THESUMMONS

BYA. E. W. MASON

AUTHOR OF "THE FOUR FEATHERS, " "THE TURNSTILE, " ETC. 

NEW YORK

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

COPYRIGHT, 1920. BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

 TO THOSE WHO SERVED WITH ME ABROAD THROUGH THE FOUR YEARS

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

 I THE OLYMPIC GAMES 11

 II AN ANTHEM INTERVENES 18

 III MARIO ESCOBAR 28

 IV THE SECRET OF HARRY LUTTRELL 35

 V HILLYARD'S MESSENGER 47

 VI THE HONORARY MEMBER 55

 VII IN THE GARDEN OF EDEN 65

 VIII HILLYARD HEARS NEWS OF AN OLD FRIEND 70

 IX ENTER THE HEROINE IN ANYTHING BUT WHITE SATIN 80

 X THE SUMMONS 91

 XI STELLA RUNS TO EARTH 100

 XII IN BARCELONA 111

 XIII OLD ACQUAINTANCE 121

 XIV "TOUCHING THE MATTER OF THOSE SHIPS" 135

 XV IN A SLEEPING-CAR 144

 XVI TRICKS OF THE TRADE 155

 XVII ON A CAPE OF SPAIN 163

 XVIII THE USES OF SCIENCE 173

 XIX UNDER GREY SKIES AGAIN 183

 XX LADY SPLAY'S PREOCCUPATIONS 193

 XXI THE MAGNOLIA FLOWERS 208

 XXII JENNY PRASK 219

 XXIII PLANS FOR THE EVENING 227

 XXIV JENNY PRASK IS INTERESTED 235

 XXV IN A LIBRARY 238

 XXVI A FATAL KINDNESS 248

 XXVII THE RANK AND FILE 257

XXVIII THE LONG SLEEP 263

 XXIX JENNY PUTS UP HER FIGHT 273

 XXX A REVOLUTION IN SIR CHICHESTER 287

 XXXI JENNY AND MILLIE SPLAY 298

 XXXII "BUT STILL A RUBY KINDLES IN THE VINE" 306

THE SUMMONS

CHAPTER I

THE OLYMPIC GAMES

"Luttrell! Luttrell!"

Sir Charles Hardiman stood in the corridor of his steam yacht and bawledthe name through a closed door. But no answer was returned from theother side of the door. He turned the handle and went in. The night wasfalling, but the cabin windows looked towards the north and the room wasfull of light and of a low and pleasant music. For the tide tinkled andchattered against the ship's planks and, in the gardens of the townacross the harbour, bands were playing. The town was Stockholm in theyear nineteen hundred and twelve, and on this afternoon, the Olympicgames, that unfortunate effort to promote goodwill amongst the nations, which did little but increase rancours and disclose hatreds, had ended, never, it is to be hoped, to be resumed. 

"Luttrell, " cried Hardiman again, but this time with perplexity in hisvoice. For Luttrell was there in the cabin in front of him, but sunk inso deep a contemplation of memories and prospects that the cabin mightjust as well have been empty. Sir Charles Hardiman touched him on theshoulder. 

"Wake up, old man!"

"That's what I am doing--waking up, " said Luttrell, turning without anystart. He was seated in front of the writing-desk, a young man, as theworld went before the war, a few months short of twenty-eight. 

"The launch is waiting and everybody's on deck, " continued Hardiman. "We shall lose our table at Hasselbacken if we don't get off. "

Then he caught sight of a telegram lying upon the writing-table. 

"Oh!" and the impatience died out of his voice. "Is anything thematter?"

Luttrell pushed the telegram towards his host. 

"Read it! I have got to make up my mind--and now--before we start. "

Hardiman read the telegram. It was addressed to Captain Harry Luttrell, Yacht _The Dragonfly_, Stockholm, and it was sent from Cairo by theAdjutant-General of the Egyptian Army. 

 "_I can make room for you, but you must apply immediately to be transferred. _"

Hardiman sat down in a chair by the side of the table against the wall, with his eyes on Luttrell's face. He was a big, softish, overfed man offorty-five, and the moment he began to relax from the upright position, his body went with a run; he collapsed rather than sat. The little veinswere beginning to show like tiny scarlet threads across his nose and onthe fullness of his cheeks; his face was the colour of wine; and thepupils of his pale eyes were ringed with so pronounced an _arcussenilis_ that they commanded the attention like a disfigurement. But theeyes were shrewd and kindly enough as they dwelt upon the troubled faceof his guest. 

"You have not answered this?" he asked. 

"No. But I must send an answer to-night. "

"You are in doubt?"

"Yes. I was quite sure when I cabled to Cairo on the second day of thegames. I was quite sure, whilst I waited for the reply. Now that thereply has come--I don't know. "

"Let me hear, " said the older man. "The launch must wait, the table atthe Hasselbacken restaurant must be assigned, if need be, to othercustomers. " Hardiman had not swamped all his kindliness in good living. Luttrell was face to face with one of the few grave decisions whicheach man has in the course of his life to make; and Hardiman understoodhis need better than he understood it himself. His need was to formulatealoud the case for and against, to another person, not so much that hemight receive advice as, that he might see for himself with truer eyes. 

"The one side is clear enough, " said Luttrell with a trace ofbitterness. "There was a Major I once heard of at Dover. He trained hiscompany in night-marches by daylight. The men held a rope to guide themand were ordered to shut their eyes. The Major, you see, hated stirringout at night. He liked his bridge and his bottle of port. Well, give meanother year and that's the kind of soldier I shall become--the worstkind--the slovenly soldier. I mean slovenly in mind, in intention. Evennow I come, already bored, to the barrack square and watch the time tosee if I can't catch an earlier train from Gravesend to London. "

"And when you do?" asked Hardiman. 

Luttrell nodded. 

"When I do, " he agreed, "I get no thrill out of my escape, I assure you. I hate myself a little more--that's all. "

"Yes, " said Hardiman. He was too wise a man to ask questions. He justsat and waited, inviting Luttrell to spread out his troubles by his veryquietude. 

"Then there are these games, " Luttrell cried in a swift exasperation, "--these damned games! From the first day when the Finns marched outwith their national flag and the Russians threatened to withdraw if theydid it again----" he broke off suddenly. "Of course you know soldiershave believed that trouble's coming. I used to doubt, but by God I amsure of it now. Just a froth of fine words at the opening andafterwards--honest rivalry and let the best man win? Not a bit of it!Team-running--a vile business--the nations parked together in differentsections of the Stadium like enemies--and ill-will running here andthere like an infection! Oh, there's trouble coming, and if I don't go Ishan't be fit for it. There, that's the truth. "

"The whole truth and nothing but the truth?" Hardiman asked with asmile. He leaned across the table and drew towards him a case oftelegraph forms. But whilst he was drawing them towards him, Luttrellspoke again. 

"Nothing but the truth--_yes_, " he said. He was speaking shyly, uncomfortably, and he stopped abruptly. 

