. 

"That is no answer. Do you mean that Arthur has been unfaithful to me?"

"I did not say that. "

"Well, what can be worse than intoxication--that is the only thing worsethat I know of--unless murder. Do you mean that he has murderedsomeone?"

"I will not let you drag me into a quarrel, " said Venetia; "you areputting things into my mouth. I think mad extravagance is worse thanintoxication, inasmuch as it is committed by reasonable peopleuninfluenced by drugs or alcohol. I think insults levelled atinoffensive people are worse than the wildest deeds committed under theinfluence of that demon alcohol. "

"Who are the inoffensive people who have been insulted?"

"Good gracious--well, of course you don't know--you have not had tointerview people. "

"What people?"

"Sir Pleydell Harcourt for instance, who had sixteen pianos sent to himonly last week, to say nothing of pantechnicon vans and half thecontents of Harrods' and Whiteleys', so that Arlington Street wasblocked, simply blocked, the whole of last Friday. "

"Did he say Arthur had sent them?"

"He had no direct proof--but he knew. There was no other man in Londonwould have done such a thing. "

"Did you send them, Ju-ju?"

"No, " said Jones. "I did not. "

Venetia rose. 

"You admitted to me, yourself, that you did, " said she. 

"I was only joking, " he replied. 

Teresa went to the bell and rang it. 

"Good night, " said Venetia, "after that I have nothing more to say. "

"Thank goodness, " murmured Teresa when she was gone. "She made me shiverwith her talk about extravagance. I've been horribly extravagant thelast week--when a woman is distracted she runs to clothes forrelief--anyhow I did. I've got three new evening frocks and I want toshow you them. I've never known your taste wrong. "

"Good, " said Jones, "I'd like to see them. "

"Guess what they cost?"

"Can't. "

"Two hundred and fifty--and they are a bargain. You're not shocked, areyou?"

"Not a bit. "

"Well, come and look at them--what's the time? Half past ten. " She ledthe way upstairs. 

On the first landing she turned to the left, opened a door and discloseda bed-room where a maid was moving about arranging things and unpackingboxes. 

A large cardboard box lay open on the floor, it was filled with snowwhite lingerie. The instinct to bolt came upon Jones so strongly that hemight have obeyed it, only for the hand upon his arm pressing him downinto a chair. 

"Anne, " said the Countess of Rochester, "bring out my new evening gowns, I want to show them. "

Then she turned to the cardboard box. "Here's some more of myextravagance. I couldn't resist them, Venetia nearly had a fit when shesaw the bill--Look!"

She exhibited frilled and snow white things, delicate and diaphanous andfit to be worn by angels. Then the dresses arrived, and were laid out onthe bed and inspected. There was a black gown and a grey gown and aconfection in pale blue. If Jones had been asked to price them he wouldhave said a hundred dollars. Like most men he was absolutely unconsciousof the worth of a woman's dress. To a woman a Purdy and a ten guineaBirmingham gun are just the same, and to a man, a ten guinea Bayswaterdress is little different, if worn by a pretty girl, from a seventyguinea Bond Street--is it Bond Street--rig out. Unless he is a manmilliner. 

Jones said "beautiful, " gave the palm to the blue, and watched themcarried off again by the maid. 

He had left his cigarettes down stairs; there were some in a box on atable, she made him take one and lit it for him, then she disappearedinto a room adjoining, returning in a few minutes dressed in a kimonocovered with golden swallows and followed by the maid. Then she took herseat before a great mirror and the maid began to take down her hair andbrush it. 

As the brushing went on she talked to the maid and to Jonesupon all sorts of subjects. To the maid about the condition ofher--Teresa's--hair, and a new fashion in hair dressing, to Jones aboutthe Opera, the stoutness of Caruso, and kindred matters. 

The hair having been arranged in one great gorgeous plait, Jonessuddenly breaking free from a weird sort of hypnotism that had held himsince first entering the room, rose to his feet. 

"I'll be back in a minute, " said he. 

He crossed the room, reached the door, opened it and passed out closingthe door. In the corridor he stood for half a moment with his hand tohis head. 

Then he came down the stairs, crossed the hall, seized a hat andovercoat, put them on and opened the hall door. 

All the way down the stairs and across the hall, he felt as though hewere being driven along by some viewless force, and now, standing at thedoor, that same force pushed him out of the house and on to the steps. 

He closed the door, came down the steps, and turned to the right. 

CHAPTER XVIII

THE MENTAL TRAP

It was a beautiful night, warm and starlit, the waning moon had justbegun to rise in the east and as he turned into the green Park a breathof tepid wind, grass-scented and balmy blew in his face. 

He walked in the direction of Buckingham Palace. 

Where was he to go? He had no ideas, no plans. 

He had failed in performing the Duty that Fate had arranged for him toperform. He had failed, but not through cowardice, or at least notthrough fear of consequences to himself. 

The man who refuses to cut a lamb's throat, even though Duty calls himto the act, has many things to be said for him. 

His distracted mind was not dealing with this matter, however. What heldhim entirely was the thought of her waiting for him and how she wouldfeel when she found he had deserted her. He had acted like a brute andshe would hate him accordingly. Not him, but Rochester. 

It was the same thing. The old story. Hatred, obloquy, disdain levelledagainst Rochester affected him as though it were levelled againsthimself. He could not take refuge in his own personality. Even on thefirst day of his new life he had found that out at the club. Since thenthe struggle to maintain his position and the battles he had fought hadsteadily weakened his mental position as Jones, strengthened hisposition as Rochester. 

The strange psychological fact was becoming plain, though not to him, that the jealousy he ought to have felt on account of this woman's lovefor Rochester was not there. 

This woman had fascinated him, as women had perhaps never fascinated aman before; she had kissed him, she loved him, and though his reasontold him quite plainly that he was Victor Jones and that she loved andhad kissed another man, his heart did not resent that fact. 

Rochester was dead. It seemed to him that Rochester had never lived. 

He left the Park and came along Knightsbridge still thinking of hersitting there waiting for him, his mind straying from that to the kiss, the dinner, the bowl of roses that stood between them--her voice. 

Then all at once these considerations vanished, all at once, and like anextinguisher, fell on him that awful sensation of negation. 

His mind pulled this way and that between contending forces, became ablank written across with letters of fire forming the question:

"Who am I?"

The acutest physical suffering could not have been worse than thattorture of the over-taxed brain, that feeling that if he did not clutchat _himself_ he would become nothing. 

He ran for a few yards--then it passed and he found himself beneath alamp-post recovering and muttering his own name rapidly to himself likea charm to exorcise evil. 

"Jones--Jones--Jones. "

He looked around. 

There were not many people to be seen, but a man and woman a few yardsaway were standing and looking at him. They had evidently stopped andturned to see what he was about and they went on when they saw himobserving them. 

They must have thought him mad. 

The hot shame of the idea was a better stimulant than brandy. He walkedon. He was no longer thinking of the woman he had just left. He wasthinking of himself. 

He had been false to himself. 

The greatest possession any man can have in the world is himself. Somemen let that priceless property depreciate, some improve it, it is givento few men to tamper with it after the fashion of Jones. 

He saw this now, and just as though a pit had opened before him he drewback. He must stop this double life at once and become his own self inreality; failing to do that he would meet madness. He recognised this. No man's brain could stand what he had been going through for long; hadhe been left to himself he might have adapted his mind gradually to theperpetual shifting from Jones to Rochester and vice versa. The woman hadbrought things to a crisis. The horror that had now suddenly fallen onhim, the horror of the return of that awful feeling of negation, thehorror of losing himself, cast all other considerations from his mind. 

He must stop this business at once. 

He would go away, return straight to America. 

That was easy to be done--but would that save him? Would that free himfrom this horrible clinging personality that he had so lightly castaround himself?

Nothing is stranger than mind. From the depth of his mind came thewhisper, "No. " Intuition told him that were he to go to Timbuctoo, Rochester would cling to him, that he would wake up from sleep fancyinghimself Rochester and then that feeling would return. What he requiredwas the recognition by other people that he was himself, Jones, that thewhole of this business was a deception, a stage play in real life. Theirabuse, their threats would not matter. Their blows would be welcome, sohe thought. Anything that would hit him back firmly into his realposition in the scheme of things and save him from the dread of some daylosing himself. 

After a while the exercise and night air calmed his mind. He had come tothe great decision. A decision immutable now, since it had to do withthe very core of his being. He would tell her everything. To-morrowmorning he would confess all. Her fascination upon him had loosened itshold, the terror had done that. He no longer loved her. Had he everloved her? That was an open question, or in other words, a question noman could answer. He only knew now that he did not crave for her regard, only for her recognition of himself as Jones. 

She was the door out of the mental trap into which his mind hadblundered. 

These considerations had carried him far into a region of mean streetsand suburban houses. It was long after twelve o'clock and he fell tothinking what he should do with himself for the rest of the night. Itwas impossible to walk about till morning and he determined to return toCarlton House Terrace, let himself in with his latch key and slipupstairs to his room. If by any chance she had not retired for the nightand he chanced to meet her on the stairs or in the hall then theconfession must be made forthwith. 

It was after two o'clock when he reached the house. He opened the doorwith his key and closing it softly, crossed the hall and went up thestairs. One of the hall lamps had been left burning, evidently for him:a lamp was burning also, in the corridor. He switched on the electriclight in his room and closed the door. 

Then he heaved a sigh of relief, undressed and got into bed. 

All across the hall, up the stairs, and along the corridor he had beenfollowed by the dread of meeting her and having to enter on thatterrible explanation right away. 

The craving to tell her all had been supplanted for the moment by thedread of the act. 

In the morning it would be different. He would be rested and have morecommand over himself, so he fancied. 

CHAPTER XIX

ESCAPE CLOSED

He was awakened by Mr. Church--one has always to give him theprefix--pulling up the blinds. His first thought was of the task beforehim. 

The mind does a lot of quiet business of its own when the blinds aredown and the body is asleep, and during the night, his mind, working indarkness, had cleared up matters, countered and cut off all sorts offears and objections and drawn up a definite plan. 

He would tell her everything that morning. If she would not take hisword for the facts, then he would have a meeting of the whole family. Hefelt absolutely certain that explaining things bit by bit and detail bydetail he could convince them of the death of Rochester and his ownexistence as Jones; absolutely certain that they would not push mattersto the point of publicity. He held a trump card in the property he hadrecovered from Mulhausen, were he to be exposed publicly as an impostor, all about the Plinlimon letters, Voles and Mulhausen would come out. Mulhausen, that very astute practitioner, would not be long in declaringthat he had been forced to return the title deeds to protect hisdaughter's name. Voles would swear anything, and their case would standgood on the proved fact that he, Jones, was a swindler. No, assuredlythe family would not press the matter to publicity. 

Having drunk his tea, he arose, bathed, and dressed with a calm mind. 

Then he came down stairs. 

She was not in the breakfast-room, where only one place was laid, and, concluding that she was breakfasting in her own room, he sat down totable. 

After the meal, and with another sheaf of the infernal early postletters in his hand, he crossed to the smoking-room, where he closed thedoor, put the letters on the table and lit a cigar. Then, having smokedfor a few minutes and collected his thoughts, he rang the bell and sentfor Mr. Church. 

"Church, " said he when that functionary arrived, "will you tell--my wifeI want to see her?"

"Her ladyship left last night, your Lordship, she left at ten o'clock, or a little after. "

"Left! where did she go to?"

"She went to the South Kensington Hotel, your Lordship. "

"Good heavens! what made her--why did she go--ah, was it because I didnot come back?"

"I think it was, your Lordship. "

Mr. Church spoke gravely and the least bit stiffly. It could easily beseen that as an old servant and faithful retainer he was on the woman'sside in the business. 

"I had to go out, " said the other. "I will explain it to her when I seeher--It was on a matter of importance--Thanks, that will do, Church. "

Alone again he finished his cigar. 

The awful fear of the night before, the fear of negation and the loss ofhimself had vanished with a brain refreshed by sleep and before thisfact. 

What a brute he had been! She had come back forgiving him for who knowswhat, she had taken his part against his traducers, kissed him. She hadfancied that all was right and that happiness had returned--and he hadcoldly discarded her. 

It would have been less cruel to have beaten her. She was a good sweetwoman. He knew that fact, now, both instinctively and by knowledge. Hehad not known it fully till this minute. 

Would it, after all, have been better to have deceived her and to haveplayed the part of Rochester? That question occurred to him for a momentto be at once flung away. It was not so much personal antagonism to sucha course nor the dread of madness owing to his double life that cast itout so violently, but the recognition of the goodness and lovableness ofthe woman. Leaving everything else aside to carry on such a deceptionwith her, even to think of it, was impossible. 

More than ever was he determined to clear this thing up and tell herall, and, to his honour be it said, his main motive now was to do hisbest by her. 

He finished his cigar, and then going into the hall obtained his hat andleft the house. 

He did not know where the South Kensington Hotel might be, but a taxisolved that question and shortly before ten o'clock he reached hisdestination. 

Yes, Lady Rochester had arrived last night and was staying in the hotel, and whilst the girl in the manager's office was sending up his name andasking for an interview Jones took his seat in the lounge. 

A long time--nearly ten minutes--elapsed, and then a boy brought him heranswer in the form of a letter. 

He opened it. 

 "Never again. This is good-bye. " "T. "

That was the answer. 

He sat with the sheet of paper in his hand, contemplating the shape andmake of an armchair of wicker-work opposite him. 

What was he to do?

He had received just the answer he might have expected, neither more norless. It was impossible for him to force an interview with her. He hadoverthrown Voles, climbed over Mulhausen, but the flight of stairsdividing him now from the private suite of the Countess of Rochester wasan obstacle not to be overcome by courage or direct methods, and he knewof no indirect method. 

He folded up the paper and put it in his pocket. Then he left the hoteland took his way back to Carlton House Terrace. 

If she would not see him she could not refuse to read a letter. Hewould write to her and explain all. He would write in detail giving thewhole business, circumstance by circumstance. It would take him a longwhile; he guessed that, and ordinary note-paper would not do. He hadseen a stack of manuscript paper, however, in one of the drawers of thebureau, and having shut the door and lit a cigarette he took some of thesheets of long foolscap, ruled thirty four lines to the page, and satdown to the business. This is what he said:

 "Lady Rochester, "I want you to read what follows carefully and not to form any opinion on the matter till all the details are before you. This document is not a letter in the strict sense of the term, it's more in the nature of an invoice of the cargo of stupidity and bad luck, which I, the writer, Victor Jones of Philadelphia, have been freighted with by an all-wise Providence for its own incomprehensible ends. "

Providence held him up for a moment. Was Providence neuter ormasculine?--he risked it and left it neuter and continued. 

When the servant announced luncheon he had covered twenty sheets ofpaper and had only arrived at the American bar of the Savoy. 

He went to luncheon, swallowed a whiting and half a cutlet, andreturned. 

He sat down, read what he had written, and tore it across. 

That would never do. It was like the vast prelude to a begging letter. She would never read it through. 

He started again, beginning this time in the American bar of the Savoy, writing very carefully. He had reached, by tea-time, the reading ofRochester's death in the paper. 

Well satisfied with his progress he took afternoon tea, and then satdown comfortably to read what he had written. 

He was aghast with the result. The things that had happened to him werebelievable because they had happened to him, but in cold writing theyhad an air of falsity. She would never believe this yarn. He tore thesheets across. Then he burned all he had written in the grate, took hisseat in the armchair and began to think of the devil. 

Surely there was something diabolical in the whole of this business andthe manner in which everything and every circumstance headed him offfrom escape. After dinner he was sitting down to attempt a literaryforlorn hope, when a sharp voice in the hall made him pause. 

The door opened, and Venetia Birdbrook entered. She wore a new hat thatseemed bigger than the one he had last beheld and her manner was wild. 

She shut the door, walked to the table, placed her parasol on it andbegan peeling off a glove. 

"She's gone, " said Venetia. 

Jones had risen to his feet. 

"Who's gone?"

"Teresa--gone with Maniloff. "

He sat down. Then she blazed out. 

"Are you going to do nothing--are you going to sit there and let us allbe disgraced? She's gone--she's going--to Paris. It was through her maidI learned it; she's gone from the hotel by this--gone with Maniloff--areyou deaf or simply stupid? You _must_ follow her. "

He rose. 

"Follow her now, follow her and get her back, there is just a chance. They are going to the Bristol. The maid told everything--I will go withyou. There is a train at nine o'clock from Victoria, you have only justtime to catch it. "

"I have no money, " said Jones, feeling in his pockets distractedly, "only about four pounds. "

"I have, " replied she, "and our car is at the door--are you afraid, oris it that you don't mind?"

"Come on, " said Jones. 

He rushed into the hall, seized a hat and overcoat, and next minute wasburied in a stuffy limousine with Venetia's sharp elbow poking him inthe side. 

He was furious. 

There are people who seem born for the express purpose of setting otherpeople by the ears. Venetia was one of them. Despite Voles, Mulhausen, debts and want of balance one might hazard the opinion that it wasVenetia who had driven the unfortunate Rochester to his mad act. 

The prospect of a journey to Paris with this woman in pursuit of anotherman's wife was bad enough, but it was not this prospect that made Jonesfurious, though assisting. No doubt, it was Venetia herself. 

She raised the devil in him, and on the journey to the station, thoughshe said not a word, she managed to raise his exasperation with theworld, herself, himself and his vile position to the limit just belowthe last. --The last was to come. 

At the station they walked through the crowd to the booking-office whereVenetia bought the tickets. Reminiscences of being taken on journeys asa small boy by his mother flitted across the mind of Jones and did notimprove his temper. 

He looked at the clock. It wanted twenty minutes of the starting timeand he was in the act of evading a barrow of luggage when Venetiaarrived with the tickets. 

It had come into the mind of Jones that not only was he travelling toParis with the Hon. Venetia Birdbrook, in pursuit of the wife of anotherman, but that they were travelling without luggage. If, in Philadelphia, he had dreamt of himself in such a position he would have been disturbedas to the state of his health and the condition of his liver, yet now, in reality, the thing did not seem preposterous, he was concerned as tothe fact about the want of luggage. 

"Look here, " said he, "what are we to do--I haven't even a night-suitof pyjamas. I haven't even a toothbrush. No hotel will take us in. "

"We don't want an hotel, " said Venetia, "we'll come back straight if wecan save Teresa. If not, if she insists in pursuing her mad course, youhad better not come back at all. Come on and let us take our places inthe train. "

They moved away and she continued. 

"For if she does you will never be able to hold up your head again, everyone knows how you have behaved to her. "

"Oh, stop it, " said he irritably. "I have enough to think about. "

"You ought to. "

Only just those three words, yet they set him off. 

"Ought I? Well, what of yourself? She told me last night things about_you_. "

"About me. What things?"

"Never mind. "

"But I do, " she stopped and he stopped. 

"I mind very much. What things did she tell you?"

"Nothing much, only that you worried the life out of her, and thatthough I was bad you were worse. "

Venetia sniffed. She was just turning to resume her way to the trainwhen she stopped dead like a pointer. 

"That's them, " she said, in a hard, tense whisper. 

Jones looked. 

A veiled lady accompanied by a bearded man, with a folded umbrella underhis arm and following a porter laden with wraps and small luggage, weremaking their way through the crowd towards the train. 

The veil did not hide her from him. He knew at once it was she. 

It was then that Venetia's effect upon him acted as the contents of thewhite-paper acts when emptied into the tumbler that holds theblue-paper-half of the seidlitz powder. 

Venetia saw his face. 

"Don't make a scene, " she cried. 

That was the stirring of the spoon. 

He rushed up to the bearded man and caught him by the arm. The beardedone turned sharply and pushed him away. He was a big man; he looked apowerful man. Dressed up as a conquering hero he would have played thepart to perfection, the sort of man women adore for their "power" andmanliness. He had a cigarette between his thick, red, bearded lips. 

Jones wasn't much to look at, but he had practised at odd times at JoeHennessy's, otherwise known as Ike Snidebaum, of Spring Garden Street, Philadelphia, and he had the fighting pluck of a badger. 

He struck out, missed, got a drum sounder in on the left ribs, rightunder the uplifted umbrella arm and the raised umbrella--and then--swiftas light got in an upper cut on the whiskers under the left side of thejaw. 