"The whole truth--no. " Hardiman added slowly, and gently. He wanted thecomplete story from preface to conclusion, but he was not to get it. Hereceived no answer of any kind for a considerable number of moments andLuttrell only broke the silence in the end, to declare definitely, "That, at all events, is all I have to say. "

Sir Charles nodded and drew the case of forms close to him. There wassomething more then. There always is something more, which isn't told, he reflected, and the worst of it is, the something more which isn'ttold is always the real reason. Men go to the confessional with areservation; the secret chamber where they keep their sacred vessels, their real truths and inspirations, as also their most scarletsins--that shall be opened to no one after early youth is past unless itbe--rarely--to one woman. There was another reason at work in HarryLuttrell, but Sir Charles Hardiman was never to know it. With a shrug ofhis shoulders he took a pencil from his pocket, filled up one of theforms and handed it to Luttrell. 

"That's what I should reply. "

He had written:

 "_I am travelling to London to-morrow to apply for transfer. _--LUTTRELL. "

Luttrell read the telegram with surprise. It was not the answer which hehad expected from the victim of the flesh-pots in front of him. 

"You advise that?" he exclaimed. 

"Yes. My dear Luttrell, as you know, you are a guest very welcome to me. But you don't belong. We--Maud Carstairs, Tony Marsh and the rest ofus--even Mario Escobar--we are the Come-to-nothings. We are the peopleof the stage door, we grow fat in restaurants. From three to seven, youmay find us in the card-rooms of our clubs--we are jolly finefellows--and no good. You don't belong, and should get out while youcan. "

Luttrell moved uncomfortably in his chair. 

"That's all very well. But there's another side to the question, " hesaid, and from the deck above a woman's voice called clearly down thestairway. 

"Aren't you two coming?"

Both men looked towards the door. 

"That side, " said Hardiman. 

"Yes. "

Hardiman nodded his head. 

"Stella Croyle doesn't belong either, " he said. "But she kicked over thetraces. She flung out of the rank and file. Oh, I know Croyle was aselfish, dull beast and her footprints in her flight from him werelittered with excuses. I am not considering the injustice of the world. I am looking at the cruel facts, right in the face of them, as you havegot to do, my young friend. Here Stella Croyle is--with us--and shecan't get away. You can. "

Luttrell was not satisfied. His grey eyes and thin, clean features weretroubled like those of a man in physical pain. 

"You don't know the strange, queer tie between Stella Croyle and me, " hesaid. "And I can't tell you it. "

Hardiman grew anxious. Luttrell had the look of a man overtrained, andit was worry which had overtrained him. His face was a trifle toodelicate, perhaps, to go with those remorseless sharp decisions whichmust be made by the men who win careers. 

"I know that you can't go through the world without hurting people, "cried Hardiman. "Neither you nor any one else, except the limpets. Andyou won't escape hurting Stella Croyle, by abandoning your chances. Yourlove-affair will end--all of that kind do. And yours will end in abitter, irretrievable quarrel after you have ruined yourself, andbecause you have ruined yourself. You are already on the rack--make nodoubt about it. Oh, I have seen you twitch and jump with irritation--howmany times on this yacht!--for trumpery, little, unimportant things shehas said and done, which you would never have noticed six months ago;or only noticed to smile at with a pleased indulgence. "

Luttrell's face coloured. "Why, that's true enough, " he said. He wasremembering the afternoon a week ago, when the yacht steamed between thegreen islands with their bathing stations and châlets, over a tranquil, sunlit sea of the deepest blue. Rounding a wooded corner towards sunsetshe came suddenly upon the bridges and the palace and the gardens ofStockholm. The women of the party were in the saloon. A rush was madetowards it. They were summoned to this first wonderful view of the cityof beauty. Would they come? No! Stella Croyle was in the middle of agame of Russian patience. She could play that game any day, every day, all day. This exquisite vision was vouchsafed to her but the once, andshe had neglected it with the others. She had not troubled, even to moveso far as the saloon door. For she had not finished her game. 

Luttrell recalled his feeling of scorn; the scorn had grown intoindignation; in the end he had made a grievance of her indifference tothis first view of the city of Stockholm; a foolish, exasperatinggrievance, which would rankle, which would not be buried, which sprangto fresh life at each fresh sight of her. Yes, of a certainty, sooner orlater Stella Croyle and he would quarrel, so bitterly that all theking's horses and all the king's men could never bring them againtogether; and over some utterly unimportant matter like the first viewof Stockholm. 

"Youth has many privileges over age, " continued Hardiman, "but nonegreater than the vision, the half-interpreted recurring vision of widerspaces and greater things, towards which you sail on the wind of a greatemotion. Sooner or later, a man loses that vision and then only knowshis loss. Stay here, and you'll lose it before your time. "

Luttrell looked curiously at his companion, wondering what manner of manhe had been in his twenties. Hardiman answered the look with a laugh. "Oh, I, too, had my ambitions once. "

Luttrell folded the cablegram which Hardiman had written out and placedit in the breast pocket of his dinner-jacket. 

"I will talk to Stella to-night at dinner. Then, if I decide to send it, I can send it from the hotel over there at the landing-steps before wereturn to the yacht. "

Sir Charles Hardiman rose cumbrously with a shrug of his shoulders. Hehad done his best, but since Luttrell would talk the question over withStella Croyle, shoulder to shoulder with her amongst the lights andmusic, the perfume of her hair in his nostrils and the pleading of hereyes within his sight--he, Charles Hardiman, might as well have held histongue. 

So very likely it would have been. But when great matters are ripe fordecisions one way or the other, the little accident as often as notdecides. There was a hurrying of light feet in the corridor outside, aswift, peremptory knocking upon the door. The same woman's voice calledin rather a shrill note through the panels! "Harry! Why don't you come?We are waiting for you. "

And in the sound of the voice there was not merely impatience, but anote of ownership--very clear and definite; and hearing it Luttrellhardened. He stood up straight. He had the aspect of a man in revolt. 

CHAPTER II

AN ANTHEM INTERVENES

Upon the entrance of Hardiman's party a wrinkle was smoothed away fromthe forehead of a _maître d'hôtel_. 

"So! You have come!" he cried. "I began to despair. "

"You have kept my table?" Sir Charles insisted. 

"Yes, but with what an effort of diplomacy!"; and the _maître d'hôtel_led his guests to the very edge of the great balcony. Here the table wasset endwise to the balustrade, commanding the crowded visitors, yettaking the coolness of the night. Hardiman was contented with his choiceof its position. But when he saw his guests reading the cards whichassigned them their places, he was not so contented with the order oftheir seating. 

"If I had known an hour before!" he said to himself, and the astoundingidea crept into his mind that perhaps it was, after all, a waste tospend so much time on the disposition of a dinner-table and the orderingof food. 

However, the harm was done now. There was Luttrell already seated at theend against the balustrade. He had the noise of a Babel of tongues andthe glitter of a thousand lights upon his left hand; upon his right, thestars burning bright in a cool gloom of deepest purple, and far belowthe riding-lamps of the yachts tossing on the water like yellow flowersin a garden; whilst next to him, midway between the fragrant darknessand the hard glitter, revealing, as she always did, a kinship with eachof them, sat Stella Croyle. 

"I should have separated them, " Hardiman reflected uneasily as he raisedand drank his cocktail. "But how the deuce could I without makingeverybody stare? This party wasn't got up to separate people. All thesame----"

The hushed wonder of a summer night. The gaiety of a bright throngedrestaurant! In either setting Stella Croyle was a formidableantagonist. But combine the settings and she took to herself, at once bynature, the seduction of both!