The umbrella man sat down, as men sit when chairs are pulled from underthem, then, shouting for help--that was the humorous and pitiable partof it--scrambled on to his feet instantly to be downed again. 

Then he lay on his back with arms out, pretending to be mortallyinjured. 

The whole affair lasted only fifteen seconds. 

You can fancy the scene. 

Jones looked round. Venetia and the criminal, having seen thedisplay--and at the National Sporting Club you often pay five pounds tosee worse--were moving away together through the throng, the floored onewith arms still out, was murmuring: "Brandee--brandee, " into the ear ofa kneeling porter, and a station policeman was at Jones' side. 

Jones took him apart a few steps. 

"I am the Earl of Rochester, " said he, in a half whisper. "That guy hasgot what he wanted--never mind what he was doing--kick the beast awakeand ask him if he wants to prosecute. "

The constable came and stood over the head end of the sufferer, who wasnow leaning on one arm. 

"Do you want to prosecute this gentleman?" asked the constable. 

"Nichévo, " murmured the other. "No. Brandee. "

"Thought so, " said Jones. Then he walked away towards the entrance withthe constable. 

"My address is Carlton House Terrace, " said he. "When you get that chapon his pins you can tell him to come there and I'll give him anotherdose. Here's a sovereign for you. "

"Thanks, your Lordship, " said the guardian of the Peace, "you landed himfine, I will say. I didn't see the beginning of the scrap, but I saw theknock out--you won't have any more bother with him. "

"I don't think so, " said Jones. 

He was elated, jubilant, a weight seemed lifted from his mind, all hisevil humour had vanished. The feel of those whiskers and the resistingjaw was still with him, he had got one good blow in at circumstance andthe world. He could have sung. He was coming out of the station whensomeone ran up from behind. 

It was Venetia. Venetia, delirious and jabbering. 

"Teresa is in the car--You have done it now--you have done it now. What_made_ you do this awful thing? Are you mad? Here in the openstation--before everyone--you have h-h-heaped this last disgrace onus--on _me_. "

"Oh, shut up, " said Jones. 

He sighted the car, ran to it and opened the door. A whimpering bundlein the corner stretched out hands as if to ward him off. 

"Oh! oh! oh!" sighed and murmured the bundle. 

Jones caught one of the hands, leaned in and kissed it. Then he turnedto Venetia who had followed him. 

"Get in, " he said. 

She got in. He got in after her and closed the door. Venetia put herhead out of the window:

"Home, " cried she to the chauffeur. 

Jones said nothing till they had cleared the station precincts. Then hebegan to talk in the darkness, addressing his remarks to both women in aweird sort of monologue. 

"All this is nothing, " said he, "you must both forget it. When you hearwhat I have to tell you to-morrow you won't bother to remember all this. No one that counts saw that, they were all strangers and making for thecars--I gave the officer a sovereign. What I have to say is this--I musthave a meeting of the whole family to-morrow, to-morrow morning. Notabout this affair, about something else, something entirely to do withme. I have been trying to explain all day--tried to write it out butcouldn't. I have to tell you something that will simply knock you allout of time. "

Suddenly the sniffing bundle in the corner became articulate. 

"I didn't want to do it, I didn't want to do it--I hate him--oh, Ju-Ju, if you had not treated me so last night, I would never have done it, never, never, never. "

"I know, " he replied, "but it was not my fault leaving you like that. Ihad to go. You will know everything to-morrow--when you hear all youwill very likely never speak to me again--though I am innocent enough, Lord knows. "

Then came Venetia's voice:

"This is new--Heaven _knows_ we have had disgrace enough--what else isgoing to fall on us?--Why put it off till to-morrow--what new thing haveyou done?"

Before Jones could reply, the warm hearted bundle in the corner ceasedsniffing and turned on Venetia. 

"No matter what he has done, you are his sister and you have no right toaccuse him. "

"Accuse him!" cried the outraged Venetia. 

"Yes, accuse him; you don't say it, but you feel it. I believe you'd beglad in some wicked way if he had done anything really terrible. "

Venetia made a noise like the sound emitted by a choking hen. 

Teresa had put her finger on the spot. 

Venetia was not a wicked woman, she was something nearly as bad, aRighteous woman, one of the Ever-judges. The finding out of otherpeople's sins gave her pleasure. 

Before she could reply articulately, Jones interposed; an idea hadsuddenly entered his practical mind. 

"Good heavens, " said he, "what has become of your luggage?"

"I don't know and I don't care, " replied the roused one, "let it go withthe rest. "

The car drew up. 

"You will stay with us to-night, I suppose, " said Venetia coldly. 

"I suppose so, " replied the other. 

Jones got out. 

"I will call here to-morrow morning at nine o'clock, " said he. "I wantthe whole family present. "--Then, to the unfortunate wife of the defunctRochester--"Don't worry about what took place this evening. It was allmy fault. You will think differently about me when you hear all in themorning. "

She sighed and passed up the steps following Venetia like a woman in adream. When the door closed on them he took the number of the house, then at the street corner he looked at the name of the street. It wasCurzon street. Then he walked home. 

Come what might he had done a good evening's work. More than ever did hefeel the charm of this woman, her loyalty, her power of honest love. 

What a woman! and what a fate!

It was at this moment, whilst walking home to Carlton House Terrace, that the true character of Rochester appeared before him in a new andlurid light. 

Up to this Rochester had appeared to him mad, tricky, irresponsible, butup to this he had not clearly seen the villainy of Rochester. The womanshowed it. Rochester had picked up a stranger, because of the mutuallikeness, and sent him home to play his part, hoping, no doubt, to havea ghastly hit at his family. What about his wife? He had either neverthought of her, or he had not cared. 

And such a wife!

"That fellow ought to be dug up and--cremated, " said Jones to himself ashe opened the door with his latch key. "He ought, sure. Well, I hopeI'll cremate his reputation to-morrow. "

Having smoked a cigar he went upstairs and to bed. 

He had been trying to think of how he would open the business on themorrow, of what he would say to start with--then he gave up the attempt, determining to leave everything to the inspiration of the moment. 

CHAPTER XX

THE FAMILY COUNCIL

He arrived at Curzon Street at fifteen minutes after nine next morning, and was shown up to the drawing-room by the butler. Here he took hisseat, and waited the coming of the Family, amusing himself as best hecould by looking round at the furniture and pictures, and listening tothe sounds of the house and the street outside. 

He heard taxi horns, the faint rumble of wheels, voices. 

Now he heard someone running up the stairs outside, a servant probably, for the sound suddenly ceased and was followed by a laugh as though twoservants had met on the stairs and were exchanging words. 

One could not imagine any of that terrible family running up the stairslightly or laughing. Then after another minute or two the door openedand the Duke of Melford entered. He was in light tweeds with a buffwaistcoat, he held a morning paper under his arm and was polishing hiseye glasses. 

He nodded at Jones. 

"Morning, " said his grace, waddling to a chair and taking his seat. "Thewomen will be up in a moment. " He took his seat and spread open thepaper as if to glance at the news. Then looking up over his spectacles, "Glad to hear from Collins you've got that land back. I was in therejust after you left and he told me. "

"Yes, " said Jones, "I've got it back. " He had no time to say more as atthat moment the door opened and the "women" appeared, led by the DowagerCountess of Rochester. 

Venetia shut the door and they took their seats about the room whilstJones, who had risen, reseated himself. 

Then, with the deep breath of a man preparing for a dive, he began:

"I have asked you all to come here this morning--I asked you to meet methis morning because I just want to tell you the truth. I am an intruderinto your family--"

"An intruder, " cried the mother of the defunct. "Arthur, what _are_ yousaying?"

"One moment, " he went on. "I want to begin by explaining what I havedone for you all and then perhaps you will see that I am an honest maneven though I am in a false position. In the last few days I have gotback one million and eight thousand pounds, that is to say the coal mineproperty and other money as well, one million and eight thousand poundsthat would have been a dead loss only for me. "

"You have acted like a man, " said the Duke of Melford, "go on--what doyou mean about intrusion?"

"Let me tell the thing in my own way, " said Jones irritably. "The lateLord Rochester got dreadfully involved owing to his own stupidity with awoman--I call him the late Lord Rochester because I have to announce nowthe fact of his death. "

The effect of this statement was surprising. The four listeners sat likefrozen corpses for a moment, then they moved, casting terrified eyes atone another. It was the Duke of Melford who spoke. 

"We will leave your father's name alone, " said he; "yes, we know he isdead--what more have you to say?"

"I was not talking of my father, " said Jones, beginning to get boggedand slightly confused, also angry, "he was not my father. If you willonly listen to me without interrupting I will make things plain. I amtalking of myself--or at least the man whom I am representing, the Earlof Rochester. I say that I am not the Earl of Rochester, he is dead--"He turned to Rochester's wife. "I _hate_ to have to tell you this rightout and in such a manner, but it has to be told. I am not your husband. I am an American. My name is Victor Jones, and I come fromPhiladelphia. "

The Dowager Countess of Rochester who had been leaning forward in herchair, sank back, she had fainted. 

Whilst Venetia and the Duke of Melford were bringing her to, the wife ofRochester who had been staring at Jones in a terrified manner ran fromthe room. She ran like a blind person with hands outspread. 

Jones stood whilst the unfortunate lady was resuscitated. She returnedto consciousness sobbing and flipping her hands, and she was led fromthe room by Venetia. Beyond the door Jones heard her voice roused inlamentation:

"My boy--my poor boy. "

Venetia had said nothing. 

Jones had expected a scene, outcries, questions, but there was somethingin all this that was quite beyond him. They had asked no questions, seemed to take the whole thing for granted, Venetia especially. 

The Duke of Melford shut the door. 

"Your mother--I mean Lady Rochester's heart is not strong, " said he, going to the bell and touching it. "I must send for the doctor to seeher. "

Jones, more than ever astonished by the coolness of the other, sat downagain. 

"Look here, " said he, "I can't make you all out--you've called me nonames--you haven't let me fully explain, the old lady is the only onethat seems to have taken the news in. Can't you understand what I havetold you?"

"Perfectly, " said the old gentleman, "and it's the most extraordinarything I have ever heard--and the most interesting--I want to have a longtalk about it. --James, " to the servant who had answered the bell, "telephone for Dr. Cavendish. Her ladyship has had another attack. "

"Dr. Cavendish has just been telephoned for, your grace, and Dr. Simms. "

"That will do, " said his grace. 

"Yes, 'pon my soul, it's quite extraordinary, " he took a cigar case fromhis pocket, proffered a cigar which Jones took, and then lit onehimself. 

"Look here, " said Jones suddenly alarmed by a new idea, "you aren'tguying me, are you?--you haven't taken it into your heads that I've gonedotty--mad?"

"Mad!" cried the old gentleman with a start. "Never--such an idea neverentered my mind. Why--why should it?"

"Only you take this thing so quietly. "

"Quietly--well, what would you have? My dear fellow, what is the good ofshouting--ever? Not a bit. It's bad form. I take everything as itcomes. "

"Well, then, listen whilst I tell you how all this happened. I came overhere some time ago to rope in a contract with the British Governmentover some steel fixtures. I was partner with a man named Aaron Stringer. Well, I failed on the contract and found myself broke with less than tenpounds in my pocket. I was sitting in the Savoy lounge when in came aman whom I knew at once by sight, but I couldn't place his name on him. We had drinks together in the American bar, then we went upstairs to thelounge. He would not tell me who he was. 'Look in the looking-glassbehind you, ' said he, 'and you will see who I am. ' I looked and I sawhim. I was his twin image. I must tell you first that I had been havingsome champagne cocktails and a whisky and soda. I'm not used to drink. We had a jamboree together and dinner at some place, and then he sentme home as himself--I was blind. 

"When I woke up next morning I said nothing but lay low, thinking it wasall a joke. I ought to have spoken at once, but didn't, one makesmistakes in life--"

"We all do that, " said the other; "yes--go on. "

"And later that day I opened a newspaper and saw my name and that I hadcommitted suicide. It was Rochester, of course, that had committedsuicide; did it on the underground. --Then I was in a nice fix. There Iwas in Rochester's clothes, with not a penny in my pockets; couldn't goto the hotel, couldn't go anywhere--so I determined to be Rochester, fora while, at least. 

"I found his affairs in an awful muddle. You know that business aboutthe coal mine. Well, I've managed to right his affairs. I wasn'tthinking of any profit to myself over the business, I just did itbecause it was the right thing to do. 

"Now I want to be perfectly plain with you. I might have carried on thisgame always and lived in Rochester's shoes only for two things, one ishis wife, the other is a feeling that has been coming on me that if Icarried on any longer I might go dotty. Times I've had attacks of afeeling that I did not know who I was. It's leading this double life, you know. Now I want to get right back and be myself and cut clear ofall this. You can't think what it has been, carrying on this doublelife, hearing the servants calling me 'your lordship. ' I couldn't haveimagined it would have acted on the brain so. I've been simply crazy tohear someone calling me by my right name--well, that's the end of thematter, I want to settle up and get back to the States--"

The door opened and a servant appeared. 

"Dr. Simms has arrived, your grace. "

The Duke of Melford rose from his chair. 

"One moment, " said he to Jones. He left the room closing the door. 

Jones tipped the ash of his cigar into a jardinière near by. 

He was astonished and a bit disturbed by the cool manner in which hiswonderful confession had been received. "Can it be they are laying lowand sending for the police?" thought he. 

He was debating this question when the door opened and the Duke walkedin, followed by a bald, elderly, pleasant-looking man; after this lattercame a cadaverous gentleman, wearing glasses. 

The bald man was Dr. Simms, the cadaverous, Dr. Cavendish. 

Simms nodded at Jones as though he knew him. 

"I have asked these gentlemen as friends of the family to step in andtalk about this matter before seeing Lady Rochester, " said the Duke. "She has been taken to her room, and is not yet prepared for visitors. "

"I shall be delighted to help in any way, " said Simms; "my services, professional or private, are always at your disposal, your grace. " Hesat down and turned to Jones. "Now tell us all about it, " said he. 

Cavendish took another chair and the Duke remained standing. 

Jones felt irritated, felt somewhat as a maestro would feel who, havingfinished that musical obstacle race The Grand Polonnaise, finds himselfrequested to play it again. 

"I've told the whole thing once, " said he, "I can't go over itagain--the Duke knows. "

Suddenly Cavendish spoke:

"I understand from what his grace said on the stairs, that there is sometrouble about identity?"

"Some trouble, " said Jones; "I reckon you are right in calling it sometrouble. "

"You are Mr. Jones, I think, " said Simms. 

"Victor Jones was the name I was christened by, " answered Jones. 

"Quite so, American?"

"American. "

"Now, Mr. Jones, as a matter of formality, may I ask where you live inAmerica?"

"Philadelphia. "

"And in Philadelphia what might be your address?"

"Number one thousand, one hundred and one, Walnut Street, " repliedJones. 

Cavendish averted his head for a moment and the Duke shifted hisposition on the hearthrug, leaving his elbow on the mantel and caressingfor a moment his chin. 

Simms alone remained unmoved. 

"Just so, " said Simms. "Have you any family?"

"Nope. "

"I beg your pardon. "

"No. "

"I thought you said nope--my mistake. "

"Not a bit, I did say nope--it's short for no. "

"_Short_ for no--I see, just so. "

Cavendish interposed with an air of interest. 

"How would you spell that word?" asked he. Jones resented Cavendishsomehow. 

"I don't know, " said he, "this isn't a spelling bee. N-o-p-e I suspect. You gentlemen have undertaken to question me on behalf of the family asto my identity, I think we had better stick to that point. "

"Just so, " said Simms, "precisely--"

"Excuse me, " said the Duke of Melford, "I think if Mr. Er--Jones wishesto prove his identity as Mr. Jones he will admit that his actions willhelp. Now Lord Rochester was a very, shall we say, fastidious person, quiet in his actions. "

"Oh, was he, " said Jones, "that's news. "

"Quiet, that is to say, in his movements--let it stand at that. Now myfriend Collins said to me something about the eating of a document--"

Jones bristled. "Collins had no right to tell you that, " said he, "Itold him that privately. When did he tell you that?"

"When I called, just after his interview with you--he did not say it inanyway offensively. In fact he seemed to admire you for your--energy andso forth. "

"Did you, in fact, eat a document?" asked Simms, with an air of blandinterest. 

"I did--and saved a very nasty situation, _and_ a million of money. "

"What was the document?" asked Cavendish. 

"A bill of exchange. "

"Now may I ask why you did that?" queried Simms. 

"No, you mayn't, " replied Jones, "it's a private affair affecting thehonour of another person. "

"Quite so, " said Simms, "but just one more question. Did you hear avoice telling you to--er--eat this paper?"

"Yes. "

"What sort of voice was it?"

"It was the sort of voice that belongs to common-sense. "

"Ha, ha, " laughed Cavendish. "Good, very good, --but there is justsomething I want to ask. How was it, Mr. --er--Jones, that you turnedinto your present form, exchanged your position as it were with the Earlof Rochester?"

"O Lord, " said Jones. Then to the Duke of Melford, "Tell them. "

"Well, " said the Duke. "Mr. Jones was sitting in the lounge of an hotelwhen a gentleman entered whom he knew but could not recognize. "

"Couldn't place his name, " cut in Jones. 

"Precisely. The gentleman said 'turn round and look in that mirror'--"

"You've left the drinks out, " said Jones. 

"True. Mr. Jones and the gentleman had partaken of certain drinks. "

"What were the drinks?" put in Simms. 

"Champagne cocktails, whisky and soda, then a bottle ofBollinger--after, " said Jones. 

"Mr. Jones looked into the mirror, " continued the Duke, "and saw that hewas the other gentleman, that is to say, Lord Rochester. "

"No, the twin image, " put in Jones. 

"The twin image--well, after that more liquor was consumed--"

"The chap doped me with drink and sent me home as himself, " cut inJones, "and I woke up in a strange bed with a guy pulling up the windowblinds. "

"A guy?" put in Cavendish. 

"A chap. Church is his name--I thought I was being bamboozled, so Idetermined to play the part of Lord Rochester--you know the rest. "Turning to the Duke of Melford. 

"Well, " said Cavendish, "I don't think we need ask any more questions ofMr. Jones; we are convinced, I believe, that Mr. Jones and--er--the Earlof Rochester are different. "

"Quite so, " said Simms, "we are sure of his _bonafides_ and of course itis for the family to decide how to meet this extraordinary situation. Iam sure they will sympathize with Mr. Jones and make no trouble. It isquite evident he had no wrong intent. "

"Now you are talking, " said Jones. 

"Quite so--One more question, does it seem to you I have not beentalking at all up to this?"

Jones laughed. "It seems to me you have uttered _one_ word or two--ask abee in a bottle, has it been buzzing. "

The cadaverous Cavendish, who, from his outward appearance presented nosigns of a sense of humour, exploded at this hit, but Simms remainedunmoved. 

"Quite so, " said he. "Well, that's all that remains to be said--but, nowas a professional man, has not all this tried you a good deal, Mr. Jones?--I should think it was enough to try any man's health. "

"Oh, my health is all right, " said Jones. "I can eat and all that, but, times, I've felt as if I wasn't one person or the other, that's one ofmy main reasons for quitting, leaving aside other things. You see I hadto carry on up to a certain point, and, if you'll excuse me blowing myown horn, I think I've not done bad. I could have put my claws on allthat money--If I hadn't been a straight man, there's a lot of things Icould have done, 'pears to me. Well, now that everything is settled, Ithink that ought to be taken into consideration. I don't ask much, justa commission on the money salved. "

"Decidedly, " said Simms. "In my opinion you are quite right. But as aprofessional man my concern just a moment ago was about your health. "

"Oh, the voyage back to the States will put that right. "

"Quite so, but you will excuse my professional instinct--and I am givingyou my services for nothing, if you will let me--I notice signs of nerveexhaustion--Let's look at your tongue. "

Jones put out his tongue. 

"Not bad, " said Simms. "Now just cross your legs. "

Jones crossed his legs, right over left, and Simms, standing before him, gave him a little sharp tap just under the right knee cap. The leg flewout. 

Jones laughed. 