"Poor devil, he won't have a dog's chance!" the baronet concluded; andhe watched approvingly what appeared to him to be Luttrell's endeavourto avoid joining battle on this unfavourable field. He could only trustfeebly in that and in the strength of the "something else, " the secretreason he was never to know. 

It was about half-way through dinner when Stella Croyle, who haddirected many a furtive, anxious glance to the averted face of hercompanion, attacked directly. 

"What is the matter with you to-night?" she asked, interrupting him inthe midst of a rattle of futilities. "Why should you recite to me fromthe guide-book about the University of Upsala?"

"It appears to be most interesting, and quaint, " replied Luttrellhastily. 

"Then we might hire a motor-car and run out there to luncheon. To-morrow! Just you and I. "

"No. " Harry Luttrell exclaimed suddenly and Stella Croyle drew back. Herface clouded. She had won the first round, but victory brought her noease. She knew now from the explosion of his "No" and the swift alarmupon his face that something threatened her. 

"You must tell me what has happened, " she cried. "You must! Oh, you turnaway from me!"

From the dark steep garden at their feet rose a clamour of cheers--toLuttrell an intervention of Providence. 

"Listen, " he said. 

Here and there a man or a woman rose at the dinner tables and lookeddown. Upwards along a glimmering riband of path, a group of studentsbore one of their number shoulder-high. Luttrell leaned over thebalustrade. The group below halted; speeches were made; cheers broke outanew. 

"It is the Swedish javelin-thrower. He won the championship of the worldthis afternoon. "

"Did he?" asked Stella Croyle in a soft voice at his side. "Does hethrow javelins as well as you? You wound me every time. "

Luttrell raised his head. It was not fear of defeat which had kept hislooks averted from Stella's dark and starry eyes. No thought of listsset and a contest to be fought out had even entered his head. But he didfear to see those eyes glisten with tears--for she so seldom shed them!And even more than the evidence of her pain he feared the dreadfulsubmission with which women in the end receive the stroke of fortune. Hehad to meet her gaze now, however. 

"I put off telling you, " he began lamely. 

"So that this evening of mine with you might not be spoilt, " shereturned. "But, my dear, my evening was already spoilt before the launchleft the yacht gangway. I am not so blind. "

Stella Croyle was at this date twenty-six years old; and it wasdifficult to picture her any older. Partly because of her vividcolouring and because she was abrim with life; partly because in herstraightness of limb and the clear treble of her voice, she was boyish. "What a pretty boy she would make!" was the first thought until younoticed the slim delicacy of her hands and feet, the burnish of gold onthe dark wealth of her hair, the fine chiselling of brow and nose andchin. Then it was seen that she was all woman. She was tall and yetnever looked tall. It seemed that you could pick her up with a finger, but try and she warned you of the weakness of your arm. She was abaffling person. She ran and walked with the joyous insolence ofeighteen, yet at any moment some veil might be rolled up in her eyes andface to show you for one tragic instant a Lady of Sorrows. 

She leaned towards Luttrell, and as Hardiman had foreseen the perfume ofher hair stormed his senses. 

"Tell me!" she breathed, and Luttrell, with his arguments and reasonscut and dried and conned over pat for delivery, began nevertheless tobabble. There were the Olympic Games. She herself must have seen howthey were fatal to their own purpose. Troubles were coming--battlesbehind the troubles. All soldiers knew! They knew this too--the phraseof a young Lieutenant-Colonel lecturing at the Staff College. 

"Battles are not won either by sheer force or pure right, but by the oneor the other of those two Powers which has Discipline as its Chief ofStaff. "

He was implying neither very tactfully nor clearly that he was on theway to dwindling into an undisciplined soldier. But it did not matter inthe least. For Stella Croyle was not listening. All this was totallyunimportant. Men always went about and about when they had difficultthings to say to women. Her eyes never left his face and she would knowsurely enough when those words were rising to his lips which it wasnecessary that she should mark and understand. Meanwhile herperplexities and fears grew. 

"Of course it can't be _that_, " she assured herself again and again, butwith a dreadful catch at her heart. "Oh no, it can't be _that_. "

"That, " was the separation which some day or another--after a long andwondrous period--both were agreed, must come. But, consoling herselfwith the thought that she would be prepared, she had always set the dayon so distant an horizon that it had no terrors for her. Now it suddenlydismayed her, a terror close at hand. Here on this crowded balconyjoyous with lights and gay voices and invaded by all the subtleinvitations of a summer night above the water! Oh no, it was notpossible!

Luttrell put his hand to his breast pocket and Stella watched andlistened now with all her soul. More than once during dinner she hadseen him touch that pocket in an abstraction. He drew from it twopapers, one the cablegram which he had received from Cairo, the otherHardiman's reply. He handed her the first of the two. 

"This reached me this morning. "

Stella Croyle studied the paper with her heart in her mouth. But theletters would not be still. 

"Oh, what does it mean?" she cried. 

"It offers me service abroad. "

Stella's face flushed and turned white. She bent her head over thecablegram. 

"At Cairo, " she said, with a little gasp of relief. After all Cairo wasnot so far. A week, and one was at Cairo. 

"Further south, in the Sudan--Heaven knows where!"

"Too far then?" she suggested. "Too far. "

"For you? Yes! Too far, " Luttrell replied. 

Stella lifted a tragic face towards him; and though he winced he met hereyes. 

"But you are not going! You can't go!"

Luttrell handed to her the second paper. 

"You never wrote this, " she said very quickly. 

"Yet it is what I would have written. "

Stella Croyle shot one swift glance at Sir Charles Hardiman. She hadrecognised his handwriting. Hardiman was in Luttrell's cabin while therest of the party waited on the deck and the launch throbbed at thegangway. If a woman's glance had power, he would have been stricken thatinstant. But she wasted no more than a glance upon the worldly-wisemanat the head of their table. She turned again to the first telegram. 

"This is an answer, this cablegram from Cairo?"

"Yes. "

"To a cable of yours?"

"Sent three days ago. "

The answers she received were clear, unhesitating. It was a voice from arock speaking! So utterly mistaken was she; and so completely Luttrellbent every nerve to the service of shortening the hour of misery. Theappalling moment was then actually upon her. She had foreseen it--so shethought. But it caught her nevertheless unprepared as death catches asinner on his bed. 

She stared at the telegrams--not reading them. His arguments andprefaces--the Olympic Games, Discipline and the rest of it--what she hadcaught of them, she blew away as so much froth. She dived to thepersonal reason. 

"You are tired of me. "

"No, " Luttrell answered hotly. "That's not true--not even a half-truth. If I were tired of you, it would all be so easy, so brutally easy. "

"But you are!" Her voice rose shrill in its violence. "You know you arebut you are too much of a coward to say so--oh, like all men!" and asLuttrell turned to her a face startled by her outcry and uttered aremonstrant "Hush!", she continued bitterly, "What do I care if they allhear? I am impossible! You know that, don't you? I am quite impossible!I have gone my own way. I am one of the people you hate--one of theUndisciplined. "

Stella Croyle hardly knew in her passion what she was saying, andLuttrell could only wait in silence for the storm to pass. It passedwith a quickness which caught him at loss; so quickly she swept frommood to mood. 

He heard her voice at his ear, remorseful and most appealing. "Oh, Wub, what have I done that you should treat me so?"

Sir Charles Hardiman, watchful of the duel, guessed from the movement ofher lips what she was saying. 

"These nicknames are the very devil, " he exclaimed, apparently aboutnothing, to his startled neighbour. "The first thing a woman does whenshe's fond of a man is to give him some ridiculous name, which doesn'tbelong to him. She worries her wits trying this one and that one, as atailor tries on you a suit of clothes, and when she has got your fit, she uses it--publicly. So others use it too and so it no longer contentsher. Then she invents a variation, a nickname within a nickname, andthat she keeps to herself, for her own private use. That's the nicknameI am referring to, my dear, when I say it's the very devil. "

The lady to whom he spoke smiled vaguely and surmised that he might bevery right. For herself, she said, she had invented no nicknames; whichwas to assert that she had never been in love. For the practice seemsinvariable, and probably Dido in times long since gone by had one forÆneas, and Virgil knew all about it. But since she was a woman, it wouldbe a name at once so absurd and so intimate that it would never havegone with the dignified rhythm of the hexameter. "Wobbles" had been thefirst name which Stella Croyle had invented for Harry Luttrell, thoughby what devious process she had lighted upon it, psychology could nothave discovered. "Wub" was the nickname within the nickname, thecherished sign that the two of them lived apart in a little close-hedgedgarden of their own. Luttrell's eyes were upon her as she spoke it. Andshe spoke it with a curious little wistful pursing of soft lips so thatit came to him winged with the memory of all her kisses. 

"Oh, Wub, must you leave me?" she pleaded in a breaking whisper. "Whatwill be left to me if you do?"

Luttrell dropped his forehead in his hands. All the character which hehad in those untried days bade him harden himself against the appeal. But his resolution was melting like metal in a furnace. He tried torealise the truth which Hardiman had uttered three or four hours before. There would be sooner or later a quarrel, a humiliating, hateful quarrelover some miserable trifle which neither Stella nor he would everafterwards forgive. But her voice was breaking with a sob in a whisperat his ear and how could he look forward so far?

"Stella!"

He turned impulsively towards her. 

"The game's up, " reflected Sir Charles Hardiman at the end of the table. "Calypso wins--no, by God!"

For before Luttrell could speak another word, the music crashed and allthat assemblage was on its feet. The orchestra was playing the SwedishNational Anthem; and upon that, one after the other, followed the hymnsof the peoples who had taken part in the Games. In turn therepresentatives of each people stood and resumed their seat, the musicunderlining their individuality and parking them in sections, even asrivalry had parked them in the Stadium. The majestic anthem of Russia, the pæan of the Marseillaise, the livelier march of Italy, the song ofGermany, the Star-Spangled Banner; and long before the band struck intothe solemn rhythm of "God save the King, " Stella Croyle at all eventsknew that Calypso had lost. For she saw a flame illumine Luttrell's faceand transfigure him. He had slipped out of her reach. The doubts andperplexities which had so troubled him during the last months were nowresolved. As he listened to the Hymns, he saw as in a vision the nationsadvancing abreast over a vast plain like battalions in line with theirintervals for manoeuvring spaced out between them. In front of eachnation rolled a grey vapour, which gradually took shape beforeLuttrell's eyes; and there was made visible to him a shadowy legion ofmen marching in the van, the men who had left ease and women and all thegrace of life behind them and had gone out to die in the harness ofservice--one in this, one in that corner of the untravelled world, andnow all reunited in a strong fellowship. The vision remained with himafter the last strains of music had died away, and faded slowly. Hewaked to the lights and clamour of the restaurant and turned to StellaCroyle. 

"Stella, " he began, and----

"I know, " she interrupted in a small voice. She was sitting with herhead downcast and her hands clenched upon her lap so tightly that theskin was white about the points where the tips of her fingers pressed. "Perhaps I shan't suffer so very much. "

She was careful not to lift her head, and when a few moments later theirhost gave the signal to move, she rose quickly and turned her back onLuttrell. 

The party motored back through the Dyurgarden, past the glimmering tentswhere the Boy-Scouts were encamped to the great hotel by thelanding-stage. There a wait of a few minutes took place whilst Hardimansettled for the cars, and during that wait Luttrell disappeared. Herejoined his friends at the harbour steps and when the launch put offtowards the _Dragonfly_, he found himself side by side with StellaCroyle. In the darkness she relaxed her guard. Luttrell saw the greattears glisten on her dark eyelashes and fall down her cheeks. 

"I am sorry, Stella, " he whispered, dropping his hand on hers, and sheclutched it and let it go. 

"Perhaps I shan't suffer so very much, " she repeated and the next momentthe gangway light shone down upon their faces. Stella dropped her headand furtively dried her cheeks. 

"I want to go up last, " she said, "and just behind you, so that no oneshall see what a little fool I am making of myself. "

But by some subtle understanding already it was felt amongst that groupof people, quick to perceive troubles of the emotions, that somethingwas amiss between the pair. They were left alone upon the deck. Stellaby chance looking southwards to the starlit gloom, Luttrell to thenorth, where still the daylight played in blue and palest green and thedelicate changing fires of the opal. 

"What will you do, Stella?" Luttrell asked gently. 

"I think I will go and live in the country, " she replied. 

"It will be lonely, child. "

"There will be ghosts, my dear, to keep me company, " she answered with awan smile. "People like me always have to be a good deal alone, anyway. I shall be, of course, lonelier, now that I have no one to play with, "and the smile vanished from her lips. She flung up her face towards theskies, letting her grief have its way upon that empty deck. 

"So we shall never be together--just you and I--alone again, " she said, forcing herself to realise that unintelligible thing. Her thoughts ranback over the year--the year of their alliance--and she saw all of itsevents flickering vividly before her, as they say drowning people do. "Oh, Wub, what a cruel mistake you made when you went out of your way tobe kind, " she cried, with the tears streaming down her face; andLuttrell winced. 

"Yes, that's true, " he admitted remorsefully. "I never dreamed whatwould come of it. "

"You should have left me alone. "

Amongst the flickering pictures of the year the first was the clearest. A great railway station in the West of England, a train drawn up at thedeparture platform, herself with a veil drawn close over her face, halfrunning, half walking in a pitiful anguish towards the train; and then aman at her elbow. Harry Luttrell. 

"I have reserved a compartment. I suspected that things were not goingto turn out well. I thought the long journey to London alone would beterrible. If things had turned out right, you would not have seen me. "

She had let him place her in a carriage, look after her wants as if shehad been a child, hold her in his arms, tend her with the magnificentsympathy of his silence. That had been the real beginning. Stella hadknown him as the merest of friends before. She had met him here andthere at a supper party, at a dancing club, at some Bohemian countryhouse; and then suddenly he had guessed what others had not, andfoolishly had gone out of his way to be kind. 

"She would have died if I hadn't travelled with her, " Luttrell arguedsilently. "She would have thrown herself out of the carriage, or whenshe reached home she would have----" and his argument stopped, and heglanced at her uneasily. 

Undisciplined, was the epithet she had used of herself. You never knewwhat crazy thing she might do. There was daintiness but no order in herlife; the only law she knew was given to her by a fastidious taste. 