"Exaggerated patella reflex, " said Simms. "Nerve fag, nothing more. Apill or two is all you want. You don't notice any difficulty in speech?"

"Not much, " said Jones, laughing. 

"Say--'Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers. '"

"'Peter Peter piped a pick--'" began Jones, then he laughed. 

"You can't say it, " said Simms, cocking a wise eyebrow. 

"You bet I can, " said the patient. "'Peter Piper pucked a pick'"--

"Nerve exhaustion, " said Simms. 

"Say, Doc, " cut in Jones, beginning to feel slight alarm. "What are yougetting at, you're beginning to make me feel frightened, there's notanything really wrong with me, is there?"

"Nothing but what can be righted by care, " replied Simms. 

"Let me try Mr. Jones with a lingual test, " said Cavendish. "Say: 'Shestood at the door of the fish-sauce shop in the Strand welcoming himin. '"

"She stood at the door of the fish shauce shop in the Strand welcom-omming im, " said Jones. 

"H'm, h'm, " said Cavendish. 

"That's crazy, " said Jones, "nobody could say that--Oh, I'm all right--Ireckon a little liver pill will fix me up. "

The two doctors withdrew to a window and said a few words together. Thenthey both nodded to the Duke of Melford. 

"Well, " said the Duke, "that's settled and now, Mr. Jones, I hope youwill stay here for luncheon. "

Jones had had enough of that house. 

"Thanks, " said he, "but I think I'll be getting back. I want a walk. You'll find me at Carlton House Terrace where we can finish up thisbusiness. It's a weight off my mind now everything is over--whew! I cantell you I'm hungry for the States. "

He rose and took his hat which he had placed on the floor, nodded to theDuke of Melford and turned to the door. 

Simms was standing in front of the door. 

"Excuse me, " said Simms, "but I would not advise you to go out in yourcondition, much better stay here till your nerves have recovered. "

Jones stared at him. 

"My nerves are all right, " said he. 

"Don't, my dear fellow, " said Cavendish. 

Jones turned and looked at him, then turned again to the door. 

Simms was barring the way still. 

"Don't talk nonsense, " said Jones, "think I was a baby. I tell you I'mall right--what on earth do you mean--upon my soul, you're like a lotof children. "

He tried to pass Simms. 

"You must not leave this room yet, " said Simms. "Pray quiet yourself. "

"You mean to say you'll stop me?"

"Yes. "

Then in a flash he knew. These men had not been sent for to attend theDowager Countess of Rochester, they were alienists, and they consideredhim to be Rochester--Rochester gone mad. 

Right from the first start of his confession he had been taken for a madman, that was why Venetia had said nothing, that was why the old ladyhad fainted, that was why his wife--at least Rochester's wife, had runfrom the room like a blind woman. 

He stood appalled for a moment, before this self-evident fact. Then hespoke:

"Open that door--get away from that door. "

"Sit down and _quiet_ yourself, " said Simms, staring him full in theeye, "you--will--not--leave-this--house. "

It was Simms who sat down, flung away by Jones. 

Then Cavendish pinioned him from behind, the Duke of Melford shouteddirections, Simms scrambled to his feet, and Jones, having won free ofCavendish, the rough and tumble began. 

They fought all over the drawing-room, upsetting jardinières, littletables, costly china. 

Jones' foot went into a china cabinet carrying destruction amongst aconcert party of little Dresden figures; Simms' portly behind bumpedagainst a pedestal, bearing a portrait bust of the nineteenth Countessof Rochester, upsetting pedestal and smashing bust, and the Duke ofMelford, fine old sportsman that he was, assisting in the business withthe activity of a boy of eighteen, received a kick in the shin thatrecalled Eton across a long vista of years. 

Then at last they had him down on a sofa, his hands tied behind his backwith the Duke's bandanna handkerchief. 

Jones had uttered no cry, the others no sound, but the bumping andbanging and smashing had been heard all over the house. A tap came tothe door and a voice. The Duke rushed to the door and opened it. 

"Nothing, " said he, "nothing wrong. Off with you. "

He shut the door and turned to the couch. 

Jones caught a glimpse of himself in a big mirror, happily un-smashed, caught a glimpse of himself all tumbled and towsled with Simms besidehim and Cavendish standing by, re-fixing his glasses. 

He recognised a terrible fact; though he had smashed hundreds of pounds'worth of property, though he had fought these men like a mad bull, nowthat the fight was over, they showed not the least sign of resentment. Simms was patting his shoulder. 

He had become possessed of the mournful privilege of the insane, tofight without raising ire in one's antagonists, to smash withimpunity--to murder without being brought to justice. 

Also he recognised that he had been a fool. He had acted like amad-man--that is to say, like a man furious with anger. Anger andmadness have awful similarities. 

He moved slightly away from Simms. 

"I reckon I've been a fool, " said he, "three to one is not fair play. Come, let my hands free, I won't fight any more. "

"Certainly, " said Simms. "But let me point out that we were not fightingyou in the least, only preventing you from taking a course detrimentalto your health. Cavendish, will you kindly untie that absurdhandkerchief?"

Cavendish obeyed, and Jones, his hands freed, rubbed his wrists. 

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

"Nothing, " said Simms, "you are perfectly free, but we don't want you togo out till your health is perfectly restored. I know, you will say thatyou feel all right. No matter, take a physician's advice and just remainhere quiet for a little while. Shall we go to the library where you canamuse yourself with the newspaper or a book whilst I make up a littleprescription for you?"

"Look here, " said Jones. "Let's talk quietly for a moment--you think I'mmad. "

"Not in the least!" said Simms. "You are only suffering from a nerveupset. "

"Well, if I'm not mad you have no right to keep me here. "

This was cunning, but, unfortunately, cunning like anger, is anattribute of madness as well as of sanity. 

"Now, " said Simms, with an air of great frankness, "do you think that itis for our pleasure that we ask you to stay here for a while? We are notkeeping you, just asking you to stay. We will go down to the library andI will just have a prescription made up. Then, when you have consideredmatters a bit you can use your own discretion about going. "

Jones recognized at once that there was no use in trying to fight thisman with any other weapon than subtlety. He was fairly trapped. His talewas such that no man would believe it, and, persisting in that tale, hewould be held as a lunatic. On top of the tale was Rochester's badreputation for sanity. They called him mad Rochester. 

Then as he rose up and followed to the library, a last inspirationseized him. 

He stopped at the drawing-room door. 

"Look here, " said he, "one moment. I can prove what I say. You send outa man to Philadelphia and make enquiries, fetch some of the people overthat knew me. You'll find I'm--myself and that I've told you no lie. "

"We will do anything you like, " said Simms, "but first let us go down tothe library. "

They went. It was a large, pleasant room lined with books. 

Simms sat down at the writing-table, whilst the others took chairs. Hewrote a prescription, and the Duke, ringing the bell, ordered a servantto take the prescription to the chemists. 

Then during the twenty minutes before the servant returned they talked. Jones, giving again his address, that fantastic address which was yetreal, and the names and descriptions of people he knew and who wouldknow him. 

"You see, gentlemen, " said he, "it's just this, I have only one crave inlife just now, to be myself again. Not exactly that, but to berecognized as myself. You can't imagine what that feeling is. Youneedn't tell me. I know exactly what you think, you think I'm Rochestergone crazy. I know the yarn I've slung you sounds crazy, but it's thetruth. The fact is I've felt at times that if I didn't get someone torecognize me as myself I'd _go_ crazy. Just one person to believe in me, that's all I want and then I'd feel free of this cursed Rochester. Putyourself in my place. Imagine that you have lost touch with everythingyou ever were, that you were playing another man's part and thateveryone in the world kept on insisting you were the other guy. Think ofthat for a position. Why, gentlemen, you might open that door wide. Iwouldn't want to go out, not till I had convinced one of you at allevents that my story was true. I wouldn't want to go back to the States, not till I had convinced you that I am who I am. It seems foolish butit's a bed-rock fact. I have to make good on this position, convincesomeone who knows the facts, and so get myself back. It wouldn't be anyuse my going to Philadelphia. I'd say to people I know there, 'I'mJones. ' They'd say, 'Of course you are, ' and believe me. But then, doyou see, they wouldn't know of this adventure and their belief in mewouldn't be a bit of good. Of course I _know_ I'm Jones, all the sameI've been playing the part of Rochester so hard that times I've almostbelieved I'm him, times I've lost myself, and I have a feeling at theback of my mind that if I don't get someone to believe me to be who Iam, I may go dotty in earnest. It's a feeling without reason, I know. It's more like having a grit in the eye than anything else. I want toget rid of that grit, and I can't take it out myself, someone else mustdo it. One person would be enough, just one person to believe in what Isay and I would be myself again. That's why I want you to send toPhiladelphia. The mind is a curious thing, gentlemen, the freedom of thebody is nothing if the mind is not free, and my mind can never be freetill another person who knows my whole story believes in what I say. Icould not have imagined anyone being trapped like this--I've heard of anactor guy once playing a part so often he went loony and fancied himselfthe character. I'm not like that, I'm as sane as you, it's just thisuneasy, uncomfortable feeling--this want to get absolutely clean out ofthis business, that's the trouble. "

"Never mind!" said Simms cheerfully, "we will get you out only you must_not_ worry yourself. I admit that your story is strange, but we willsend to Philadelphia and make all enquiries--come in. "

The servant had knocked at the door. He entered with the medicine. Simmssent him for a wine glass and when it arrived he poured out a dose. 

"Now take a dose of your medicine like a man, " said the kindlyphysician, jocularly, "and another in four hours' time, it will re-makeyour nerves. "

Jones tossed the stuff off impatiently. 

"Say, " said he, "there's another point I've forgot. You might go to theSavoy and get the clerk there, he'd recognize me, the bar tender in theAmerican bar, he'd maybe be able to recognise me too, he saw ustogether--I say I feel a bit drowsy, you haven't doped me, have you?"

Simms and Cavendish, leaving the house together five minutes later, hada moment's conversation on the steps. 

"What do you think of him?" said Simms. 

"Bad, " said Cavendish. "He reasons on his own case, that's always bad, and did you notice how cleverly he worked that in about wanting someoneto believe in him. "

They walked down the street together. 

"That smash has been coming for a long time, " said Simms--"it's anheirloom. It's a good thing it has come, he was getting to be abye-word--I wonder what it is that introduces the humorous element intoinsanity; that address, for instance, one thousand one hundred andninety one Walnut Street, could never have strayed into a sane person'shead. "

"Nor a luncheon on bills of exchange, " said Cavendish. "Well, he will beall right at Hoover's. What was the dose you gave him?"

"Heroin, mostly, " replied the other. "Well, so long. "

CHAPTER XXI

HOOVER'S

Jones, after the magic draught administered by Simms, entered into ablissful condition of twilight sleep, half sleep, half drowsiness, absolute indifference. He walked with assistance to the hall door andentered a motor car, it did not matter to him what he entered or wherehe went, he did not want to be disturbed. 

He roused himself during a long journey to take a drink of somethingheld to his lips by someone, and sank back, tucking sleep around himlike a warm blanket. 

In all his life he had never had such a gorgeous sleep as that, hisweary and harassed brain revelled in moments of semi-consciousness, andthen sank back into the last abysms of oblivion. 

He awoke a new man, physically and mentally, and with an absolutelyclear memory and understanding. He awoke in a bed-room, a cheerfulbed-room, lit by the morning sun, a bed-room with an open window throughwhich came the songs of birds and the whisper of foliage. 

A young man dressed in a black morning coat was seated in an armchair bythe window, reading a book. He looked like a superior sort of servant. 

Jones looked at this young man, who had not yet noticed the awakening ofthe sleeper, and Jones, as he looked at him, put facts together. 

Simms, Cavendish, the fact that he had been doped, the place where hewas, and the young man. He had been taken here in that conveyance, whatever it was; they had thought him mad--they had carted him off to amad-house, this was a mad-house, that guy in the chair was an attendant. He recognized these probabilities very clearly, but he felt no anger andlittle surprise. His mind, absolutely set up and almost renewed byprofound slumber, saw everything clearly and in a true light. 

It was quite logical that, believing him mad, they had put him in amad-house, and he had no fear at all of the result simply because heknew that he was sane. The situation was amusing, it was also one to getfree from--but there was plenty of time, and there was no room formaking mistakes. 

Curiously enough, now, the passionate or almost passionate desire torecover his own personality had vanished, or at least, was no longeractive in his mind; his brain, renewed by that tremendous sleep, was nolonger tainted by that vague dread, no longer troubled by that curiouscraving to have others believe in his story and to have others recognizehim as Jones. 

No, it did not matter to him just now whether he recovered hispersonality in the eyes of others; what did matter to him was therecovery of his bodily freedom. Meanwhile, caution. Like Brer Rabbit, hedetermined to "lie low. "

"Say, " said Jones. 

The young man by the window started slightly, rose, and came to thebedside. 

"What o'clock?" said the patient. 

"It has just gone half past eight, sir, " replied the other. "I hope youhave slept well. "

Jones noticed that this person did not "my Lord" him. 

"Not a wink, " said he, "tossed and tumbled all night--oh, say--what do_you_ think--"

The young man looked puzzled. 

"And would you like anything now, sir?"

"Yes--my pants. I want to get up. "

"Certainly, sir, your bath is quite ready, " replied the other. 

He went to the fire-place and touched an electric button, then hebustled about the room getting Jones' garments together. 

The bed-room had two doors, one leading to a sitting-room, one to abath-room; in a minute the bath-room door opened and a voice queried, "Hot or cold?"

"Hot, " said Jones. 

"Hot, " said the attendant. 

"Hot, " said the unseen person in the bath-room, as if registering theorder in his mind. Then came the fizzling of water and in a couple ofminutes the voice:

"Gentleman's bath ready. "

Jones bathed, and though the door of the bath-room had been shut upon himand there was no person present, he felt all the time that someone waswatching him. When he was fully dressed, the attendant opened the otherdoor, and ushered him into the sitting-room, where breakfast was laid ona small table by the window. He had the choice between eggs and baconand sausages, he chose the former and whilst waiting, attracted by thepleasant summery sound of croquet balls knocking together, he looked outof the window. 

Two gentlemen in white flannels were playing croquet; stout elderlygentlemen they were. And on a garden seat a young man in flanneltrousers and a grey tweed coat was seated watching the game and smokingcigarettes. 

He guessed these people to be fellow prisoners. They looked happyenough, and having noticed this fact he sat down to breakfast. 

He noted that the knife accompanying his fork was blunt and of very poorquality--of the sort warranted not to cut throats, but he did not heedmuch. He had other things to think of. The men in flannels had given hima shock. Instinctively he knew them to be "inmates. " He had neverconsidered the question of lunatics and lunatic asylums before. Vaguerecollections of Edgar Allan Poe and the works of Charles Reade hadsurrounded the term lunatic asylum with an atmosphere of feather bedsand brutality; the word lunatic conjured up in his mind the idea of aman obviously insane. The fact that this place was a house quiteordinary and pleasant in appearance, and these sane looking gentlemenlunatics, gave him a grue. 

The fact that an apparently sane individual can be held as a prisonerwas beginning to steal upon him, that a man might be able to playcroquet and laugh and talk and take an intelligent interest in life andyet, just because of some illusion, be held as a prisoner. 

He did not fully realise this yet, but it was dawning upon him. But hedid fully realise that he had lost his liberty. 

Before he had finished his eggs and bacon this recognition became acute. 

The fear of losing his own personality had vanished utterly; all thathaunting dread was gone. If he could escape now, so he told himself, hewould go right back to the States. He had eight thousand pounds in theNational Provincial Bank; no one knew that it was there. He could seizeit with a clear conscience and take it to Philadelphia. The shadow ofRochester--oh, that was a thing gone forever, dissipated by this actualfact of lost liberty--so he told himself. 

A servant brought up the _Times_ and he opened it, and lit a cigarette. 

Then as he looked casually over the news and the doings of the day, anextraordinary feeling came upon him; all this printed matter wasrelative to the doings and ideas of free men, men who could walk downthe street, if the fancy pleased them. It was like looking at the worldthrough bars. He got up and paced the floor, the breakfast things hadbeen removed, and the attendant had left the room and was in the bed-roomadjoining. 

Jones walked softly to the door through which the servant had carriedaway the things, and opened it gently and without noise. A corridor layoutside, and he was just entering it when a voice from behind made himturn. 

"Do you require anything, sir?"

It was the attendant. 

"Nothing, " said Jones. "I was just looking to see where this place ledto. " He came back into the room. 

He knew now that every movement of his was watched, and he accepted thefact without comment. He sat down and took up the _Times_ whilst theattendant went back to the bed-room. 

He had said to himself on awaking, that a sane man, held as insane, could always win free just by his sanity. He was taking up the line ofreasoning now and casting about him for a method. 

He was not long in finding one. The brilliancy of the idea that had allat once struck him made him cast the paper from his knees to the floor. Then, having smoked a cigarette and consolidated his plan, he called theattendant. 

"I want to see the gentleman who runs this place. "

"Dr. Hoover, sir?"

"Yes. "

"Certainly, sir, I will ring and have him sent for. "

He rang the bell, a servant answered and went off with the message. 

Jones took up the paper again and resumed his cigarette. Five minutespassed and then the door opened and a gentleman entered. 

A pleasant faced, clean-shaven man of fifty, dressed in blue serge andwith a rose in his button-hole, such was Doctor Hoover. But the eye ofthe man held him apart from others; a blue grey eye, keen, sharp, hard, for all the smile upon the pleasant face. 

Jones rose up. 

"Dr. Hoover, I think, " said he. 

"Good morning, " said the other in a hearty voice. "Fine day, isn't it?Well, how are we this morning?"

"Oh, I'm all right, " said Jones. "I want to have a little talk withyou. " He went to the bed-room door, which was slightly ajar, and closedit. 

"For your sake, " said Jones, "it's just as well we have no onelistening, the attendant is in there--you are sure he cannot hear whatwe say, even with the door shut?"

"Quite, " said Hoover, with a benign smile. 

He was used to things like this, profoundly confidential communicationsconcerning claims to crowns and principalities, or grumbles about food. 

He did not expect what followed. 

"I am not going to grumble at your having me here, " said Jones; "it's myfault for playing practical jokes. I didn't think they'd go the lengthof doping me and locking me up under the name I gave them. "

"And what name was that?" asked Hoover kindly. 

"Jones. "

"Oh, and now tell me, if you are not Mr. Jones, who are you?"

"Who am I? Well, I can excuse the question. I'm the Earl of Rochester. "

This was a nasty one for Hoover, but that gentleman's face shewednothing. 

"Indeed, " said he, "then why did you call yourself Jones?"

"For a joke. I slung them a yarn and they took it in. Then they gave mea draught to compose my nerves, they thought really that I was dotty, and I drank it--you must have seen the condition I was in when I gothere. "

"Hum, hum, " said Hoover. He was used to the extremely cunning ways ofgentlemen off their balance, and he had a profound belief in Simms andCavendish, whose names endorsed the certificate of lunacy he hadreceived with the newcomer. He was also a man just as cunning as Jones. 

"Well, " he said, with an air of absolute frankness, "this takes me bysurprise; a practical joke, but why did you play such a practical joke?"

"I know, " said Jones, "it was stupid, just a piece of tom-foolery--butyou see how I am landed. "

Dr. Hoover ignored this evasion whilst noting it. 

Then he began to ask all sorts of little questions seemingly irrelevantenough. Did Jones think that he was morally justified in carrying outsuch a practical joke? Why did he not say at once it was a practicaljoke after the affair had reached a certain point? Was his memory asgood as of old? Was he sure in his own mind that he was the Earl ofRochester? Was he sure that as the Earl of Rochester he could hold thattitle against a claim that he was not the Earl? Give details and soforth?

"Now suppose, " said Dr. Hoover, "I were to contest the title with youand say 'you are Mr. Jones and I am the Earl of Rochester, ' how wouldyou establish your claim. I am simply asking, to find out whether whatyou consider to be a practical joke was in fact a slight lapse of memoryon your part, a slight mind disturbance such as is easily caused byfatigue or even work, and which often leaves effects lasting some weeksor months. 

"Now I must point out to you that, as--practical joke or not--you camehere calling yourself Mr. Jones, I would be justified in asking you forproof that you are _not_ Mr. Jones. See my point?"