"Of course, Wub, I have always known that you never cared for me as I dofor you. So it was bound to end some time. " She caught his hand to herheart for a second, and then, dropping it, ran from his side. 

CHAPTER III

MARIO ESCOBAR

Late in the autumn of the following year a new play, written by MartinHillyard and named "The Dark Tower, " was produced at the Rubicon Theatrein Panton Street, London. It was Hillyard's second play. His first, produced in April of the same year, had just managed to limp into July;and that small world which concerns itself with the individualities ofplaywrights was speculating with its usual divergencies upon Hillyard'sfuture development. 

"The Dark Tower" was a play of modern days, built upon the ancientpassions. The first act was played to a hushed house, and while theapplause which greeted the fall of the curtain was still rattling aboutthe walls of the theatre, Sir Charles Hardiman hoisted himself heavilyout of his stall and made his way to a box on the first tier, which heentered without knocking. 

There was but one person in the box, a young man hidden behind a sidecurtain. Hardiman let himself collapse into a chair by the side of theyoung man. 

"Seems all right, " he said. "You have a story to tell. It's clear inevery word, too, that you know where you are going. That makes peoplecomfortable and inclined to go along with you. "

Hillyard turned with a smile. 

"We haven't come to the water jump yet, " he said. 

Hardiman remained in the box during the second act. He watched the stagefor a while, took note of the laughter which welcomed this or that line, and of the silence which suddenly enclosed this or that scene from therest of the play; and finally, with a certain surprise, and a certainamusement he fixed his attention upon the play's author. The act endedin laughter and Hillyard leaned back, and himself laughed, without poseor affectation, as heartily as any one in the theatre. 

"You beat me altogether, my young friend, " said Hardiman. "You ought tobe walking up and down the pavement outside in the classical state ofagitation. But you appear to be enjoying the play, as if you never hadseen it before. "

"And I haven't, " Hillyard returned. "This isn't quite the play whichwe have been learning and rehearsing during the last month. Here'sthe audience at work, adding a point there, discovering aninterpretation--yes, actually an interpretation--there, bringing intoimportance one scene, slipping over the next which we thought moreimportant--altering it, in fact. Of course, " and he returned to hisearlier metaphor, "I know the big fences over which we may come acropper. I can see them ahead before we come up to them and know thedanger. We are over two of them, by the way. But on the whole I am moreinterested than nervous. It's the first time I have ever been to a firstnight, you see. "

"Well, upon my word, " cried Hardiman, "you are the coolest hand at it Iever saw. " But he could have taken back his words the next moment. 

In spite of Hillyard's aloof and disinterested air, the night hadbrought its excitement and in a strength of which he himself wasunaware. It lifted now the veils behind which a man will hide his secretthoughts! He turned swiftly to Hardiman with a boyish light upon hisface. 

"Oh, I am not in doubt of what to-night means to me! Not for a moment. If it's failure, it means that I begin again to-morrow on somethingelse; and again after that, and again after that, until success doescome. Playwriting is my profession, and failures are a necessary part ofit--just as much a part as the successes. But even if the great successwere to come now, it wouldn't mean quite so much to me perhaps as itmight to other people. " He paused, and a smile broke upon his face. "Ilive expecting a messenger. There! That's my secret delivered over toyou under the excitement of a first night. "

And as he spoke the colour mounted into his face. He turned away inconfusion. His play was nearer at his heart than he had thought; theenthusiasm which seemed to be greeting it had stirred him unwisely. 

"Tell me, " he said hurriedly, "who all these people in the stalls are. "

He peeped down between the edge of the curtain and the side wall of thebox whilst Hardiman stood up behind him. 

"Yes, I will be your man from Cook's, " said Hardiman genially. 

His heart warmed to the young man both on account of his outburst and ofthe shame which had followed upon the heels of it. Few beliefs hadsurvived in Hardiman after forty years of wandering up and down theflowery places of the earth; but one--he had lectured Harry Luttrellupon it on a night at Stockholm--continually gained strength in him. Youth must beget visions and man must preserve them if great work wereto be done; and so easily the visions lost their splendour and theirinspiration. Of all the ways of tarnishing the vision, perhaps talk wasthe most murderous. Hillyard possessed them. Hillyard was ashamed thathe had spoken of them. Therefore he had some chance of retaining them. 

"Yes, I will show you the celebrities. " He pointed out the leadingcritics and the blue stockings of the day. His eyes roamed over thestalls. "Do you see the man with the broad face and the short whiskersin the fourth row? The man who looks just a little too like a countrygentleman to be one? That is Sir Chichester Splay. He made a fortune ina murky town of Lancashire, and, thirsting for colour, came up to Londondetermined to back a musical comedy. That is the way the craving forcolour takes them in the North. His wish was gratified. He backed 'ThePatchouli Girl, ' and in that shining garden he got stung. He is now whatthey call an amateur. No first night is complete without him. He is thehalf-guinea Mecænas of our days. "

Hillyard looked down at Sir Chichester Splay and smiled at hiscompanion's description. 

"You will meet him to-night at supper, and if your play is asuccess--not otherwise--you will stay with him in Sussex. "

"No!" cried Hillyard; but Sir Charles was relentless in his insistence. 

"You will. His wife will see to that. Who the pretty girl beside him isI do not know. But the more or less young man on the other side of her, talking to her with an air of intimacy a little excessive in a publicplace, is Mario Escobar. He is a Spaniard, and has the skin-deeppoliteness of his race. He is engaged in some sort of business, frequents some sort of society into which he is invited by the women, and he is not very popular amongst men. He belongs, however, to somesort of club. That is all I know about him. One would think he hadguessed we were speaking of him, " Hardiman added. 

For at that moment Mario Escobar raised his dark, sleek head, and hisbig, soft eyes--the eyes of a beautiful woman--looked upwards to thebox. It seemed to Hillyard for a moment that they actually exchanged aglance, though he himself was out of sight behind the curtain, so directwas Escobar's gaze. It was, however, merely the emptiness of the boxwhich had drawn the Spaniard's attention. He was neatly groomed, of aslight figure, tall, and with his eyes, his thin olive face, his smallblack moustache and clean-cut jaw he made without doubt an effective andarresting figure. 

"Now turn your head, " said Hardiman, "the other way, and notice the big, fair man in the back row of the stalls. He is a rival manager, and he isexplaining in a voice loud enough to be heard by the first rows of thepit, the precise age of your leading lady. Now look down! There is ayoung girl flitting about the stalls. She is an actress, not verysuccessful. But to-night she is as busy as a bee. She is crabbing yourplay. Yesterday her opinion on the subject was of no value, and it willbe again of no value to-morrow. But as one of the limited audience on afirst night, she can do just a tiny bit of harm. But don't hold itagainst her, Hillyard! She has no feeling against you. This is herlittle moment of importance. "

Sir Charles rattled on through the interval--all good nature with just aslice of lemon--and it had happened that he had pointed out one who wasto be the instrument of great trouble for Hillyard and a few others, with whom this story is concerned. 

Hillyard interrupted Hardiman. 

"Who is the girl at the end of the sixth row, who seems to have steppeddown from a china group on a mantelpiece?"