"Quite. "

"Well, then, prove your case, " said the physician jovially. 

"How can I?"

"Well, if you are the Earl of Rochester, let me test your memory. Who isyour banker?"

"Coutts. "

Hoover did not know who the Earl of Rochester's banker might be, but thepromptness of the reply satisfied him of its truth, the promptness wasalso an index of sanity. He passed at a venture to a subject on which hewas acquainted. 

"And how many brothers and sisters have you?"

That was fatal. 

Jones' eye fell under the pressure of Hoover's. 

"There is no use in going on with these absurd questions, " said he, "athing everyone knows. "

"But I just want to prove to you, " said Hoover, gently, "that your mind, which in a week from now, will have quite recovered, is still a littlebit shaky--now how long is it since you succeeded to the title? It'sjust a test memory question. "

Jones did not know. He saw that he was lost. He had also gained anappreciation of Hoover. Beside the fat Simms and the cadaverousCavendish, Hoover seemed a man of keen common sense. 

Jones recognized that the new position into which he had strayed was ablind alley. If he were detained until his memory could answer questionsof which his mind knew nothing, he would be detained forever. He came tothe grand determination to try back. 

"Look here, " said he, "let's be straight with one another. I can'tanswer your questions. Now if you are a man of sense, as I take you tobe, and not a man like those others, who think everyone but themselvesis mad, you will recognize _why_ I can't answer your questions. I'm notRochester. I thought I'd get out of here by pretending that I'd played apractical joke on those guys; it was a false move, I acknowledge it, butwhen I fixed on the idea, I didn't know the man I had to deal with. Ifyou will listen to my story, I will tell you in a few words how all thisbusiness came about. "

"Go on, " said Hoover. 

Jones told, and Hoover listened and when the tale was over, at the endof a quarter of an hour or so, Jones scarcely believed it himself. Itsounded crazy. Much more crazy than when he had told it to the Duke ofMelford and the reason of this difference was Hoover. There wassomething in Hoover's eye, something in his make up and personality, something veiled and critical, that destroyed confidence. 

"I have asked them to make enquiries, " finished Jones, "if they willonly do that everything will be cleared up. "

"And you may rest content we will, " said Hoover. 

"Now for another thing, " said Jones. "Till I leave this place, whichwill be soon, I hope, may I ask you to tell that confounded attendantnot to be always watching me. I don't know whether you think me mad orsane, think me mad if you like, but take it from me, I'm not going to doanything foolish, but if anything would drive me crazy, it would befeeling that I am always watched like a child. "

Hoover paused a moment. He had a large experience of mental cases. Thenhe said:

"You will be perfectly free here. You can come downstairs and do as youlike. We have some very nice men staying here and you are free to amuseyourself. I'll just ask you this, not to go outside the grounds tillyour health is perfectly established. This is not a prison, it's asanatorium. Colonel Hawker is here for gout and Major Barstowe forneuritis, got it in India. You will like them. There are several otherswho make up my household--you can come on down with me now--are you abilliard player?"

"Yes, I can play--but, see here, before we go down, where is thisplace?--I don't even know what part of the country it's in. "

"Sandbourne-on-sea, " replied Hoover, leading the way from the room. 

Now in London on the night before, something had happened. Dr. Simms, ata dinner-party, given by Doctor Took of Bethlem Hospital had, relativeto the imagination of lunatics, given an instance:

"Only to-day, " said Simms, "I had a case in point. A man gave me as hissupposed address, one thousand one hundred and ninety one, WalnutStreet, Philadelphia. "

"But there is a Walnut Street, Philadelphia, " said Took, "and it's tenmiles long, and the numbers run up well towards that. "

Half an hour later, Simms got into his carriage. 

"Savoy Hotel, Strand, " said he to the coachman. 

CHAPTER XXII

AN INTERLUDE

Simms in his electric brougham passed through the gas-lit streets in thedirection of the Strand, glancing at the night pageant of London, butseeing nothing. 

I love to linger over Simms, but what pages of description couldadequately describe him; buxom, sedate, plump and soothing, with theappearance of having been born and bred in a frock-coat, above allthings discreet; you can fancy him stepping out of his brougham, passinginto the hall of the hotel and presenting his card to the clerk with arequest for an interview with the manager. The manager being away, hisdeputy supplied his place. 

"Yes, an American gentleman of the name of Jones had stayed in the hoteland on the night of the first of June had met with 'an accident' on theunderground railway. The police had taken charge of the business. Whataddress had he given when booking his room? An address in Philadelphia. Walnut Street, Philadelphia. "

"Thanks, " said Simms, "I came to enquire because a patient of minefancied, seeing the report, that it might be a relative. She must havebeen mistaken, for her relative resides in the city of New York. Thankyou--quite so--good evening. "

In the hall Simms hesitated for a moment, then he asked a page boy forthe American bar, found it and ordered a glass of soda water. 

There were only one or two men in the bar and as Simms paid for hisdrink he had a word with the bar tender. 

"Did he remember some days ago seeing two gentlemen in the bar who werevery much alike?"

The bar tender did, and as an indication how in huge hotels dramatichappenings may pass unknown to the staff not immediately concerned, hehad never connected Jones with the American gentleman of whose unhappydemise he had read in the papers. 

He was quite free in his talk. The likeness had struck him forcibly, never seen two gentlemen so like one another, dressed differently, butstill like. His assistant had seen them too. 

"Quite so, " said Simms; "they are friends of mine and I hoped to seethem again here this evening--perhaps they are waiting in the lounge. "

He finished his soda water and walked off. He sought the telephoneoffice and rang up Curzon Street. 

The Duke of Melford had dined at home but had gone out. He was at theBuffs' Club in Piccadilly. 

Simms drove to the Club. 

The Duke was in the library. 

His Grace had literary leanings. His "History of the Siege ofBundlecund, " of which seven hundred copies of the first edition remainedunsold, had not deterred him from attempting the "Siege of Jutjutpore. "He wrote a good deal in the library of the club, and to-night he was inthe act of taking down some notes on the character of Fooze Ali, theleader of the besiegers, when Simms was announced. 

The library was deserted by all save the historian, and getting togetherinto a cosy corner, the two men talked. 

"Your Grace, " said Simms, "we have made a mistake. Your nephew is deadand that man we have placed with Dr. Hoover is what he announced himselfto be. "

"What! What! What!" cried the Duke. 

"There can be no doubt at all, " said Simms. "I have made enquiries. "

He gave details. The Duke listened, his narrow brain incensed at thismonstrous statement that had suddenly risen up to confront it. 

"I don't believe a word of it, " said he, when the recital was over, "andwhat's more, I won't believe it. Do you mean to tell me I don't know myown nephew?"

"It's not a question of that, " said Simms. "It's just a question of thefacts of the case. There is no doubt at all that a man exactly like thelate--your nephew, in fact, stayed at this hotel, that he there metthe--your nephew. There is no doubt that this man gave the address tothe hotel people he gave to us, and there is no doubt in my mind that hecould make out a very good case if he were free. That there would be avery great scandal--a world scandal. Even if he were not to prove hiscase, the character of--your nephew--would be held up for inspection. Then again, he would have very powerful backers. Now you told me of thisman Mulhausen. How would that property stand were this man to prove hisclaim and prove that Lord Rochester was dead when the transfer of theproperty was made to him? I am not thinking of my reputation, " finishedthe ingenuous Simms, "but of your interests, and I tell you quiteplainly, your Grace, that were this man to escape we would all be in avery unpleasant predicament. "

"Well, he won't escape, " said the Duke. "I'll see to that. "

"Quite so, but there is another matter. The Commissioners in Lunacy. "

"Well, what about them?"

"It is the habit of the Commissioners to visit every establishmentregistered under the act and unfortunately, they are men--I mean ofcourse that, fortunately, they are men of the most absolute probity, butgiven to over-riding, sometimes, the considered opinion of those inclose touch with the cases they are brought in contact with. They wouldundoubtedly make strict enquiries into the truth of the story that LordRochester has just put up, and the result--I can quite see it--woulddrift us into one of those _exposés_, those painful and interminablelawsuits, destructive alike to property, to dignity, and that ease ofmind inseparable from health and the enjoyment of those positions towhich my labours and your Grace's lineage entitle us. "

"Damn the Commissioners, " suddenly broke out his Grace. "Do you mean tosay they would doubt my word?"

"Unfortunately, it is not a question of that, " said Simms. "It is aquestion of what they call the liberty of the subject. "

"Damn the liberty of the subject--liberty of the subject. When a man'smad what right has he to liberty--liberty to cut people's throats maybe. Look at that fool Arthur, liberty! Look at the use he made of hisliberty when he had it. Look what he did to Langwathby: sent a telegramleading him to believe that his wife had broken out again--you know howshe drinks--and had been gaoled in Carlisle. And the thing was soartfully constructed, it said almost nothing. You couldn't touch him onit. Simply said, 'Go at once to police court Carlisle. ' See the art ofit? Never mentioned the woman's name. There was no libel. Langwathby, toprosecute, would have to explain all about his wife. He went. Whathappened! You know his temper. He went to Langwathby Castle before goingto the police court, and the first person he saw was his wife. Beforeall the servants. Before all the servants, mind you, he said to her, 'Sothey have let you out of prison and now you'd better get out of myhouse. ' You know her temper. Before all the servants. Before all theservants, mind you, she accused him of that disgraceful affair in PontStreet when he was turned out in his pyjamas--and they half ripped offhim--by Lord Tango's brother. Tango never knew anything of it. Neverwould, but he knows now, for Lucy Jerningham was at Langwathby when thescene occurred and she's told him. The result is poor Langwathby willfind himself in the D. C. Liberty! What right has a man like that totalk of liberty?"

"Quite so, " said Simms, utterly despairing of pressing home the truth ofthe horrible situation upon this brain in blinkers. "_Quite_ so. Butfacts are facts and the fact remains that this man--I mean--er--LordRochester, possesses on your own shewing great craft and subtlety. Andhe will use that with the Commissioners in Lunacy when they call. "

"When do they call?"

"Ah, that's just it. They visit asylums and registered houses at theirown will, and the element of surprise is one of their methods. They mayarrive at Hoover's any time. I say, literally, any time. Sometimes theyarrive at a house in the middle of the night; they may leave an asylumunvisited for a month and then come twice in one week, and they holdeveryone concerned literally in the hollows of their hands. If deniedadmittance they would not hesitate to break the doors down. Their poweris absolute. "

"But, good God, sir, " cried the Duke, "what you tell me is monstrous. It's un-English. Break into a man's house, spy upon him in the middle ofthe night! Why, such powers vested in a body of men make forterrorisation. This must be seen to. I will speak about it in theHouse. "

"Quite so, but, meanwhile, there is the danger, and it must be faced. "

"I'll take him away from Hoover's. "

"Ah, " said Simms. 

"I'll put him somewhere where these fellows won't be able to interfere. How about my place at Skibo?"

Simms shook his head. 

"He is under a certificate, " said he. "The Commissioners call atHoover's, inspect the books, find that Lord Rochester has been there, find him gone, find you have taken him away. They will simply call uponyou to produce him. "

"How about my yacht?" asked the other. 

"A long sea voyage for his health?"

"Ah, " said Simms, "that's better, but voyages come to an end. "

"How about my villa at Naples? Properly looked after there he will besafe enough. "

"Of course, " said Simms, "that will mean he will always have to bethere--always. "

"Of course, always. D'you think now I have got him in safety I will lethim out?"

Simms sighed. The business was drifting into very dangerous waters. Heknew for a matter of fact and also by intuition that Jones was Jones andthat Rochester was dead and his unfortunate position was like this:

1. If Jones escaped from Hoover's unsoothed and furious he might findhis way to the American Consul or, _horror!_ to some newspaper office. Then the band would begin to play. 

2. If Jones were transferred on board the Duke's yacht and sequestrated, the matter at once became _criminal_, and the prospect of long years ofmental distress and dread lest the agile Jones should break free stoodbefore him like a nightmare. 

3. It was impossible to make the Duke believe that Jones was Jones andthat Rochester was dead. 

The only thing to be done was to release Jones, soothe him, bribe himand implore of him to get back to America as quick as possible. 

This being clear before the mind of Simms, he at once proceeded to act. 

"It is not so much the question of your letting him out, " he said, "asof his escaping. And now I must say this. My professional reputation isat stake and I must ask you to come with me to Curzon Street and put thewhole matter before the family. I wish to have a full consultation. "

The Duke demurred for a moment. Then he agreed and the two men left theclub. 

At Curzon Street they found the Dowager Countess and Venetia Birdbrookabout to retire for the night. Teresa, Countess of Rochester, hadalready retired, and, though invited to the conference, refused to leaveher room. 

Then, in the drawing-room with closed doors, Simms, relying on theintelligence of the women as a support, began, for the second time, histale. 

He convinced the women, and by one o'clock in the morning, stillstanding by his guns after the fashion of the defenders of Bundlecund, the Duke had to confess that he had no more ammunition. Surrendered infact. 

"But what is to be done?" asked the distracted mother of the defunct. "What will this terrible man do if we release him?"

"Do, " shouted the Duke. "Do--why the impostor may well ask what will wedo to him. "

"We can do nothing, " said Venetia. "How can we? How can we expose allthis before the servants--and the public? It is all entirely Teresa'sfault. If she had treated Arthur properly none of this would ever havehappened. She laughed and made light of his wickedness, she--"

"Quite so, " said Simms, "but, my dear lady, what we have to think of nowis the man, Jones. We must remember that whilst being an extremelyastute person, inasmuch as he recovered for you that large property fromthe man Mulhausen, he seems honest. Indeed, yes, it is quite evidentthat he is honest. I would suggest his release to-morrow and thetendering to him of an adequate sum, say one thousand pounds, on thecondition that he retires to the States. Then, later, we can think ofsome means to account for the demise of the late Earl of Rochester orsimply leave it that he has disappeared. "

The rest of this weird conclave remains unreported, Simms, however, carrying his point and departing next day, after having seen hispatients, for Sandbourne-on-Sea, where he arrived late in the afternoon. 

When the hired fly that carried him from Sandbourne Station arrived atthe Hoover establishment, it found the gate wide open, and at the gateone of the attendants standing in an expectant attitude glancing up anddown the road as though he were looking for something, or waiting forsomebody. 

CHAPTER XXIII

SMITHERS

Hoover, leading the way downstairs, shewed Jones the billiard-room onthe first floor, the dining-room, the smoke-room. All pleasant places, with windows opening on the gardens. Then he introduced him to somegentlemen. To Colonel Hawker, just come in from an after breakfast gameof croquet, to Major Barstowe, and to a young man with no chin to speakof, named Smithers. There were several others, very quiet people, thethree mentioned are enough for consideration. 

Colonel Hawker and Major Barstowe were having an argument in thesmoking-room when Hoover and Jones entered. 

"I did not say I did not believe you, " said Barstowe, "I said it wasstrange. "

"Strange, " cried the Colonel, "what do you mean by strange--it's not theword I object to, it's the tone you spoke in. "

"What's the dispute?" asked Hoover. 

"Why, " said Barstowe, "the Colonel was telling me he had seen pigs inBurmah sixteen feet long, and sunflowers twenty feet in diameter. "

"Oh, that story, " said Hoover; "yes, there's nothing strange in that. "

"I'll knock any man down that doubts my word, " said the Colonel, "that'sflat. "

Hoover laughed, Jones shivered. 

Then the disputants went out to play another game of croquet, and Jones, picking up with Smithers, played a game of billiards, Hoover going offand leaving them alone. 

After playing for about five minutes, Smithers, who had maintained anuncanny silence, broke off the game. 

"Let's play something better than this, " said he. "Did you know I wasrich?"

"No, " said Jones. 

"Well, I'm very rich--Look here, " he took five sovereigns from hispocket and shewed them with pride. "I play pitch and toss with these, "said he. "Hoover doesn't mind so long as I don't lose them. Pitch andtoss with sovereigns is fine fun, let's have a game?"

Jones agreed. 

They sat on the divan and played pitch and toss. At the end of tenminutes, Jones had won twenty pounds. 

"I think I will stop now, " said Smithers. "Give me back that sovereign Ilent you to toss with. "

"But you owe me twenty pounds, " said Jones. 

"I'll pay you that to-morrow, " said Smithers; "these sovereigns are notto be spent, they are only for playing with. "

"Oh, that doesn't matter, " said Jones, handing back the coin, andrecognising that, penniless as he was, here was a small fund to bedrawn upon by cunning, should he find a means of escape. "I'm rich. I'mworth ten millions. "

"Ten million sovereigns?"

"Yes. "

"Golden ones, like these?"

"Yes. "

"I say, " said Smithers, "could you lend me one or two?"

"Yes, rather. "

"But you mustn't tell Hoover. "

"Of course I won't. "

"When will you lend me them?"

"When I get my bag of sovereigns from London. They are coming downsoon. "

"I like you, " said Smithers. "We'll be great friends, won't we?"

"Rather, come out in the garden. "

They went out. 

The garden encircled the house, big wrought iron gates, locked, gaveupon the road. 

The tennis and croquet lawns lay at the back of the house, brick walls, covered in part with fruit trees, surrounded the whole place. The wallon the left of the house struck Jones as being practicable, and henoticed that none of the walls were spiked or glassed. Hoover's patientswere evidently not of the dangerous and agile type. 

"What's at the other side of this wall?" asked Jones, as they passedalong by the left hand barrier. Smithers giggled. 

"Girls, " said he. 

"Girls! what sort of girls?"

"Little ones with long hair and bigger ones; they learn their lessonsthere, it's a school. The gardener left his ladder there one day and Iclimbed up. There were a lot of girls there. I nodded to them, and theyall came to the wall. I made them all laugh. I asked them to come overthe wall and toss for sovereigns--then a lady came and told me to goaway. She didn't seem to like me. "

Jones, all during luncheon--the meal was served in his ownapartments--revolved things in his mind, Smithers amongst others. Smithers' mania for handling gold had evidently been satisfied by givinghim these few coins to play with. They were real ones, Jones hadsatisfied himself of that. Smithers, despite his want of chin, wasevidently not a person to be put off with counterfeit coin. Jones hadcome down from London dressed just as he had called at Curzon Street. That is to say in a black morning coat and grey trousers. His tall hathad evidently been forgotten by his deporters. After luncheon he askedfor a cap to wear in the garden, and was supplied with a grey tweedshooting cap of Hoover's. 

With this on his head he took his seat in an arbour, an arbour which, henoticed, had its opening facing the house. 

Here, smoking, he continued revolving his plans, and here afternoon teawas served to him. 

Ten minutes later the colonel and the major began another game ofcroquet, and five minutes after that, came from the house Smithers, with a butterfly net in his hand. 

Jones left the arbour and joined Smithers. 

"The sovereigns have come, " said Jones. 

"The bag of sovereigns?"

"Yes, with a big red seal from the bankers. I'm going to give youfifty. "

"Oh, Lord, " said Smithers, "but you haven't said anything to Hoover?"

"Not a word--but you must do something for me before I give you them. "

"What's that?"

"I want you to go up to Colonel Hawker and take him aside. "

"Yes?"

"And tell him that Major Barstowe says he's a liar. "

"Yes. "

"That's all. "

"That's easy enough, " said Smithers. 

"I'll stand by the wall here, and if any of the girls look over, as theyprobably will, for I'm going to whistle to them, I'll make them comeover and toss for sovereigns. "

"That would be a lark, " said the unfortunate. 

"Bother, " said Jones, "I've forgot. "

"What?"

"All my sovereigns are upstairs in the bag--I know--lend me yours whilstI'm waiting. "

"I--I never lend sovereigns, " said Smithers. 

"Why, I'm going to _give_ you fifty--and I only ask you to lend me fivefor a moment in case those girls--"

Smithers put his hand in his pocket and produced the coins; they were ina little chamois leather bag. "Don't open the bag, " said he, "just shakeit and they'll know there are sovereigns in it by the noise. "

"Right, " said Jones. "Now go and tell Colonel Hawker that Major Barstowesays he's a liar. "

Smithers went off, butterfly net in hand. 