"That one?" said Hardiman, and all the raillery faded from his face. "That is Mrs. Croyle. You will meet her to-night at my supper party. " Hehesitated as to what further he should say. "You might do worse than bea friend to her. She is not, I am afraid, very happy. "

Hillyard was surprised at the sudden gentleness of his companion'svoice, and looked quickly towards him. Hardiman answered the look as hegot heavily up from his chair. 

"I sometimes fear that I have some responsibility for her unhappiness. But there are things one cannot help. "

The light in the auditorium went down while Hardiman was leaving thebox, and the curtain rose on the third act of "The Dark Tower. " Of thatplay, however, you may read in the files of the various newspapers, ifyou will. This story is concerned with Martin Hillyard, not his work. Itis sufficient to echo the words of Sir Chichester Splay when Hillyardwas introduced to him an hour and a half later in the privatesupper-room at the Semiramis Hotel. 

"A good play, Mr. Hillyard. Not a great play, of course, but quite agood play, " said Sir Chichester with just the necessary patronage totickle Hillyard to an appreciation of Hardiman's phrases--a ten andsix-penny Mecænas. 

"I am grateful that it has earned your good opinion, " he replied. 

"Oh, not at all!" cried Sir Chichester, and catching a lady who passedby the arm. "Stella, Mr. Hillyard should know you. This is Mrs. Croyle. I hope you will meet him some day at Rackham Park. "

Sir Chichester trotted away to greet the manager of the _Daily Harpoon_, who was at that moment shaking hands with Hardiman. 

"I congratulate you, " said Stella Croyle, as she gave him her hand. 

"Thank you. So you know Sir Chichester well?"

"His wife has been a friend of mine for a long time. " Her eyes twinkled. "I wonder you have not been seen at his house. "

"Oh, I am only just hatched out, " said Hillyard. They both laughed. "Ihardly know a soul here except my leading lady and our host. "

They were summoned to the supper table. Hillyard found himself with theleading lady on one side of him and Stella Croyle opposite, and MarioEscobar a couple of seats away. Supper was half through when Escobarleaned suddenly forward. 

"Mr. Hillyard, I have seen you before, somewhere and not in England. "

"That is possible. "

"In Spain?"

"Yes, " answered Hillyard. 

A certain curiosity in Escobar's voice, a certain reticence inHillyard's, arrested the attention of those about. 

"Let me see!" continued Escobar. "It was in the Opera House at Barcelonaon the first performance of Manon Lescaut. "

"No, " replied Hillyard. 

"Then--I know--it was under the palm-trees in front of the sea atAlicante one night. "

Hillyard nodded. 

"That may well have been. I was up and down the south coast of Spain forthree years. Eighteen months of it were spent at Alicante. "

He turned to his neighbour, but Escobar persisted. 

"It was for your health?"

Hillyard did not answer directly. 

"My lungs have always been my trouble, " he said. 

Hardiman bent towards Stella Croyle. 

"I think our new friend has had a curious life, Stella. He shouldinterest you. "

Stella Croyle replied with a shrewd look towards the Spaniard. 

"At present he is interesting Escobar. One would say Escobar wassuspicious lest Mr. Hillyard should know too much of him. "

Sir Charles laughed. 

"The Mario Escobars are always suspicious. Let us see!" he said in a lowvoice, and leaning across the table, he shot a question sharply at theSpaniard. 

"And what were you doing under the palm trees, in front of the sea atAlicante, Señor Escobar?"

Mario Escobar sat back. The challenge had startled him. He reflected, and as the recollection came he turned slowly very white. 

"I?" he asked. 

"Yes, " said Hardiman, leaning forward. But it was not at Hardiman thatEscobar was looking. His eyes were fixed warily on Hillyard. He answeredthe question warily too, fragment by fragment, ready to stop, ready totake the words back, if a sign of recollection kindled in Hillyard'sface. 

"It is what we should call here the esplanade--the sea and harbour onone side, the houses on the other. The band plays under the palms infront of the Casino on summer nights. I----" and he took the last wordsat a rush--"I was sitting in a lounge chair in front of the club, when Isaw Mr. Hillyard pass. An Englishman is noticeable in Alicante. Thereare so few of them. "

"Yes, " Hillyard agreed. No recollection was stirred in him by Escobar'sdescription. Escobar turned away, but he could not quite conceal therelief he felt. 

"Yes, my friend, " said Hardiman to himself, "you have taken yourwater-jump too. And you're uncommonly glad that you haven't come acropper. "

After that noticeable moment of tension, the talk swept on intosprightlier channels. 

CHAPTER IV

THE SECRET OF HARRY LUTTRELL

"Shall I take you home?"

"Oh, will you?" cried Stella Croyle, with a little burst of pleasure. After all, Hillyard was the great man of the evening, and that he shouldconsider her out of all that company was pleasant. "I will get mycloak. "

Throughout the supper-party Hillyard had been at a loss to discover inStella Croyle the woman whom Hardiman had led him to expect. Her spiritswere high, but unforced. She chattered away with more gaiety than wit, like the rest of Hardiman's guests, but the gaiety was apt to theoccasion. She had the gift of a clear and musical laugh, and her smalldelicate face would wrinkle and pout into grimaces which gave to her arather attractive air of _gaminerie_--Hillyard could find no word butthe French one to express her on that evening. He drove her to a smallhouse in the Bayswater Road, overlooking Kensington Gardens. 

"Will you come in for a moment?" she asked. 

Hillyard followed her up a paved pathway, through a tiny garden enclosedin a high wall, to her door. She led him into a room bright with flowersand pictures. Curtains of purple brocade were drawn across the window, afire burned on the hearth, and thick soft cushions on broad couches gavethe room a look of comfort. 

"You live here alone?" Hillyard asked. 

"Yes. "

She turned suddenly towards him as he gazed about the room. 

"I married a long while ago. " She stood in front of him like a slimchild. It seemed impossible. "Yes, before I knew anything--to get awayfrom home. Our marriage did not go smoothly. After three years I ranaway--oh, not with any one I cared for; he happened to be there, thatwas all. After a month he deserted me in Italy. I have fortunately somemoney of my own and a few friends who did not turn me down--Lady Splay, for instance. There!"

She moved to a table and poured out for Hillyard a whisky-and-soda. 

"My question was thoughtless, " he said. "I did not mean that you shouldanswer it as you did. "

"I preferred you to know. "

"I am honoured, " Hillyard replied. 

Stella Croyle sat down upon a low stool in front of the fire. Hillyardsank into one of the deep-cushioned chairs. The day of tension was over, and there was no doubt about the success of "The Dark Tower. " StellaCroyle sat very quietly, with the firelight playing upon her face andher delicate dress. Her vivacity had dropped from her like the prettycloak she had thrown aside. Both became her well, but they were for useout-of-doors, and Hillyard was grateful that she had discarded them. 

"You are tired, no doubt, " he said, reluctantly. "I ought to go. "

"No, " she answered. "It is pleasant before the fire here. "

"Thank you. I should like to stay for a little while. I did not knowuntil I came into this room with how much anxiety I had been lookingforward to this night. "

He leaned forward with his hands clenched, and saw pass in the brightcoals glimpses of the long tale of days when endeavour was fruitless andhopes were disappointed. "Success! Lord, how I wanted it!" he whispered. 

Stella Croyle looked at him with a smile. 

"It was sure to come to you, since you wanted it enough, " she said. 