Jones was under no delusion. He reckoned that the garden was alwaysunder surveillance, and that a man getting over a wall would have littlechance of reaching the street, unless he managed to distract theattention of watchers. He thought it probable that his conversation withSmithers had been watched, and possibly the handing over of some articlenoted. 

There was a seat just here, close to the wall. He sat down on it, pulledhis cap over his eyes, and stretched out his legs. Then under the peakof the cap, he watched Smithers approaching Colonel Hawker, interrupthim just as he was on the point of making a stroke, and lead him aside. 

The effect on the colonel's mind of the interruption to his stroke, followed by the sudden information that his veracity had been impeached, was miraculous and sudden as the slap on the side of the face that sentthe butterfly hunter flying. The attack on Barstowe, who seemed to fightwell, the cries, the shouts, the imprecations, the fact that half adozen people, inmates and attendants, joined in the confusion as if bymagic, all this was nothing to Jones, nor was the subsidiary fact thatone of the inmates, a quiet mannered clergyman, with a taste for arson, had taken advantage of the confusion and was patiently and sedulously atwork, firing the thatch of the summer house in six different places, with a long concealed box of matches. 

Jones, on the stroke of the Colonel, had risen from the seat, and withthe aid of a wall-trained plum tree, had reached the top of the wall anddropped on the other side into a bed of mignonette. It was a hockey dayat the school, and there were no girls in the garden. He ran across itto the open front gate and reached the road, ran down the road, whichwas deserted, and burning in the late afternoon sunshine, reached a sideroad and slackened his pace. All the roads were of the same pattern, broad, respectable, and lined with detached and semi-detached houses setin gardens, and labelled according to the owner's fancy. OldAnglo-Indian colonels and majors lived here, and one knew their housesby such names as "Lucknow, " "Cawnpore, " etc. , just as one knows azaleasby their blossoms. Jones, like an animal making for cover, pushed ontill he reached a street of shops. A long, long street, running northand south with the shop fronts on the eastern side, sun-blinded andsunlit. A peep of blue and perfect sea shewed at the end of the street, and on the sea the white sail of a boat. Sandbourne-on-Sea is a pleasantplace to stay at, but Jones did not want to stay there. 

His mind was working feverishly. There was sure to be a railway stationsomewhere, and, as surely, the railway station would be the first placethey would hunt for him. 

London was his objective. London and the National Provincial Bank, butof the direction or the distance to be travelled, he knew no more thanthe man in the moon. 

CHAPTER XXIV

HE RUNS TO EARTH

As the fox seeks an earth, he was seeking for a hole to hide in. Acrossthe road a narrow house, set between a fishmonger's shop and a sea-sidelibrary, displayed in one of its lower windows a card with the word"Apartments. " Jones crossed the road to this house and knocked at thehall door. He waited a minute and a half, ninety seconds, and everysecond a framed vision of Hoover in pursuit, Hoover and his assistantsstreaming like hounds on a hot scent. Then he found a decrepit bell andpulled it. 

Almost on the pull the door opened, disclosing a bustless, sharp-eyedand cheerful-looking little woman of fifty or so, wearing a cameo broochand cornelian rings. She wore other things but you did not notice them. 

"Have you rooms to let?" asked Jones. 

"Well, sir, I have the front parlour unoccupied, " replied the landlady, "and two bed-rooms on the top floor. Are there any children?"

"No, " said Jones. "I came down here alone for a holiday. May I see therooms?"

She took him to the top front bed-room first. It was clean and tidy, justlike herself, and gave a cheery view of the shop fronts on the oppositeside of the street. 

Jones, looking out of the window, saw something that held him for amoment fascinated and forgetful of his surroundings and his companion. Hoover, no less, walking hurriedly and accompanied by a man who lookedlike a gardener. They were passing towards the sea, looking about themas they went. Hoover had the appearance of a person who has lost a purseor some article of value, so Jones thought as he watched them vanish. Heturned to the landlady. 

"I like this room, " said he, "it is cheerful and quiet, just the sort ofplace I want. Now let's see the parlour. "

The parlour boasted of a horsehair sofa, chairs to match, pictures tomatch, and a glass fronted bookcase containing volumes of the SundayCompanion, Sword and Trowel, Home Influence, and Ouida's "Moths" in theold, yellow-back, two shilling edition. 

"Very nice indeed, " said Jones. "What do you charge?"

"Well, sir, " said the landlady--her name was Henshaw--"it's a pound aweek for the two rooms without board, two pounds with. "

"Any extras?" asked the artful Jones. 

"No, sir. "

"Well, that will do me nicely. I came along here right from the station, and my portmanteau hasn't arrived, though it was labelled for here, andthe porter told me he had put it on the train. I'll have to go up to thestation this evening again to see if it has arrived. Meanwhile, seeingI haven't my luggage with me, I'll pay you in advance. "

She assured him that this was unnecessary, but he insisted. 

When she had accepted the money she asked him what he would have forsupper, or would he prefer late dinner. 

"Supper, " replied Jones, "oh, anything. I'm not particular. "

Then he found himself alone. He sat down on the horsehair sofa to think. Would Hoover circularise his description and offer a reward? No, thatwas highly improbable. Hoover's was a high class establishment, he wouldavoid publicity as much as possible, but he would be pretty sure to usethe intelligence, such as it was, of the police, telling them to actwith caution. 

Would he make inquiries at all the lodging-houses? That was a doubtfulpoint. Jones tried to fancy himself in Hoover's position and failed. 

One thing certainly Hoover would do. Have all the exits fromSandbourne-on-Sea watched. That was the logical thing to do, and Hooverwas a logical man. 

There was nothing to do but give the hunt time to cool off, and at thisthought the prospect of days of lurking in this room of right angles andhorsehair-covered furniture, rose up before him like a black billow. Then came the almost comforting thought, he could not lurk withoutcreating suspicion on the part of Mrs. Henshaw. He would have to getout, somehow. The weather was glorious, and the strip of seaweedhanging by the mantelpiece dry as tinder. A sea-side visitor who sat allday in his room in the face of such weather, would create a mostunhealthy interest in the mind of any sea-side landlady. No, whateverelse he might do he could not lurk. 

The most terrible things in dramatic situations are the little thingsthat speak to one for once in their lives. The pattern of the carpetthat tells you that there is no doubt of the fact that your wife has runaway with all your money, and left you with seven children to lookafter, the form of the chair that tells you that Justice with a noose inher hand is waiting on the front door step. Jones, just now, was underthe obsession of _the_ picture of the room, whose place was above themantelpiece. 

It was an oleograph of a gentleman in uniform, probably the PrinceConsort, correct, sane, urbane--a terrible comparison for a man in aninsane situation, for insanity is not confined to the brain of man orits productions--though heaven knows she has a fine field of movement inboth. 

A thundering rat-tat-tat at the hall door brought Jones to his feet. Heheard the door answered, a voice outside saying "N'k you" and the doorshut. It was some parcel left in. Then he heard Mrs. Henshaw descendingthe kitchen stairs and all was quiet. He turned to the bookcase, openedit, inspected the contents, and chose "Moths. "

CHAPTER XXV

MOTHS

In ill-health or convalescence, or worry or tribulation, the ordinarymind does not turn to Milton or Shakespeare, or even to the sermons ofCharles Haddon Spurgeon. There are few classics that will stand the testof a cold in the head, or a fit of depression, or a worrying husband, ora minor tragedy. Here the writer of "light fiction" stands firm. 

Jones had never been a great reader, he had read a cheap novel or two, but his browsings in the literary fields had been mainly confined to theuplands where the grass is improving. 

Colour, poetry, and construction in fiction were unknown to him, andnow--he suddenly found himself on the beach at Trouville. 

On the beach at Trouville with Lady Dolly skipping before him in thesea. 

He had reached the forced engagement of the beautiful heroine to thewicked Russian Prince, when the door opened and the supper tray entered, followed by Mrs. Henshaw. Left to honour and her own initiative she hadproduced a huge lobster, followed by cheese, and three little dulllooking jam tarts on a willow pattern plate. 

When Jones had ruined the lobster and devoured the tarts he went on withthe book. The lovely heroine had become for him Teresa, Countess ofRochester, the Opera singer himself, and the Russian Prince Maniloff. 

Then the deepening dusk tore him from the book. Work had to be done. 

He rang the bell, told Mrs. Henshaw that he was going to the railwaystation to see after his luggage, took his cap, and went out. Strangelyenough he did not feel nervous. The first flurry had passed, and he hadadapted himself to the situation, the deepening darkness gave him asense of security, and the lights of the shops cheered him somehow. 

He turned to the left towards the sea. 

Fifty yards down the street he came across a Gentlemen's Outfitters, inwhose windows coloured neckties screamed, and fancy shirts raised theirdiscordant voices with Gent's summer waistcoats and those panama hats, adored in the year of this story by the river and sea-side youth. 

Jones, under the hands of Rochester's valet, and forced by circumstancesto use Rochester's clothes, was one of the best dressed men in London. Left to himself in this matter he was lost. He had no idea of what towear or what not to wear, no idea of the social damnation that lies intweed trousers not turned up at the bottom, fancy waistcoats, madeevening ties, a bowler worn with a black morning coat, or dog-skingloves. Heinenberg and Obermann of Philadelphia had dressed him tillStultz unconsciously took the business over. He was barely conscious ofthe incongruity of his present get-up topped by the tweed shooting capof Hoover's, but he was quite conscious of the fact that some alterationin dress was imperative as a means towards escape fromSandbourne-on-Sea. 

He entered the shop of Towler and Simpkinson, bought a six andelevenpenny panama, put it on and had the tweed cap done up in a parcel. Then a flannel coat attracted him, a grey flannel tennis coat pricefifteen shillings. It fitted him to a charm, save for the almostnegligible fact that the sleeves came down nearly to his knuckles. Thenhe bought a night shirt for three and eleven, and had the whole lot doneup in one parcel. 

At a chemist's next door he bought a tooth brush. In the mirror acrossthe counter he caught a glimpse of himself in the panama. It seemed tohim that not only had he never looked so well in any other head gear, but that his appearance was completely altered. 

Charmed and comforted he left the shop. Next door to the chemist's andat the street corner was a public house. 

Jones felt certain from his knowledge of Hoover that the very last placeto come across one of his assistants would be a public house. He enteredthe public bar, took a seat by the counter and ordered a glass of beerand a packet of cigarettes. The place was rank with the fumes of cheaptobacco and cigarettes and the smell of beer. Hard gas light shewed noadornment, nothing but pitch pine panelling, spittoons, bottles onshelves and an almanac. The barmaid, a long-necked girl with red hands, and cheap rings and a rose in her belt, detached herself from earnestconversation with a youth in a bowler inhabiting the saloon bar, pulleda handle, dumped a glass of beer before Jones and gave him changewithout word or glance, returning to her conversation with the bowleredyouth. She evidently had no eyes at all for people in the public bar. There are grades, even in the tavern. 

Close to where Jones had taken his seat was standing a person in brokenshoes, an old straw hat, a coat, with parcels evidently in the tailpockets, and trousers frayed at the heels. He had a red unshaven face, and was reading the _Evening Courier_. 

Suddenly he banged the paper with the tips of the fingers of his righthand and cast it on the counter. 

"Govinment! Govinment! nice sort of govinment, payin' each other fourhundred a year for followin' Asquith and robbin' the landowners to getthe money--God lumme. "

He paused to light a filthy clay pipe. He had his eyes on Jones, andevidently considered him, for some occult reason, of the same way ofpolitical thinking as himself, and he addressed him in that impersonalway in which one addresses an audience. 

"They've downed and outed the House o' Lords, an' now they're scraggin'the Welsh Church, after that they'll go for the Landed Prepriotor andfinish _him_. And who's to blame? the Radicals--no, they ain't toblame, no more than rats for their instincts; we're to blame, theConservatives is to blame, we haven't got a fightin' man to purtect us. The Radicals has got all the tallant--you look at the fight Bonna Lor'sbeen makin' this week. Fight! A blind Tom cat with his head in an oldt'marter tin would make a better fight than Bonna Lor's put up. Look atChurchill, that chap was one of us once, he was born to lead theclarses, an' now look at him leadin' the marses, up to his neck inRadical dirt and pretendin' he likes it. He doesn't, but he's a man withan eye in his head and he knows what we are, a boneless lot withoutorganisation. I say it myself, I said it only larst night in this herebar, and I say it again, for two pins I'd chuck my party. I would so. For two pins I'd chuck the country, and leave the whole lot to stew intheir own grease. "

He addressed himself to his beer, and Jones, greatly marvelling, lit acigarette. 

"Do you live here?" asked he. 

"Sh'd think I did, " replied the other. "Born here and bred here, andbeen watchin' the place going down for the last twenty years, turnin'from a decent residential neighbourhood to a collection of schools andlodgin' houses, losin' clarse every year. Why the biggest house here isowned by a chap that sells patent food, there's two socialists on thetown council, and the Mayor last year was Hoover, a chap that owns alunatic 'sylum. One of his loonies got out last March and near did for achild on the Southgate Road before he was collared; and yet they make aMayor of him. "

"Have another drink?" said Jones. 

"I don't mind if I do. "

"Well, here's luck, " said he, putting his nose into the new glass. 

"Luck!" said Jones. "Do Hoover's lunatics often escape?"

"Escape--why I heard only an hour ago another of them was out. Gawd helphim if the town folk catch him at any of his tricks, and Gawd helpHoover. A chap has no right comin' down and settin' up a business likethat in a place like this full of nursemaids and children. People bringtheir innercent children down here to play on the sands, and any minitthat place may break loose like a bum-shell. _That's_ not marked down onthe prospectices they publish with pictures done in blue and yaller, andlies about the air and water, and the salubriarity of the South Coast. "

"No, I suppose not, " said Jones. 

"Well, I must be goin', " said the other, emptying his glass and wipinghis mouth on the back of his hand. "Good night to you. "

"Good night. "

The upholder of Church and State shuffled out, leaving Jones to histhoughts. Wind of the business had got about the town, and even at thatmoment no doubt people were carefully locking back doors and looking inout houses. 

It was unfortunate that the last man to escape from the Hooverestablishment had been violently inclined, that was the one thing neededto stimulate Rumour and make her spread. 

Having sat for ten minutes longer and consumed another glass of tepidbeer, he took his departure. 

Mrs. Henshaw let him in, and having informed her of his journey to thestation, the fruitlessness of his quest, and his opinion of the railwaycompany, its servants and its methods, he received his candle and wentto bed. 

CHAPTER XXVI

A TRAMP, AND OTHER THINGS

He was awakened by a glorious morning, and, looking out of his window, he saw the street astir in the sunshine, stout men in white flannelswith morning newspapers in their hands, children already on their way tothe beach with spades and buckets, all the morning life of an Englishseacoast town in Summer. 

Then he dressed. He had no razor, his beard was beginning to show, andto go about unshaved was impossible to his nature. For a moment the wildidea of letting his beard grow--that oldest form of disguise--occurredto him, only to be dismissed immediately. A beard takes a month to grow, he had neither the time nor the money to do it, nor the inclination. 

At breakfast--two kippered herrings and marmalade--he held a council ofwar with himself. 

Nature has equipped every animal with means for offence and defence. Toman she has given daring, and that strange indifference in cool blood todanger, when danger has become familiar, which seems the attribute ofman alone. 

Jones determined to risk everything, go out, prospect, find some likelyroad of escape, and make a bold dash. The eight thousand pounds in theLondon Bank shone before him like a galaxy of eight stars; no one knewof its existence. What he was to do when he had secured it was a matterfor future consideration. Probably he would return right away to theStates. 

One great thing about all this Hoover business was the fact that it hadfreed him from the haunting dread of those terrible sensations ofduality and negation. Fighting is the finest antidote to nerve troublesand mental dreads, and he was fighting now for his liberty, for the factstood clearly before him, that, whether the Rochester family believedhim to be Rochester or believed him to be Jones, it was to theirinterest to hold him as a lunatic in peaceful retirement. 

Having breakfasted he lit a cigarette, asked Mrs. Henshaw for a latchkey so that he might not trouble her, put on his panama and went out. There was a barber's shop across the way, he entered it, found a vacantchair and was shaved. Then he bought a newspaper and strolled in thedirection of the beach. The idea had come to him that he might be ableto hire a sailing boat and reach London that way, a preposterous andvague idea that still, however, led him till he reached the esplanade, and stood with the sea wind blowing in his face. 

The only sailing boats visible were excursion craft, guarded bylongshoremen, loading up with trippers, and showing placards to allurethe innocent. 

The sands were swarming, and the bathing machines crawling towards thesea. 

He came on to the beach and took his seat on the warm, white sands, withfreedom before him had he been a gull or a fish. To take one of thosecockleshell row boats and scull a few miles down the coast would leadhim where? Only along the coast, rock-strewn beyond the sands and facedwith cliffs. Of boat craft he had no knowledge, the sea was choppy, andthe sailing boats now out seemed going like race horses over hurdles. 

No, he would wait till after luncheon, then in that somnolent hour whenall men's thoughts are a bit dulled, and vigilance least awake, he wouldfind some road, on good hard land, and make his dash. 

He would try and get a bicycle map of this part of Wessex. He hadnoticed a big stationers' and book-sellers' near the beach, and he wouldcall there on his way back. 

Then he fell to reading his paper, smoking cigarettes, and watching thecrowd. 

Watching, he was presently rewarded with the sight of the present daydisgrace of England. Out of a bathing tent, and into the full sunlight, came a girl with nothing on, for skin tight blue stockinette is nothingin the eyes of Modesty; every elevation, every depression, every creasein her shameless anatomy exposed to a hundred pairs of eyes, she walkedcalmly towards the water. A young man to match followed. Then theywallowed in the sea. 

Jones forgot Hoover. He recalled Lady Dolly in "Moths"--Lady Dolly, who, on the beach of Sandbourne-on-Sea would have been the pink ofpropriety, and the inhabitants of this beach were not wicked societypeople, but respectable middle class folk. 

"That's pretty thick, " said Jones to an old gentleman like a goatsitting close to him, whose eyes were fixed in contemplation on thebathers. 

"What?"

"That girl in blue. Don't any of them wear decent clothes?"

"The scraggy ones do, " replied the other, speaking in a far away andcontented manner. 

At about half past eleven Jones left the beach, tired of the glare andthe bathers, and the sand digging children. He called at the book shop, and for a shilling obtained a bicycle map of the coast, and sitting on aseat outside the shop scanned it. 

There were three roads out of Sandbourne-on-Sea; the London road; a roadacross the cliffs to the west; and a road across the cliffs to the east. The easterly road led to Northbourne, a sea-side town some six or sevenmiles away, the westerly road to Southbourne, some fifteen miles off. London lay sixty miles to the north. The railway touched the London roadat Houghton Admiral, a station some nine miles up the line. 

That was the position. Should he take the London road and board a trainat Houghton Admiral, or take the road to Northbourne and get a trainfrom there?

The three ways lay before him like the three Fates, and he determined onthe London road. 

However, Man proposes and God disposes. 

He folded up the map, put it in his pocket and started for home--or atleast Mrs. Henshaw's. 

Just at the commencement of the street he paused before aphotographer's to inspect the pictures exposed for view. Groups, familyparties, children, and girls with undecided features. He turned from thecontemplation of these things and found himself face to face withHoover. 

Hoover must have turned into the street from a bye way, for only sixtyseconds before the street had been Hooverless. He was dressed in aNorfolk jacket and knickerbockers, and his calves showed huge. 

"Hello!" said Jones. 

The exclamation was ejected from him so to speak, by the mental shock. 

Hoover's hand shot out to grasp his prey. What happened then wasdescribed by Mr. Shonts, the German draper across the way, to a friend. 

"The thin man hit Mr. Hoover in the stomack, who sat down, but liftedhimself at wance and pursued him. "

Jones ran. After him followed a constable, sprung from nowhere, boys, adog that seemed running for exercise, and Hoover. 

He reached the house of Mrs. Henshaw, pulled the latch key from hispocket, plunged it in the lock, opened the door and shut it. So closewas the pursuit on him that the "bang-bang" of the knocker followed atonce on the bang of the door. 

Then the bell went, peal after peal. 

Jones made for the kitchen stairs and bolted down them, found a passageleading to the back door, and, disregarding the bewildered Mrs. Henshaw, who was coming out of the kitchen with her hands all over flour, foundthe back yard. 

A blank wall lay before him, another on the right, and another on theleft. The left and right walls divided the Henshaw back yard from theyards of the houses on either side, the wall immediately before himdivided it from the back yard of a house in Minerva Terrace, which wasparallel to the High Street. 

Jones chose this wall. A tenantless dog kennel standing before it helpedhim, and next moment he was over, shaken up with a drop of twelve feetand facing a clothes line full of linen. He dived under a sheet andalmost into the back of a broad woman hanging linen on a second clothesline, found the back door of the house, which the broad woman had leftopen, ran down a passage, up a kitchen stairs and into a hall. An oldgentleman in list slippers, coming out of a room on the right, asked himwhat he wanted. Jones, recalling the affair later, could hear the oldgentleman's voice and words. 

He did not pause to reply. He opened the hall door, and the next momenthe was in Minerva Terrace. It was fortunately deserted. He ran to theleft, found a bye way and a terrace of artisans' dwellings, new, hideous, and composed of yellow brick. In front of the terrace layfields. A gate in the hedge invited him, he climbed over it, crossed afield, found another gate which led him to another field, and foundhimself surrounded by the silence of the country, a silence pierced andthrilled by the songs of larks. Larks make the sea lands of the southand east coasts insufferable. One lark in a suitable setting, and, for awhile, is delightful, but twenty larks in all grades of ascent anddescent, some near, some distant, make for melancholy. 

Jones crouched in a hedge for a while to get back his breath. He waslost. Road maps were not much use to him here. The larks insisted onthat, jubilantly or sorrowfully according to the stage of their flight. 

Then something or someone immediately behind him on the other side ofthe hedge breathed a huge sigh, as if lamenting over his fate. He jumpedup. It was a cow. He could see her through the brambles and smell hertoo, sweet as a Devonshire dairy. 

Then he sat down again to think and examine the map, which he hadfortunately placed in his pocket. The roads were there but how to reachthem was the problem, and the London road, to which he had pinned hisfaith, was now impossible. It would be surely watched. He determined, after a long consultation with himself, to make for Northbourne, striking across the fields straight ahead, and picking up the cliff roadsomewhere on its course. 

He judged, and rightly enough, that Hoover would hunt for him, not alongthe coast but inland. Northbourne was not the road to London, eventhough a train might be caught from Northbourne. The whole business wasdesperate, but this course seemed the least desperate way out of it. Andhe need not hurry, speed would be of no avail in this race againstFate. 

He took the money from his pocket and counted it. Out of the nine poundshe started with from Hoover's there remained only five pounds eleven andninepence. 

He had spent as follows:

 Mrs. Henshaw £2 0 0 Panama 6 11 Nightshirt 3 11 Coat 15 0 Public House 10 Shave and Newspaper 7 Road Map 1 0 ---------- £3 8 3

He went over these accounts and checked them in his head. Then he putthe money back in his pocket and started on his way across the fields. 

Despite all his worries this English country interested him, it alsoannoyed him. Fields, the size of pocket handkerchiefs, divided one fromthe other by monstrous hedges and deep ditches. To cross this country ina straight line one would want to be a deer or a bounding kangaroo. Gates, always at corners and always diagonal to his path, gave himaccess from one field to the other. Trees there were none. The Englishtree has an antipathy to the sea, and keeps away from it, but the hedgehas no sensitiveness of this sort. These hedges seemed to love the sea, to judge by their size. 

He was just in the act of clambering over one of the innumerable gateswhen a voice hailed him. He looked back. A young man in leggings, whohad evidently been following him unperceived, raised a hand. Jonesfinished his business with the gate, and then, with it between him andthe stranger, waited. He was well dressed in a rough way, evidently asuperior sort of farmer, and physically a person to be reckoned with. Hewas also an exceedingly cantankerous looking individual. 

"Do you know that you are trespassing?" asked he, when they were withinspeaking distance. 

"No, " said Jones. 

"Well, you are. I must ask you for your name and address, please. "

"What on earth for--what harm am I doing your old fields?" Jones hadforgotten his position, everything, before the outrage on common sense. 

"You are trespassing, that's all. I must ask you for your name andaddress. "

Now to Jones came the recollection of something he had read somewhere. Astatement, that in England there was no law of trespass in the countryplaces, and that a person might go anywhere to pick mushrooms or wildflowers, and no landlord could interfere so long as no damage was done. 

"Don't you know the law?" asked Jones. He recited the law accordingly, to the Unknown. 

The other listened politely. 

"I ask you for your name and address, " said he. "Our lawyers will settlethe other matter. "

Then anger came to Jones. 

"I am the Earl of Rochester, " said he, "and my address is Carlton HouseTerrace, London. I have no cards on me. "

Then the queerest sensation came to Jones, for he saw that the other hadrecognised him. Rochester was evidently as well known to the ordinaryEnglishman, by picture and repute, as Lloyd George. 

"I beg your pardon, " said the other, "but the fact is that my land isover-run with people from Sandbourne--sorry. "

"Oh, don't mention it, " replied the Earl of Rochester. "I sha'n't do anydamage. Good day. " They parted and he pursued his way. 

A mile farther on he came upon a person with broken boots, a beery face, and clothes to match his boots. This person was seated in the sunshineunder a hedge, a bundle and a tin can beside him. 

He hailed Jones as "Guvernor" and requested a match. 

Jones supplied the match, and they fell into conversation. 

"Northbourne, " said the tramp. "I'm goin' that way meself. I'll shew youthe quickest way when I've had a suck at me pipe. "

Jones rested for a moment by the hedge whilst the pipe was lit. Thetrespass business was still hot in his mind. The cave-in of the Landlordhad not entirely removed the sense of outrage. 

"Aren't you afraid of being held up for trespass?" asked he. 

"Trespass, " replied the other, "not me. I ain't afeared of no farmers. "

Jones gave his experience. 

"Don't you be under no bloomin' error, " said the tramp, when the recitalwas finished. "That chap was right enough. That chap couldn't touch thelikes of me, unless he lied and swore I'd broke fences, but he couldtouch the likes of you. I know the Lor. I know it in and out. Landlordsdon't know it as well as me. That chap knows the lor, else he wouldn'ta' been so keen on gettin' your name and where you lived. "

"But how could he have touched me if he cannot touch you?"

The tramp chuckled. 

"I'll tell you, " said he, "and I'll tell you what he'll do now he's gotwhere you live. He'll go to the Co't o' Charncery and arsk for a'junction against you to stop you goin' over his fields. You don't wantto go over his fields any more, that don't matter. He'll get his'junction and you'll have to pay the bloomin' costs--see--the bloomin'costs, and what will that amahnt to? Gawd knows, maybe a hundred pound. Lots of folks take it into their silly heads they can go where theywant. They carnt, not if the Landlord knows his Lor, not unless they'rehoofin' it like me. Lot o' use bringin' _me_ up to the Co't o'Charncery. "

"Do you mean to say that just for walking over a field a man can be hadup to the court of Chancery and fined a hundred pounds?"

"He ain't fined, it's took off him in costs. "

"You seem to know a lot about the law, " said Jones, calling up the manof the public house last night, and coming to the conclusion thatamongst the English lower orders there must be a vast fund of a peculiarsort of intelligence. 

"Yes, " said the tramp. "I told you I did. " Then interestedly, "Whatmight your name be?"

Jones repeated the magic formula to see the effect. 

"I am the Earl of Rochester. "

"Lord Rochester. Thought I knew your face. Lost half a quid over yourhorse runnin' at Gatwood Park last Spring twel' months. 'White Lady'came in second to 'The Nun, ' half a quid. I'd made a bit on 'ChampaneBottle' in the sellin' plate. Run me eye over the lists and picked out'White Lady. ' Didn't know nothin' abaht her, said to a fren', 'here's myfancy. Don't know nothin' abaht her, but she's one of Lord Rawchester's, an' his horses run stright'--That's what I said--'His horses runstright' and give me a stright run boss with a wooden leg before any ofyour fliers with a dope in his belly or a pullin' jockey on his back. But the grown' did her, she was beat on the post by haff an 'eck, you'llremember. She'd a won be two lengths, on'y for that bit o' soggy grown'be the post. That grown' want over-haulin', haff a shower o' rain, andboss wants fins and flippers instead o' hoofs. "

"Yes, " said Jones, "that's so. "

"A few barra' loads o' gravel would put it rite, " continued the other, "it ain't fair on the hosses, and it ain't fair on the backers, 'arf aquid I dropped on that mucky bit o' grown'. Last Doncaster meetin' Iwas sayin' the very same thing to Lor' Lonsdale over the DoncasterCourse. I met him, man to man like, outside the ring, and he handed meout a cigar. We talked same as you and me might be talkin' now, and Isays to him: 'What we want's more money put into drains on the courses. Look at them mucky farmers they way they drains their land, ' said I, 'and look at us runnin' hosses and layin' our bets and let down, hossesand backers and all, for want of the courses bein' looked after proper. '"

He tapped the dottle out of his pipe, picked up the bundle, and rosegrumbling. 

Then he led the way in the direction of Northbourne. 

It was a little after three o'clock now, and the day was sultry. Jones, despite his other troubles, was vastly interested in his companion. Theheight of Rochester's position had never appeared truly till shown himby the farmer and this tramp. They knew him. To them, without any doubt, the philosophers and poets of the world were unknown, but they knew theEarl of Rochester, and not unfavourably. 

Millions upon millions of the English world were equally acquainted withhis lordship, he was most evidently a National figure. Hisunconventionality, his "larks, " his lavishness, and his horse racingpropensities, however they might pain his family, would be meat to thelegions who loved a lord, who loved a bet, who loved a horse, and apicturesque spendthrift. 

To be Rochester was not only to be a lord, it was more than that. It wasto be famous, a national character, whose picture was printed on theretina of the million. Never had Jones felt more inclined to stick tohis position than now, with the hounds on his traces, a tramp for hiscompanion, and darkness ahead. He felt that if he could once get toLondon, once lay his hands on that eight thousand pounds lying in theNational Provincial Bank, he could fight. Fight for freedom, get lawyersto help him, and retain his phantom coronet. 

He had ceased to fear madness; all that dread of losing himself hadvanished, at least for the moment. Hoover had cured him. 

Meanwhile they talked as they went, the tramp laying down the law as torights over commons and waste lands, seeming absolutely to forget thathe was talking to, or supposed to be talking to, a landed proprietor. Atlast they reached the white ribbon that runs over the cliffs fromSandbourne to Northbourne and beyond. 

"Here's the road, " said the tramp, "and I'll be takin' leave of yourlor'ship. I'll take it easy for a bit amongst them bushes, there's nocall for me to hurry. I shawnt forget meetin' your lor'ship. Blimy if Iwill. Me sittin' there under that hedge an' thinkin' of that half quid Idropped over 'White Lady' and your lor'ship comin' along--It gets me!"

Up to this moment of parting he had not once Lordshipped Jones. 

Jones, feeling in his pocket, produced the half sovereign, which, withfive pounds one and nine pence made up his worldly wealth at the moment. 

He handed it over, and the tramp spat on it for luck. 

Then they parted, and the fugitive resumed his way with a lighter pocketbut a somewhat lighter heart. 

There are people who increase and people who reduce one's energy, it issometimes enough to look at them without even talking to them. The trampbelonged to the former class. He had cheered Jones. There was nothingparticularly cheery in his conversation, all the same the effect hadbeen produced. 

Now, along the cliff road and coming from the direction of Northbourne ablack speck developed, resolving itself at last into the form of an oldman carrying a basket. The basket was filled with apples and Banburycakes. Jones bought eight Banbury cakes and two apples with his one andnine pence, and then took his seat on the warm turf by the way to devourthem. He lay on his side as he ate and cursed Hoover. 

To lie here for an hour on this idyllic day, to watch the white gullsflying, to listen to the whisper of the sea far below, what could bebetter than that? He determined if ever he should win freedom and moneyto return here for a holiday. 

He was thinking this, when, raised now on his elbow, he saw somethingmoving amongst the bushes and long grass of the waste lands borderingthe cliff road. 

It was a man, a man on all fours, yet moving swiftly, a sight naturalenough in the deer-stalking Highlands, but uncanny on these Wessexdowns. 

Jones leaving four Banbury cakes uneaten on the grass, sprang to hisfeet, so did the crawling one. 

Then the race began. 

The pursuer was handicapped. 

Any two sides of a triangle are longer than the third. A right linetowards Jones would save many yards, but the going would be bad onaccount of the brambles and bushes, a straight line to the road wouldlenghten the distance to be covered, but would give a much better coursewhen the road was reached. He chose the latter. 

The result was, that when the race really started the pursuer was nearlyhalf a mile to the bad. But he had not recently consumed four Banburycakes and two apples. Super-Banbury cakes of the dear old days, whenmargarine was ninepence a pound, flour unlimited, and currants unsoughtafter by the wealthy. 

Jones had not run for years. And in this connection it is quitesurprising how Society pursues a man once he gets over the barrier--andespecially when he has to run for his liberty. 

The first mile was bad, then he got his second wind handed to him, despite everything, by a fair constitution and a fairly respectablelife, but the pursuer was now only a quarter of a mile behind. Up tothis the course had been clear with no spectators, but now came alongfrom the direction of Northbourne an invalid on the arm of an attendant, and behind them a boy on a bicycle. The bicycle was an inspiration. 

It was also yellow painted, and bore a carrier in front blazoned withthe name of a Northbourne Italian Warehouseman. It contained parcels, evidently intended for one of the few bungalows that strewed the cliff. 

The boy fought to defend his master's property, briefly, but still hefought, till a happy stroke in the wind laid him on the sun-warmed turf. The screams of the invalid--it was a female--sounded in the ears ofJones like part of some fantastic dream, so seemed the bicycle. It hadno bell, the saddle wanted raising at least two inches, still it went, and the wind was behind. 

On the right was a sheer drop of two hundred feet, and the road hereskirted the cliff edge murderously close, for the simple reason thatcliff falls had eaten the bordering grass to within a few feet of theroad. This course on an unknown and questionable bicycle laden withparcels of tea and sugar, was open to a good many objections; they didnot occur to Jones; he was making good speed, or thought he was till thelong declivity leading to Northbourne was reached. Here he began to knowwhat speed really was, for he found on pressing the lever that the brakewould not act. Fortunately it was a free wheel. 

This declivity runs between detached villas and stone walls, shelteringprim gardens, right on to the west end of the esplanade, which is, infact, a continuation of it. For the first few hundred yards Jonesthought that nothing could go quicker than the houses and walls rushingpast him, towards the end he was not thinking. 

The esplanade opened out, a happy band of children with buckets andwooden spades, returning home to tea, opened out, gave place to rushingapartment houses with green balconies on the left, rushing sea scape andbathing machines on the right. Then the speed slackened. 

He got off shaking, and looked behind him. He had reached the east endof the promenade. It lay, as it always lies towards five o'clock, absolutely deserted by visitors. In the distance and just stepped out ofa newspaper kiosk a woman was standing, shading her eyes and lookingtowards him. Two boatmen near her were looking in the same direction. They did not seem excited, just mildly interested. 

At that moment appeared on the long slope leading down to the esplanadethe figure of a man running. He looked like a policeman--a sea-sidepoliceman. 

Jones did not pause to verify. He propped the bicycle against the railsof a verandahed house and ran. 

The esplanade at this, the eastern end, ascends to the town by a zig-zagroad. As he took this ascent the mind of Jones, far from being cloudedor dulled, was acutely active. It saw that now the railway station ofNorthbourne was out of count, flight by train was impossible, for thestation was the very first place that would be watched. The coast line, to judge by present results, was impossible, for it seemed that to keepto it he might go on for ever being chased till he reached John o'Groats. 

Northbourne is the twin image of Sandbourne-on-Sea, the same long highstreet, the same shops with blinds selling the same wares, the sametrippers, children with spades, and invalids. 

The two towns are rivals, each claiming the biggest brass band, thelongest esplanade, the fewer deaths from drowning, the best drains, themost sunlight, and the swiftest trains from London. Needless to say thatone of them is not speaking the truth, a fact that does not seem todisturb either of them in the least. 

Jones, walking swiftly, passed a sea-side boot shop, a butcher's, greengrocer's, and Italian warehouse--the same, to judge by the nameover the door--that had sent forth the messenger boy on the bicycle. Then came a cinema palace, with huge pictures splashed across withyellow bands announcing:

 "TO-NIGHT"

Then a milliner's, then a post office, and lastly a livery stable. 

In front of the latter stood a char-a-banc nearly full. A blackboardannounced in white chalk: "Two hours drive two shillings, " and thecongregation in the char-a-banc had that stamp. Stout women, children, aweedy man or two, and a honeymoon couple. 

Jones, without the slightest hesitation, climbed into the char-a-banc. It seemed sent by Heaven. It was a seat, it went somewhere, and it wasa hiding place. Seated amongst these people he felt intuitively that aviewless barrier lay between him and his pursuers, that it was the verylast place a man in search of a runaway would glance at. 

He was right. Whilst the char-a-banc still lingered on the chance of alast customer, the running policeman--he was walking now, appeared atthe sea end of the street. He was a young man with a face like an apple, he wore a straw helmet--Northbourne serves out straw helmets for itspolice and straw hats for its horses on the first of June each year--andhe seemed blown. He was looking about him from right to left, but henever looked once at the char-a-banc and its contents. He went on, andround the corner of the street he vanished, still looking about him. 

A few moments later the vehicle started. The contents were cheerful andcommunicative one with the other, conversing freely on all sorts ofmatters, and Jones, listening despite himself, gathered all sorts ofinformation on subjects ranging from the pictures then exhibiting at thecinema palace, to the price of butter. 

He discovered that the contents consisted of three familyparties--exclusive of the honeymoon couple--and that the appearance ofuniversal fraternity was deceptive, that the parties were exclusive, theconversation of each being confined to its own members. 

So occupied was his mind by these facts that they were a mile and a halfaway from Northbourne and in the depths of the country before a greatdoubt seized him. 

He called across the heads of the others to the driver asking where theywere going to. 

"Sandbourne-on-Sea, " said the driver. 

Now, though the Sandbournites hate the Northbournites as the Guelphs theGhibellines, though the two towns are at advertisemental war, thefavourite pleasure drive of the char-a-bancs of Sandbourne is toNorthbourne, and vice versa. It is chosen simply because the road is thebest thereabouts, and the gradients the easiest for the horses. 

"Sandbourne-on-Sea?" cried Jones. 

"Yes, " said the driver. 

The vision of himself being carted back to Sandbourne-on-Sea with thatcrowd and then back again to Northbourne--if he were notcaught--appeared to Jones for the moment as the last possible grimace ofFate. He struggled to get out, calling to the driver that he did notwant to go to Sandbourne. The vehicle stopped, and the driver demandedthe full fare--two shillings. Jones produced one of his sovereigns butthe man could not make change, neither could any of the passengers. 

"I'll call at the livery stables as I go back, " said Jones, "and paythem there. "

"Where are you stayin' in the town?" asked the driver. 

"Belinda Villa, " said Jones. 

It was the name of the villa against whose rails he had left thebicycle. The idiocy of the title had struck him vaguely at the momentand the impression had remained. 

"Mrs. Cass?"

"Yes. "

"Mrs. Cass's empty. "

This unfortunate condition of Mrs. Cass did not floor Jones. 

"She was yesterday, " said he, "but I have taken the front parlour and abed-room this afternoon. "

"That's true, " said a fat woman, "I saw the gentleman go in with hisluggage. "

In any congregation of people you will always find a liar ready to liefor fun, or the excitement of having a part in the business on hand;failing that, a person equipped with an imagination that sees what itpleases. 

This amazing statement of the fat woman almost took Jones' breath away. But there are other people in a crowd beside liars. 

"Why can't the gentleman leave the sovereign with the driver and get thechange in the morning?" asked one of the weedy looking men. Thisscarecrow had not said a word to anyone during the drive. He seemed bornof mischance to live for that supreme moment, diminish an honest man'sways of escape, and wither. 

Jones withered him:

"You shut up, " said he. "It's no affair of yours--cheek. " Then tothe driver: "You know my address, if you don't trust me you can comeback with me and get change. "

Then he turned and walked off whilst the vehicle drove on. 