"Yes, but in time?" exclaimed Hillyard. 

"In time for what?"

Hillyard broke into a laugh. 

"I don't know, " he answered. He was silent for a little while, and thecomfort of the room, the quiet of the night, the pleasant sympathy ofStella Croyle, all wrought upon him. "I don't know, " he repeated slowly. "I am waiting. But out of my queer life something more has got tocome--something more and something different. I have always been sure ofit, but I used to be afraid that the opportunity would come while I wasstill chained to the handles of the barrow. "

Hillyard's life, though within a short time its vicissitudes had beenmany and most divergent, had probably not been as strange as he imaginedit to be. He looked back upon it with too intense an interest to be itsimpartial judge. Certainly its distinctive feature had escaped himaltogether. At the age of twenty-nine he was a man absolutely withouttradition. 

His father, a partner in a small firm of shipping agents which had notthe tradition of a solid, old-fashioned business, had moved in Martin'sboyhood from a little semi-detached villa with its flight of front stepsin one suburb, to a house in a garden of trees in another. The boy hadbeen sent to a brand new day-school of excessive size, which gatheredits pupils into its class-rooms at nine o'clock in the morning anddispersed them to their homes at four. No boy was proud that he went toschool at St. Eldred's, or was deterred from any meanness by the thoughtthat it was a breach of the school's traditions. The school meant somany lessons in so many class-rooms, and no more. 

Hillyard was the only child. Between himself and his parents there waslittle sympathy and understanding. He saw them at meals, and fled fromthe table to his own room, where he read voraciously. 

"You never heard of such a jumble of books, " he said to Stella Croyle. "Matthew Arnold, Helps, Paradise Lost, Ten Thousand a Year, The Revoltof Islam, Tennyson. I knew the whole of In Memoriam by heart--absolutelyevery line of it, and pages of Browning. The little brown books! I wouldwalk miles to pick one of them up. My people would find the books lyingabout the house, and couldn't make head or tail of why I wanted to readthem. There were two red-letter days: one when I first bought the twovolumes of Herrick, the second when I tumbled upon De Quincey. That'sthe author to bowl a boy over. The Stage-Coach, the Autobiography, theConfessions--I could never get tired of them. I remember buying an ounceof laudanum at a chemist's on London Bridge and taking it home, withthe intention of following in the steps of my hero and qualifying todrink it out of a decanter. "

Stella Croyle had swung round from the fireplace, and was listening nowwith parted lips. 

"And did you?" she exclaimed, in a kind of eager suspense. 

Hillyard shook his head. 

"The taste was too unpleasant. I drank about half an ounce and threw therest away. I was saved from that folly. "

Stella Croyle turned again to the fire. 

"Yes, " she said rather listlessly. 

Yet Hillyard might almost have become a consumer of drugs, such queerand wayward fancies took him in charge. It became a fine thing to him tostay up all night just for the sake of staying up, and many a night hepassed at his open window, even in winter time, doing nothing, not evendreaming, simply waiting for the day to break. It seemed to him soft andwrong that a man should take his clothes off and lie comfortably betweensheets. And then came another twist. When all the house was quiet, hewould slip out of a ground-floor window and roam for hours about thelonely roads, a solitary boy revelling even then in the extraordinaryconduct of his life. There was in the neighbourhood a footpath through athick grove of trees which ran up a long, high hill, and, midway in theascent, crossed a railway cutting by a rustic bridge. 

"That was my favourite walk, though I always entered by the swing-gatein fear, and trembled at every movement of the branches, and continuallyexpected an attack. I would hang over that railway bridge, especially onmoonlit nights, and compose poems and thoughts--you know--great, shortthoughts. " Hillyard laughed. "I was going to be a poet, youunderstand--a clear, full voice such as had seldom been heard; my poemswere all about the moon sailing in the Empyrean and Death. Death was mystrong suit. I sent some of my poems to the local Press, signed 'Lethe, 'but I could never hear that they were published. "

Stella Croyle laughed, and Hillyard went on. "From the top of the hill Iwould strike off to the west, and see the morning break over London. Insummer that was wonderful! The Houses of Parliament. St Paul's like asilver bubble rising out of the mist, then, as the mist cleared over theriver, a London clean and all silver in the morning light! I was goingto conquer all that, you know--I--

 "'Silent upon a peak of Peckham Rye. '"

"I wonder you didn't kill yourself, " cried Stella. 

"I very nearly did, " answered Hillyard. 

"Didn't your parents interfere?"

"No. They never knew of my wanderings. They did know, of course, that Iused not to go to bed. But they left me alone. I was a bitterdisappointment in every way. They wanted a reasonable son, who would gointo the agency business, and they had instead--me. I should think thatI was pretty odious, too, and we were all of passionate tempers. Besides, with all this reading, I didn't do particularly well at school. How could I when day after day I would march off from the house, leavinga smooth bed behind me in my room? We were thorny people. Quarrels werefrequent. My mother had a phrase which set my teeth on edge--'Don't youtalk, Martin, until you are earning your living'--the sort of remarkthat stings and stays in a boy's memory as something unfair. There was agreat row in the end, one night at ten o'clock, when I was sixteen, andI left the house and tramped into London. "

"What in the world did you do?" cried Stella. 

"I shipped as a boy on a fruit-tramp for Valencia in Spain. And Ibelieve that saved my life. For my lungs were beginning to betroublesome. "

The fruit-tramp had not been out more than two days when the fo'c'slehands selected the lad, since he had some education, to be theirspokesman on a deputation to the captain. Martin Hillyard went aft withthe men and put their case for better food and less violence. He was nottherefore popular with the old man, and at Valencia he thought itprudent to desert. 

Stella Croyle had turned towards him again. There was a vividness in hismanner, an enjoyment, too, which laid hold upon her. It was curious toher to realise that this man talking to her here in the Bayswater Road, had been so lately a ragged youth scouting for his living on the quaysof Southern Spain. 

"You were at that place--Alicante!" she cried. 

"Part of the time. "

"And there Mario Escobar saw you. I wonder why he was frightened lestyou too should have seen him, " she added slowly. 

"Was he?"

"Yes. He was sitting on the same side of the table as you, so youwouldn't have noticed. But he was opposite to me; and he was afraid. "

Hillyard was puzzled. 

"I can't think of a reason. I was a shipping clerk of no importance. Ican't remember that I ever came across his name in all the eighteenmonths I spent in Alicante. "

When Martin Hillyard was nineteen, Death intervened in the family feud. His parents died within a few weeks of each other. 

"I was left with a thousand pounds. "

"What did you do with them?"

"I went to Oxford. "

"You? After those years of independence?"

"It had been my one passionate dream for years. "

"The Scholar Gipsy, " "Thyrsis, " the Preface to the "Essays inCriticism, " one or two glimpses of the actual city, its grey spires andtowers, caught from the windows of a train, had long ago set the cravingin his heart. Oxford had grown dim in unattainable mists, no longer adesire so much as a poignant regret, yet now he actually walked itssacred streets. 

"And you enjoyed it?" asked Stella. 