He waited till a bend of the road hid it from view, and then he took tothe fields on the left. 

He had still the remains of the packet of cigarettes he had bought atSandbourne, and, having crossed four or five gates, he took his seatunder a hedge and lit a cigarette. 

He was hungry. He had done a lot of work on four Banbury cakes and anapple. 

CHAPTER XXVII

THE ONLY MAN IN THE WORLD WHO WOULD BELIEVE HIM

The tobacco took the edge from his desire for food, increased his bloodpressure, and gave rest to his mind. 

He sat thinking. The story of "Moths" rose up before his mind and hefell to wondering how it ended and what became of the beautiful heroinewith whom he had linked Teresa Countess of Rochester, of Zouroff withwhom he had linked Maniloff, of Corréze with whom he had linked himself. 

The colour of that story had tinctured all his sea-side experiences. ThenMrs. Henshaw rose up before his mind. What was she thinking of thelodger who had flashed through her life and vanished over the backgarden wall? And the interview between her and Hoover--that would havebeen well worth seeing. Then the boy on the bicycle and the screaminginvalid rose before him, and that mad rush down the slope to theesplanade; if those children with spades and buckets had not parted asthey did, if a dog had got in his way, if the slope had ended in acurve! He amused himself with picturing these possibilities and theirresults; and then all at once a drowsiness more delightful than anydream closed on him and he fell asleep. 

It was after dark when he awoke with the remnant of a moon lighting thefield before him. From far away and borne on the wind from the sea camea faint sound as of a delirious donkey with brass lungs braying at themoon. It was the sound of a band. The Northbourne brass band playing inthe Cliff Gardens above the moonlit sea. Jones felt to see that hiscigarettes and matches were safe in his pocket, then he started, takinga line across country, trusting in Providence as a guide. 

Sometimes he paused and rested on a gate, listening to the faint andindeterminate sounds of the night, through which came occasionally thebarking of a distant dog like the beating of a trip hammer. 

It was a perfect summer's night, one of those rare nights that Englandalone can produce; there were glow worms in the hedges and a scent ofnew mown hay in the air. Though the music of the band had been blottedout by distance, listening intently he caught the faintest suspicion ofa whisper, continuous, and evidently the sound of the sea. 

An hour later, that is to say towards eleven o'clock, weary with findinghis way out of fields into fields, into grassy lanes and around farmhouse buildings, desperate, and faint from hunger, Jones found a roadand by the road a bungalow with a light in one of the windows. 

A dauntingly respectable-looking bungalow in the midst of a welllaid-out garden. 

Jones opened the gate and came up the path. He was going to demand food, offer to pay for it if necessary, and produce gold as an evidence ofgood faith. 

He came into the verandah, found the front door which was closed, strucka match, found the bell, pulled and pulled it. There was no response. Hewaited a little and then rang again, with a like result. Then he came tothe lighted window. 

It was a French window, only half closed, and a half turned lamp showeda comfortably furnished room and a table laid out for supper. 

Two places were set. A cold fowl intact on a dish garnished with parsleystood side by side with a York ham the worse for wear, a salad, a rollof cowslip coloured butter, a loaf of home-made bread and a cheesetucked around with a snow-white napkin made up the rest of the eatableswhilst a decanter of claret shone invitingly by the seat of the carver. There was nothing wanting, or only the invitation. 

The fowl supplied that. 

Jones pushed the window open and entered. Half closing it again, he tookhis seat at the table placing his hat on the floor beside him. Taking asovereign from his pocket, he placed it on the white cloth. Then he fellto. 

You can generally tell a man by his claret, and judging from this claretthe unknown who had supplied the feast must have been a most estimableman. 

A man of understanding and parts, a man not to be deluded by speciouswine lists, a generous warmhearted and full-blooded soul--and here hewas. 

A step sounded on the verandah, the window was pushed open and a man offorty years or so, well-dressed, tall, thin, dark and saturnine stoodbefore the feaster. 

He showed no surprise. Removing his hat he bowed. 

Jones half rose. 

"Hello, " said he confusedly, with his mouth full--then he subsided intohis chair. 

"I must apologise for being late, " said the tall man, placing his hat ona chair, rubbing his long hands together and moving to the vacant seat. "I was unavoidably detained. But I'm glad you did not wait supper. "

He took his seat, spread his napkin on his knees, and poured himself outa glass of claret. His eyes were fixed on the sovereign lying upon thecloth. He had noted it from the first. Jones picked it up and put it inhis pocket. 

"That's right, " said the unknown. Then as if in reply to a question: "Iwill have a wing, please. "

Jones cut a wing of the fowl, placed it in the extra plate which he hadplaced on one side of the table and presented it. The other cut himselfsome bread, helped himself to salad, salt and pepper and started eating, absolutely as though nothing unusual had occurred or was occurring. 

For half a minute or so neither spoke. Then Jones said:

"Look here, " said he, "I want to make some explanations. "

"Explanations, " said the long man, "what about?"

Jones laughed. 

"That sovereign which I put on the table and which I have put back in mypocket. I must apologise. Had I gone away before you returned that wouldhave been left behind to show that your room had been entered neither bya hobo nor a burglar, nor by some cad who had committed animpertinence--perhaps you will believe that. "

The long man bowed. 

"But, " went on Jones, "by a man who was driven by circumstances to seekhospitality without an invitation. "

The other had suddenly remembered the ham and had risen and was helpinghimself, his pince-nez which he wore on a ribbon and evidently only forreading purposes, dangling against his waistcoat-buttons. 

"By circumstance, " said he, "that is interesting. Circumstance is themaster dramatist--are you interested in the Drama?"

"Interested!" said Jones. "Why, I _am_ a drama. I reckon I'm the biggestdrama ever written, and that's why I am here to-night. "

"Ah, " said the other, "this is becoming more interesting still orpromising to become, for I warn you, plainly, that what may appear ofintense interest to the individual is generally of little interest tothe general. Now a man may, let's say, commit some little act that thething we call Justice disapproves of, and eluding Justice finds himselfpressed by Circumstance into queer and dramatic positions, thosepositions though of momentary and intense interest to the man inquestion would be of the vaguest interest to the man in the stalls orthe girls eating buns in the gallery, unless they were connected by thatthread of--what shall we call it--that is the backbone of the thing wecall Story. "

"Oh, Justice isn't bothering after me, " said Jones--Then vaguerecollections began to stir in his mind, that long glabrous face, theset of that jaw, that forehead, that hair, brushed back. 

"Why, you're Mr. Kellerman, aren't you?" said he. 

The other bowed. 

"Good heavens, " said Jones, "I ought to have known you. I've seen yourpicture often enough in the States, and your cinema plays--haven't readyour books, for I'm not a reading man--but I've been fair crazy overyour cinema plays. "

Kellerman bowed. 

"Help yourself to some cheese, " said he, "it's good. I get it fromFortnum and Masons. When I stepped into this room and saw you here, forthe first moment I was going to kick you out, then I thought I'd havesome fun with you and freeze you out. So you're American? You arewelcome. But just tell me this. Why did you come in, and how?"

"I came in because I am being chased, " said Jones. "It's not the law, Ireckon I'm an honest citizen--in purpose, anyhow, and as to how I camein I wanted a crust of bread and rang at your hall door. "

"Servants don't sleep here, " said Kellerman. "Cook snores, bungalow likea fiddle for conveying sounds, come here for sleep and rest. They sleepat a cottage down the road. "

"So?" said Jones. "Well, getting no reply I looked in at the window, sawthe supper, and came in. "

"That's just the sort of thing that might occur in a photo play, " saidKellerman. "When I saw you, as I stepped in, sitting quietly at supperthe situation struck me at once. "

"You call that a situation, " said Jones. "It's bald to some of thesituations I have been in for the last God knows how long. "

"You interest me, " said Kellerman, helping himself to cheese. "You talkwith such entire conviction of the value of your goods. "

"How do you mean the value of my goods?"

"Your situations, if you like the term better. Don't you know that goodsituations are rarer than diamonds and more valuable? Have you ever readPickwick?"

"Yep. "

"Then you can guess what I mean. Situations don't occur in real life, they have to be dug for in the diamond fields of the mind and--"

"Situations don't occur in real life!" said Jones. "Don't they--now, seehere, I've had supper with you and in return for your hospitality I'lltell you every thing that's happened to me if you'll hear it. I guessI'll shatter your illusions. I'll give you a sample: I belong to theLondon Senior Conservative Club and yet I don't. I have the swellesthouse in London yet it doesn't belong to me. I'm worth one million andeight thousand pounds, yet the other day I had to steal a fewsovereigns, but the law could not touch me for stealing them. I have anuncle who is a duke yet I am no relation to him. Sounds crazy, doesn'tit, all the same it's fact. I don't mind telling you the whole thing ifyou care to hear it. I won't give you the right names because there's awoman in the case, but I bet I'll lift your hair. "

Kellerman did not seem elated. 

"I don't mind listening to your story, " said he, "on one condition. "

"What's that?"

"That you will not be offended if I switch you off if the thing pallsand hand you your hat, for I must tell you that though I came down hereto get sleep, I do most of my sleeping between two in the morning andnoon. I work at night and I had intended working to-night. "

"Oh, you can switch me off when you like, " said Jones. 

Supper being finished, Kellerman fastened the window, and, carrying thelamp, led the way to a comfortably furnished study. Here he producedcigars and put a little kettle on a spirit stove to make tea. 

Then, sitting opposite to his host, in a comfortable armchair, Jonesbegan his story. 

He had told his infernal story so often that one might have fancied it apainful effort, even to begin. It was not. He had now an audience intouch with him. He suppressed names, or rather altered them, substituting Manchester for Rochester and Birdwood for Birdbrook. Theaudience did not care, it recked nothing of titles, it wanted Story--andit got it. 

At about one o'clock the recital was interrupted whilst tea was made, attwo o'clock or a little after the tale finished. 

"Well?" said Jones. 

Kellerman was leaning back in his chair with eyes half closed, he seemedcalculating something in his head. 

"D' you believe me?"

Kellerman opened his eyes. 

"Of course I believe you. If you had invented all that you would beclever enough to know what your invention is worth and not hand it outto a stranger. But I doubt whether anyone else will believeyou--however, that is your affair--you have given me five reels of thefinest stuff, or at least the material for it, and if I ever care to useit I will fix you up a contract giving you twenty-five per centroyalties. But there's one thing you haven't given me--the dénouement. I'm more than interested in that. I'm not thinking of money, I'm a filmactor at heart and I want to help in the play. Say, may I help?"

"How?"

"Come along with you to the end, give all the assistance in my power--oreven without that just watch the show. I want to see the last act forI'm blessed if I can imagine it. "

"I'd rather not, " said Jones. "You might get to know the real names ofthe people I'm dealing with, and as there is a woman in the business Idon't feel I ought to give her name away even to you. No. I reckon I'llpull through alone, but if you'd give me a sofa to sleep on to-night I'dbe grateful. Then I can get away in the morning. "

Kellerman did not press the point. 

"I'll give you better than a sofa, " he said. "There's a spare bed, andyou'd better not start in the morning; give them time to cool down. Thentowards evening you can make a dash. The servants here are all right, they'll think you are a friend run down from town to see me. I'llarrange all that. "

CHAPTER XXVIII

PEBBLEMARSH

At five o'clock next day, Jones, re-dressed by Kellerman in a morningcoat rather the worse for wear--a coat that had been left behind at thebungalow by one of Kellerman's friends--and a dark cloth cap, took hisdeparture from the bungalow. His appearance was frankly abominable, butquite distinct from the appearance of a man dressed in a grey flanneltennis coat and wearing a Panama--and that was the main point. 

Kellerman had also worked up a history and personality for the newlyattired one. 

"You are Mr. Isaacson, " said he. 

"Here's the card of a Mr. Isaacson who called some time ago, put it inyour pocket. I will write you a couple of fake letters to back the card, you are in the watch trade. Pebblemarsh is the nearest town, only fivemiles down the road; there's a station there, but you'd better avoidthat. There's a garage. You could get a car to London. If they nail you, scream like an excited Jew, produce your credentials, and if the worstcomes to the worst refer to me and come back here. I would love thatinterview. Country policeman, lunatic asylum man, Mr. Isaacson highlyexcited, and myself. "

He sat down to write the fake letters addressed to Mr. Isaacson by hisuncle Julius Goldberg and his partner Marcus Cohen. As he wrote hetalked over his shoulder on the subject of disguises, alleging that theonly really impenetrable disguise was that of a nigger minstrel. 

"You see, all black faces are pretty much the same, " said he. "Theirpredominant expression is black, but I haven't got the fixings nor thecoloured pants and things, to say nothing of a banjo, so I reckon you'lljust have to be Mr. Isaacson, and you may thank the God of the Hebrews Ihaven't made you an old clothes man--watches are respectable. Here areyour letters, they are short but credible. Have you enough money?"

"Lots, " said Jones, "and I don't know in the least how to thank you forwhat you have done. I'd have been had, sure, wearing that hat andcoat--well, maybe we'll meet again. "

They parted at the gate, the hunted one taking the white, dusty road inthe direction of Pebblemarsh, Kellerman watching till a bend hid himfrom view. 

Kellerman had in some mysterious way added a touch of the footlights tothis business. This confounded Kellerman who thought in terms of reelsand situations, had managed to inspire Jones with the feeling that hewas moving on the screen, and that any moment the hedgerows might giveup an army of pursuers to the delight of a hidden audience. 

However, the hedgerows of the Pebblemarsh road gave up nothing but theodours of briar and woodbine, nothing pursued him but the twitter ofbirds and the songs of larks above the summer-drowsy fields. 

There is nothing much better to live in the memory than a real oldEnglish country road on a perfect summer afternoon, no pleasantercompanion. 

Pebblemarsh is a town of some four thousand souls. It possesses a dyefactory. It once possessed the only really good trout stream in thispart of the country, with the inevitable result, for in England when areally good trout stream is discovered a dye factory is always erectedupon its banks. Pebblemarsh now only possesses a dye factory. 

The main street runs north and south, and as Jones passed up it he mighthave fancied himself in Sandbourne or Northbourne, so much alike arethese three towns. 

Half way up and opposite the post office, an archway disclosed itselfwith, above it, the magic word, "GARAGE"

He entered the place. There were no signs of cars, nothing of a movabledescription in that yard, with the exception of a stout man in leggingsand shirtsleeves, who, seeing the stranger, came forward to receive him. 

"Have you a car?" asked Jones. 

"They're all out except a Ford, " said the stout man. "Did you want to gofor a drive?"

"No. I want to run up to London in a hurry--what's the mileage fromhere?"

"We reckon it sixty three miles from here to London--that is to say theOld Kent Road. "

"That's near enough, " said Jones. "What's the price?"

"A shilling a mile to take you, and a sixpence a mile for the car comingback. "

"What's the total?"

The proprietor figured in his head for a moment. "Four, fifteen andsix, " said he. 

"I'll take the car, " said Jones, "and I'll pay you now. Can I have it atonce?"

The proprietor went to a door and opened it. "Jim, " cried he, "are youthere? Gentleman wants the Ford taken to London, get her out and getyourself ready. "

He turned to Jones. 

"She'll be ready inside ten minutes if that will do?"

"That'll do, " said Jones, "and here's the money. " He produced thechamois leather bag, paid the five sovereigns, and received five andsixpence change--and also a receipt which he put in his pocket. Then Jimappeared, an inconspicuous looking man, wriggling into a driving coatthat had seen better days, the Ford was taken from its den, the tyresexamined, and the petrol tank filled. 

"Haven't you an overcoat?" asked the proprietor. "It'll be chilly aftersundown. "

"No, " said Jones. "I came down without one, the weather was so fine--Itwon't hurt. "

"Better have a coat, " said the proprietor. "I'll lend you one. Jim willfetch it back. " He went off, and returned with a heavy coat on his arm. 

"That's good of you, " said Jones. "Thanks--I'll put it on now to savetrouble. " Then a bright idea struck him. "What I'm afraid of most is myeyes, the wind tries them. Have you any goggles?"

"I believe there's an old pair in the office, " said the proprietor, "hold on a minute. " He went off and returned with the goggles. Jonesthanked him, put them on, and got into the car. 

"Pleasant journey to you, " said the proprietor. 

Then they started. 

They turned up the street and along the road by which Jones had come. Then they struck into the road where the "Lucknows" and "Cawnpores"hinted of old Indian Colonels. 

They passed the gates of the Hoover establishment. It was open, and anattendant was gazing up and down the street. He looked at the car but hedid not recognize the occupant, then several more residential roads wereleft behind, a highly respectable cemetery, a tin chapel, and the car, taking a hill as Fords know how, dropped Sandbourne-on-Sea toinvisibility and surrounded itself with vast stretches of green and sunwarmed country, June scented, and hazy with the warmth of summer. 

They passed hop gardens and hamlets, broad meadows and grazing cattle, bosky woods and park lands. 

Jones, though he had taken the goggles off, saw little of the beautyaround him. He was recognising facts, and asking questions of himself. 

If Hoover or the police were to call at the garage, what would happen?Knowing the route of the car could they telegraph to towns on the wayand have him arrested? How did the English law stand as regards escapedgentlemen with hallucinations? Could they be arrested like criminals?Surely not--and yet as regards the law, who could be sure of anything?Jim, the speechless driver, could tell him nothing on these points. 

Towards dusk they reached a fairly big town, and in the very centre ofthe main street, Jim stopped the car to light the headlamps. Apoliceman, passing on his beat, paused to inspect the operation and thenmoved on, and the car resumed its way, driving into a world of twilightand scented hedges, where the glowworms were lighting up, and over whichthe sky was showing a silvery sprinkle of stars. 

Two more towns they passed unhindered, and then came the fringe ofLondon, a maze of lights and ways and houses, tram lines, and then anendless road, half road, half street, lines of shops, lines of oldhouses and semi gardens. 

Jim turned in his seat. "This here's the Kent Road, " said he. "We'reabout the middle of it, which part did you want?"

"This will do, " said Jones, "pull her up. "

He got out, took the four and sixpence from his pocket, and gave Jim twoshillings for a tip. 

"Going all the way back to-night?" asked he, as he wriggled out of thecoat, and handed it over with the goggles. 

"No, " said Jim. "I'll stop at the last pub we passed for the night. There ain't no use over taxin' a car. "

"Well, good night to you, " said Jones. He watched the car turning andvanishing, then, with a feeling of freedom he had never beforeexperienced, he pushed on London-wards. 

With only two and sixpence in his pocket, he would have to wander aboutall night, or sit on the embankment. He had several times seen theoutcasts on the embankment seats at night, and pitied them; he did notpity them now. They were free men and women. 

The wind had died away and the night was sultry, much pleasanter out ofdoors than in, a general term that did not apply to the Old Kent Road. 

The old road leading down to Kent was once, no doubt, a pleasant enoughplace, but pleasure had long forsaken it, and cleanliness. It was herethat David Copperfield sold his jacket, and the old clothiers' shops areso antiquated that any of them might have been the scene of thepurchase. To-night the old Kent Road was swarming, and the further Jonesadvanced towards the river the thicker seemed the throng. 

At a flaring public house, and for the price of a shilling, he obtainedenough food in the way of sausages and mashed potatoes, to satisfy hishunger, a half pint tankard of beer completed the satisfaction of hisinner man, and having bought a couple of packets of navy cut cigarettesand a box of matches, he left the place and pursued his way towards theriver. 

He had exactly tenpence in his pocket, and he fell to thinking as hewalked, of the extraordinary monetary fluctuations he had experienced inthis city of London. At the Savoy that fatal day he had less than tenpounds, next morning, though robed as a Lord, he had only a penny, thepenny had been reduced to a halfpenny by the purchase of a newspaper, the halfpenny swelled to five pounds by Rochester's gift, the fivepounds sprang in five minutes to eight thousand, owing to Voles, theeight thousand to a million eight thousand, owing to Mulhausen, Simmsand Cavendish had stripped him of his last cent, the Smithers affair hadgiven him five pounds, now he had only ten pence, and to-morrow at nineo'clock he would have eight thousand. 

It will be noted that he did not consider that eight thousand his, tillit was safe in his pocket in the form of notes--he had learned by bitterexperience to put his trust in nothing but the tangible. He reached theriver and the great bridge that spans it here, and on the bridge hepaused, leaning his elbow on the parapet, and looking down stream. 

The waning moon had risen, painting the water with silver; barge lightsand the lights of tugs and police boats shewed points of orange anddribbles of ruffled gold, whilst away down stream to the right, the airyfairy tracery of the Houses of Parliament fretted the sky. 

It was a nocturne after the heart of Whistler, and Jones, as he gazed atit, felt for the first time the magic of this wonderful half revealedcity with its million yellow eyes. He passed on, crossing to the rightbank, and found the Strand. Here in a bar, and for the price of half apint of beer, he sat for some twenty minutes watching the customers andkilling Time, then, with his worldly wealth reduced to eightpence, hewandered off westward, passing the Savoy, and pausing for a moment topeep down the great archway at the gaily lit hotel. 

At midnight he had gravitated to the embankment, and found a seat notovercrowded. 

Here he fell in with a gentleman, derelict like himself, a free spokenindividual, whose conversation wiled away an hour. 

CHAPTER XXIX

THE BLIGHTED CITY

Said the person after a request for a match: "Warm night, but there's achange in the weather coming on, or I'm greatly mistaken. I've lostnearly everything in the chops and changes of life, but there's onething I haven't lost--my barometer--that's to say my rheumatism. Ittells me when rain is coming as sure as an aneroid. London is prettyfull for the time of year, don't you think?"

"Yes, " said Jones, "I reckon it is. "

They talked, the gentleman with the barometer passing from the weatherto politics, from politics to high finance, from high finance tohimself. He had been a solicitor. 

"Disbarred, as you see, for nothing, but what a hundred men are doing atthe present moment. There's no justice in the world, except maybe in theLaw Courts. I'm not one of those who think the Law is an ass, no, there's a great deal of common sense in the Law of England. I'm nottalking of the Incorporated Law Society that shut me out from a living, for a slip any man might make. I'm talking of the old Laws of England asadministered by his Majesty's Judges; study them, and you will beastonished at their straight common-sense and justice. I'm not holdingany brief for lawyers--I'm frank, you see--the business of lawyers is towriggle round and circumvent the truth, to muddy evidence, confusewitnesses and undo justice. I'm just talking of the laws. "

"Do you know anything of the laws of lunacy?" asked Jones. 

"Something. "

"I had a friend who was supposed to be suffering from mind trouble, twodoctors doped him and put him away in an asylum--he was quite harmless. "

"What do you mean by doped him?" asked the other. 

"Gave him a drug to quiet him, and then took him off in an automobile. "

"Was there money involved?"

"You may say there was. He was worth a million. "

"Anyone to benefit by his being put away?"

"Well, I expect one might make out a case of that; the family would havethe handling of the million, wouldn't they?"

"It all depends--but there's one thing certain, there'd be a thunderinglaw case for any clever solicitor to handle if the plaintiff were nottoo far gone in his mind to plead. Anyhow, the drugging is out oforder--whole thing sounds fishy. "

"Suppose he escaped, " said Jones. "Could they take him back by force?"

"That's a difficult question to answer. If he were cutting up shines itwould be easy, but if he were clever enough to pretend to be sane itmight be difficult. You see, he would have to be arrested, no man can goup and seize another man in the street and say: You're mad, come alongwith me, simply because, even if he holds a certificate of lunacyagainst the other man the other man might say you've made a mistake, I'mnot the person you want. Then it would be a question of swearing beforea magistrate. The good old Laws of England are very strict about thefreedom of the body, and the rights of the individual man to be heard inhis own defence. If your lunatic were not too insane, and were to takerefuge in a friend's house, and the friend were to back him, that wouldmake things more difficult still. "

"If he were to take refuge in his own house?"

"Oh, that would make the thing still more difficult, very much more so. If, of course, he were not conducting himself in a manner detrimental tothe public peace, firing guns out of windows and so forth. The laws ofEngland are very strict about entering a man's house. Of course, werethe pursuers to go before a magistrate and swear that the pursued were adangerous lunatic, then a right of search and entry might be obtained, but on the pursuers would lie the onus of proof. Now pauper lunatics arevery easily dealt with: the Relieving Officer, on the strength of acertificate of lunacy, can go to the poor man's cottage or tenement, andtake him away, for, you see, the man possessing no property it issupposed that no man is interested in his internment, but onceintroduce the property element and there is the very devil to pay, especially in cases where the lunatic is only eccentric and does notcome into court with straws in his hair, so to speak. "

"I get you, " said Jones. He offered cigarettes, and presently thecommunicative one departed, having borrowed fourpence on the strength ofhis professional advice. 

The rest of that night was a very good imitation of a nightmare. Jonestried several different seats in succession, and managed to do a gooddeal of walking. Dawn found him on London Bridge, watching the birth ofanother perfect day, but without enthusiasm. 

He was cheerful but tired. The thought that at nine o'clock orthereabouts, he would be able to place his hands on eight thousandpounds, gave him the material for his cheerfulness. He had often read ofthe joy of open air life, and the freedom of the hobo; but open air lifein London, on looking back upon it, did not appeal to him. He had beentwice moved on by policemen, and his next door neighbours, after thedeparture of the barometer man, were of a type that inspired neitherliking nor trust. 

He heard Big Ben booming six o'clock. He had three hours still beforehim, and he determined to take it out in walking. He would go citywards, and then come back with an appetite for breakfast. 

Having made this resolve, he started, passing through the desertedstreets till he reached the Bank, and then onwards till he reached theMile End Road. 

As he walked he made plans. When he had drawn his money he wouldbreakfast at a restaurant, he fixed upon Romanos', eggs and bacon andsausages, coffee and hot rolls would be the _menu_. Then he fell towondering whether Romanos' would be open for breakfast, or whether itwas of the type of restaurant that only serves luncheons and dinners. Ifit were, then he could breakfast at the Charing Cross Hotel. 

These considerations led him a good distance on his way. Then the MileEnd Road beguiled him, lying straight and foreign looking, and empty inthe sunlight. The Barometer man's weather apparatus must have been atfault, for in all the sky there was not a cloud, nor the symptom of thecoming of a cloud. 

Away down near the docks, a clock over a public house pointed to halfpast seven, and he judged it time to return. 

He came back. The Mile End Road was still deserted, the city round thebank was destitute of life, Fleet Street empty. 

Pompeii lay not more utterly dead than this weird city of vast businesspalaces, and the Strand shewed nothing of life or almost nothing, everyshop was shuttered though now it was close upon nine o'clock. 

Something had happened to London, some blight had fallen on theinhabitants, death seemed everywhere, not seen but hinted at. Strayrecollections of weird stories by H. G. Wells passed through the mindof Jones. He recalled the city of London when the Martians had done withit, that city of death, and horror, and sunlight and silence. 

Then of a sudden, as he neared the Law Courts, the appalling truthsuddenly suggested itself to him. 

He walked up to a policeman on point of duty at a corner, a policemanwho seemed under the mesmerism of the general gloom and blight, apoliceman who might have been the blue concrete core of negation. 

"Say, officer, " said Jones, "what day's to-day?"

"Sunday, " said the policeman. 

CHAPTER XXX

A JUST MAN ANGERED

When things are piled one on top of another beyond a certain height, they generally come down with a crash. 

That one word "Sunday" was the last straw for Jones, sweeping awaybreakfast, bank and everything; coming on top of the events of the lasttwenty-four hours, it brought his mental complacency to ruin, ruin fromwhich shot blazing jets of wrath. 

Red rage filled him. He had been made game of, every man and everythingwas against him. Well, he would bite. He would strike. He would attack, careless of everything, heedless of everything. 

A mesmerised looking taxi-cab, crawling along on the opposite side ofthe way, fortunately caught his eye. 

"I'll make hay!" cried Jones, as he rushed across the street. He stoppedthe cab. 

"10A, Carlton House Terrace, " he cried to the driver. He got in and shutthe door with a bang. 

He got out at Carlton House Terrace, ran up the steps of 10A, and rangthe bell. 

The door was opened by the man who had helped to eject Spicer. He didnot seem in the least surprised to see Jones. 

"Pay that taxi, " said Jones. 

"Yes, my Lord, " replied the flunkey. 

Jones turned to the breakfast-room. The faint smell of coffee met him atthe door as he opened it. There were no servants in the room. Only awoman quietly breakfasting with the Life of St. Thomas à Kempis by herplate. 

It was Venetia Birdbrook. 

She half rose from her chair when she saw Jones. He shut the door. Thesight of Venetia acted upon him almost as badly as the word "Sunday" haddone. 

"What are you doing here?" said he. "I know--you and that lot had metucked away in a lunatic asylum; now you have taken possession of thehouse. "

Venetia was quite calm. 

"Since the house is not yours, " said she, "I fail to see how my presencehere affects you. We know the truth. Dr. Simms has arrived at theconclusion that your confession was at least based on truth. That youare what you proclaimed yourself to be, a man named Jones. We thoughtyou were mad, we see now that you are an impostor. Kindly leave thishouse or I will call for a policeman. "

Jones' mind lost all its fire. Hatred can cool as well as inflame and hehated Venetia and all her belongings, including her dowager mother andher uncle the duke, with a hatred well based on reason and fact. All hisfear of mind disturbance should he go on playing the part of Rochesterhad vanished, the fires of tribulation had purged them away. 

"I don't know what you are talking about, " said he. "Do you mean thatjoke I played on you all? I am the Earl of Rochester, this is my house, and I request you to leave it. Don't speak. I know what you are going tosay. You and your family will do this and you will do that. You will donothing. Even if I were an impostor you would dare to do nothing. Yourfamily washing is far, far too much soiled to expose it in public. 

"If I were an impostor, who can say I have not played an honourablegame? I have recovered valuable property--did I touch it and take itaway? Did I expose to the public an affair that would have caused ascandal? You will do nothing and you know it. You did not even dare totell the servants here what has happened, for the servant who let me inwas not a bit surprised. Now, if you have finished your breakfast, willyou kindly leave my house?"

Venetia rose and took up her book. 

"_Your_ house, " said she. 

"Yes, my house. From this day forth, my house. But that is not all. To-morrow I will get lawyers to work and I'll get apologies as big ashouses from the whole lot of you--else I'll prosecute. " He was gettingangry, "prosecute you for doping me. " Recollections of the Barometerman's advice came to him, "doping me in order to lay your hands on thatmillion of money. "

He went to the bell and rang it. 

"We want no scene before the servants, " said Venetia hurriedly. 

"Then kindly go, " said Jones, "or you will have a perfect panoramabefore the servants. "

A servant entered. 

"Send Church here, " said Jones. He was trembling like a furious dog. 

He had got the whole situation in hand. He had told his tale and actedlike an honourable man, the fools had disbelieved him and doped him. They had scented the truth but they dared do nothing. Mulhausen and therecovered mine, the Plinlimon letters, Rochester's past, all these werehis bastions, to say nothing of Rochester's suicide. 

The fear of publicity held them in a vice. Even were they to go toAmerica and prove that a man called Jones exactly like the Earl ofRochester had lived in Philadelphia, go to the Savoy and prove that aman exactly like the Earl of Rochester had lived there, produce theclothes he had come home in that night--all of that would lead them, where--to an action at law. 

They could not arrest him as an impostor till they had proved him animpostor. To prove that, they would have to turn the family historyinside out before a gaping public. 

Mr. Church came in. 

"Church, " said Jones, "I played a practical joke on--on my people. I meta man called Jones at the Savoy--well, we needn't go into details, hewas very like me, and I told my people for a joke that I was Jones. Thefools thought I was mad. They called in two doctors and drugged me andhauled me off to a place. I got out, and here I am back. What do youthink of that?"

"Well, my Lord, " said Church, "if I may say it to you, those practicaljokes are dangerous things to play--Lord Langwathby--"

"Was he here?"

"He came last night, my Lord, to have a personal explanation about atelegram he said you sent him as a practical joke, some time ago, takinghim up to Cumberland. "

"I'll never play another, " said Jones. "Tell them to bring me somebreakfast, and look here, Church, I've told my sister to leave the houseat once. I want no more of her here. See that her luggage is taken downat once. "

"Yes, my Lord. "

"And see here, Church, let no one in. Lord Langwathby, or anyone else. Iwant a little peace. By the way, have a taxi sent for, and tell me whenmy sister's luggage is down. "

In the middle of breakfast, Church came in to say that Miss Birdbrookwas departing and Jones came into the hall to verify the fact. 

Venetia had brought a crocodile skin travelling bag and a trunk. 

These were being conveyed to a taxi. 

Not one word did she say to relieve her outraged feelings. The fear of a"scene before the servants" kept her quiet. 

CHAPTER XXXI

HE FINDS HIMSELF

That evening at nine o'clock, Jones sat in the smoking-room, writing. Hehad trusted Church with an important mission on the upshot of which hiswhole future depended. 

If you will review his story, as he himself was reviewing it now, youwill see that, despite a strong will and a mind quick to act, thefreedom of his will had always been hampered by circumstance. 

Circumstance from the first had determined that he should be a Lord. 

I leave it to philosophers to determine what Circumstance is. I can onlysay that from a fair knowledge of life, Circumstance seems to me morethan a fortuitous happening of things. Who does not know the man ofintegrity and ability, the man destined for the Presidency or theCollege chair, who remains in an office all his life? Luck is somehowagainst him. Or the man who, starting in life with everything againsthim, arrives, not by creeping, but by leaps and bounds. 

I do not wish to cast a shade on individual effort; I only say this: Ifyou ever find Circumstance, whose other name is Fortune, feeling for youin order to make you a lord, don't kick, for when Fortune takes aninterest in a man, she is cunning as a woman. She is a woman in fact. 

At half past nine, a knock came to the door. It was opened by Church, who ushered in Teresa, Countess of Rochester. 

Jones rose from his chair, Church shut the door, and they foundthemselves alone and face to face. 

The girl did not sit down. She stood holding the back of a chair, andlooking at the man before her. She looked scared, dazed, like a personsuddenly awakened from sleep, in a strange place. 

Jones knew at once. 

"You have guessed the truth, " said he, "that I am not your husband. "

"I knew it, " she replied, "when you told us in the drawing-room-- Theothers thought you mad. I knew you were speaking the truth. "

"That was why you ran from the room. "

"Yes; what more have you to say?"

"I have a very great deal more to say; will you not sit down?"

She sat down on the edge of a chair, folded her hands and continuedlooking at him with that scared, hunted expression. 

"I want to say just this, " said Jones. "Right through this business fromthe very start I have tried to play a straight game. I can guess fromyour face that you fear me as if I were something horrible. I don'tblame you. I ask you to listen to me. 

"Your husband took advantage of two facts: the fact that I am his twinimage, as he called it, and the fact that I was temporarily withoutmoney and stranded in London. I am not a drunkard, but that night I cameunder the influence of strong drink. He took advantage of that to sendme home as himself. I am going to say a nasty thing; that was not theaction of a gentleman. "

The girl winced. 

"Never, " went on Jones, "would I say things against a man who is dead, yet I am forced to tell you the truth, so that you may see this man ashe was--wait. "

He went to the bureau and took out some papers. He handed her one. Sheread the contents:

 "Stick to it--if you can. You'll see why I couldn't. 

 "ROCHESTER. "

"That is your husband's handwriting?"

"Yes. "

"Now think for a moment of his act as regards yourself. He sent me, astranger, home, never thinking a thought about you. "

Her breath choked back. 

"As for me, " went on Jones, "from the very first moment I saw you, Ihave thought of you and your welfare. I told my story for your sake, sothat things might be cleared up, and they put me in an asylum for mypains. I escaped, I am here, and for your sake I am saying all this. Does it give me pleasure to show you your husband's character? I wouldsooner cut off my right hand, but that would not help you. You have gotto know, else I cannot possibly get out of this. Read these. "

He handed her the Plinlimon letters. 

She read them carefully. Whilst she was doing so, he sat down andwaited. 

"These were written two years ago, " said she in a sad voice, as shefolded them together, "a year after we were married. "

It was the tone of her voice that did it--as she handed the letters backto him, she saw that his eyes were filled with tears. 

He put them back in the bureau without a word. He felt that he hadstruck the innocent again and most cruelly. 

Then he came back to the chair on which he had been sitting and stoodholding its back. 

"You see how we are both placed, " said he. "To prove your husband'sdeath, all my business would have to be raked up. I don't mind, becauseI have acted straight, but you would mind. The fact of his suicide, thefact of his sending me home--everything, that would hit you again andagain. Yet, look at your position--I do not know what we are to do. If Igo away and go back to the States, I leave you before the world as thewife of a man still living who has deserted you, if I stay and go onbeing the Earl of Rochester, you are tied to a phantom. "

He paced the floor, head down, wrestling with an insoluble problem, whilst she sat looking at him. 

"Which is the easiest for you to do?" asked she. 

"Oh, me, " said he; "I'm not thinking of myself--back to the States, ofcourse, but that's out of the question--there are lots of easy things todo, but when my case comes in contact with yours, there's nothing easyto do. Do you think it was easy for me to go off that night and leaveyou waiting for me, feeling that you thought me a skunk? No, that wasnot easy. "

She had been sitting very calm and still up till now, then suddenly shelooked down. She burst into tears. 

"Oh, " she cried, "why were you not him--if he had only been you. Hecared nothing for me, yet I loved him--you--you--"

"I care for nothing at all but you, " said he. 

She shuddered all over and turned her head away. 

"That's the mischief of it as far as I am concerned, " he went on. "Ican't escape without injuring you and so myself--yet I don't wonder atyour hating me. "

She turned her face to him, it was flushed and wet. 

"I do not hate you, " said she; "you are the only man I evermet--unselfish. "

"No, " he said, "I'm selfish. It's just because I love you that I thinkof you more than myself, and I love you because you are good and sweet. I could not do you wrong just because of that. If you were anotherwoman, I would not bother about you. I'd be cruel enough, I reckon, andgo off and leave you tied up, and get back to the States--but you areyou, and that's my bother. I did not know till now how I was tied toyou; yesterday at that asylum place and all last night I did not thinkof you. My one thought was to get away. I came here to-day, driven bywant of money. I was so angry with the whole business, I determined togo on being Rochester--then you came into my mind and I sent Church toask you to come and see me--much good it has done. "

"I don't know, " she said. 

He looked at her quickly. Her glance fell. 

Next moment he was beside her, kneeling and holding her hand. 

For a moment, they said not one word. Then he spoke as though answeringquestions. 

"We can get married-- Oh, I don't mind going on being the Earl ofRochester. There were times when I thought I'd go cracked--but now youknow the truth, I reckon I can go on pretending. People can have themarriage ceremony performed twice--of course, it would have to beprivate--I can't think this is true--I don't believe you can ever carefor me--I don't know, maybe you will--do you care for me for myself inthe least--I reckon I'm half mad, but say--when did you begin to like mefor myself--was it only just because you thought I was unselfish--wasit--"

"If I like you at all, " she said, with a little catch in her voice, "perhaps it was that--night--"

"What night?"

"The night you struck--"

"The Russian--but you thought I was _him_ then. "

"Perhaps, " said she, dreamily, "but, I thought it was unlike him--do youunderstand?"

"I don't know. I understand nothing but that I have got you to care foralways, to worship, to lay myself down for you to trample on. "

 * * * * *

"Good-night, " said she at last. 

She was standing, preparing to go. "The family know the truth, at leastthey are sure of the truth, but, as you say, they can do nothing. Imagine their feelings when I tell them what we have agreed on! With meon your side they are absolutely helpless. "

 * * * * *

There is, fortunately enough, no law preventing two married people beingre-married, privately; the good old lawyers of England considering, nodoubt, that a man having gone through the ceremony once would think itenough. 

 * * * * *

All this that I have been telling you happened some years ago, yearsmarked by some very practical and brilliant speeches in the House ofLords and the death of the Hon. Venetia Birdbrook from liver complaint. It is a queer story, but not queerer than the face of the DowagerCountess of Rochester when she reads in private all the nicecomplimentary things that the papers have to say about her son. 

 THE END

 * * * * * *

 BY THE SAME AUTHOR

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