"I had the most wondrous time, " Hillyard replied fervently. "There wasone bad evening, when I realised that I couldn't write poetry. Afterthat I cut my hair and joined the Wine Club. I stroked the Torpid androwed three in my College Eight. I had friends for the first time. Oneabove all"

He stopped over-abruptly. Stella Croyle had the impression of a carelesssentinel suddenly waked, suddenly standing to attention at the door of atreasure-house of memories. She was challenged. Very well. It was herhumour to take the challenge up just to prove to herself that she couldslip past a man's guard if the spirit moved her. She turned on Hillyarda pair of most friendly sympathetic eyes. 

"Tell me of your friend. "

"Oh, there's not much to tell. He rowed in the same boat with me. He hadjust what I had not--traditions. From his small old brown manor-house ina western county to his very choice of a career, he was wrapped about intradition. He went into the army. He had to go. "

"What is his name?"

Stella Croyle interrupted him. She was not looking at him any more. Shewas staring into the fire, and her body was very still. But there wasexcitement in her voice. 

"Harry Luttrell, " replied Hillyard, and Stella Croyle did not move. "Idon't know what has become of him. You see, I had ninety pounds left outof the thousand when I left Oxford. So I just dived. "

"But you have come up again now. You will resume your friends at thepoint where you dived. "

"Not yet. I am going away in a week's time. "

"For long?"

"Eight months. "

"And far?"

"Very. "

"I am sorry, " said Stella. 

It had been the intention of Hillyard to use his first months of realfreedom in a great wandering amongst wide spaces. The journey had beenlong since planned, even details of camp outfit and equipment and thecalibre of rifles considered. 

"I have been at my preparations for years, " he said. "I lived in acubbyhole in Westminster, writing and writing and writing, but when Ithought of this journey to be, certain to be, the walls would dissolve, and I would walk in magical places under the sun. "

 "Now the New Year reviving old desires, The thoughtful soul to solitude retires"

Stella Croyle quoted the verses gaily, and Hillyard, lost in theanticipation of his journey, never noticed that the gaiety rang false. 

"And where are you going?" she asked. 

"To the Sudan. "

It seemed that Stella expected just that answer and no other. She gazedinto the fire without moving, seeking to piece together a picture in thecoals of that unknown country which held all for which she yearned. 

"I shall travel slowly up the White Nile to Renk, " Hillyard continued, blissfully. He was delighted at the interest which Mrs. Croyle wastaking in his itinerary. She was clearly a superior person. "From Renk, I shall cross to the Blue Nile at Rosaires, and travel eastward again tothe River Dinder----"

"You are most fortunate, " Stella interrupted wistfully. 

"Yes, am I not?" cried Hillyard. It looked as if nothing would breakthrough his obtuseness. 

"I should love to be going in your place. "

"You?"

Hillyard smiled. She was for a mantelshelf in a boudoir, not for a camp. 

"Yes--I, " and her voice suddenly broke. 

Hillyard sprang up from his chair, but Stella held up her hand to checkhim, and turned her face still further away. Hillyard resumed his seatuncomfortably. 

"You may meet your friend Harry Luttrell in the Sudan, " she explained. "He is stationed somewhere in that country--where exactly I would give agreat deal to know. "

They sat without speaking for a little while, Stella once more turningto the fire. Hillyard watching her wistful face and the droop of hershoulders understood at last the truth of Hardiman's description. Themask was lain aside. Here indeed was a Lady of Sorrows. 

Stella Croyle was silent until she was quite sure that she had once morethe mastery of her voice. It was important to her that her next wordsshould not be forgotten. But even so she did not dare to speak above awhisper. 

"I want you to do me a favour. If you should meet Harry, I should likehim to have news of me. I should like him also--oh, not so often--butjust every now and then to write me a little line. "

There were tears glistening on her dark eyelashes. Hillyard fell into asort of panic as he reflected upon his own vaunting talk. Compared withthis woman's poignant distress, all the vicissitudes of his life seemednow quite trivial and small. Here were tears falling and Hillyard wasunused to tears. Nor had he ever heard so poignant a longing in anyhuman voice as that on which Stella's prayer to him was breathed. He wasashamed. He was also a little envious of Harry Luttrell. He was also alittle angry with Harry Luttrell. 

"You won't forget?"

Stella clasped her hands together imploringly. 

"No, " Hillyard replied. "Be very sure of that, Mrs. Croyle! If I meetLuttrell he shall have your message. "

"Thank you. "

Stella Croyle dried the tears from her cheeks and stood up. 

"I have been foolish. You won't find me like that again, " she cried, andshe helped Hillyard on with his coat. She went to the door to see himout, but stopped as she grasped the handle. 

All Hillyard's talk about himself had passed in at one ear and out atthe other. But every word which he had spoken about Harry Luttrell waswritten on her heart. And one phrase had kindled a tiny spark of hope. She had put it aside by itself, wanting more knowledge about it, andmeaning to have that knowledge before Hillyard departed. She put herquestion now, with the door still closed and her back to it. 

"You said that Harry _had_ to join the army. What did you mean by that?"

Hillyard hesitated. 

"Did he not tell you himself?"

"No. "

Hillyard stood between loyalty to his friend and the recollection ofStella Croyle's tears. If Luttrell had not told her--why then----

"Then I don't well see how I can, " he said uncomfortably. 

"But I want to know, " said Stella, bending her brows at him inastonishment that he should refuse her so small a thing. Then her mannerchanged. "Oh, I do want to know, " she cried, and Hillyard's obstinacybroke down. 

Men have the strangest fancies which compel them to do out of allreason, even the things which they hate to do, and to put aside whatthey hold most dear. Fancies unintelligible to practical people likewomen--thus Stella Croyle's thoughts ran--but to be taken note of verycarefully. High-flown motives from a world of white angels, where nodoubt they are very suitable. But men will use them as working motiveshere below, with the result that they wreck women's hearts and causethemselves a great deal of useless misery. 

Stella's hopes and her self-esteem had for long played with the thoughtthat it might possibly be one of those impracticable notions which hadwhipped Harry Luttrell up to the rupture of their alliance; that afterall, it was not that he was tired of a chain. Yes, she wanted to know. 

"Luttrell only told me once, only spoke about it once, " said Hillyardshifting from one foot to the other. "The week after the eights. Werowed down to Kennington Island in a racing pair, had supper there----"

"Yes, yes, " Stella Croyle interrupted. Oh, how dense men could be to besure! What in the world did it matter, how or when the secret was told?

"I beg your pardon, " said Hillyard. "But really it does matter a little. You see, it was on our way back, when it was quite dark, so dark thatreally you could see little but the line of sky above the trees, and theflash of the water at the end of the stroke. I doubt if Luttrell wouldhave ever told me at all, if it hadn't been for just that one fact, thatwe were alone together in the darkness and out on the river. "

"Yes, I was wrong, " said Stella penitently. "I was impatient. I amsorry. "

More and more, just because of this detail, she was ready to believethat Harry Luttrell had left her for some reason quite outsidethemselves, for some other reason than weariness and the swift end ofpassion. 

"Luttrell's father, his grandfather and many others of his name hadserved in the Clayford Regiment. It was his home regiment and thetradition of the family binding from father to son, was that thereshould always be Luttrells amongst its officers. "

"And for that reason Harry----" Stella interrupted impetuously. 

"No, there is more compulsion than that in Harry's case, " Hillyard tookher up. "Much more! The Clayfords _ran_ in the South African War, andran badly. They returned to England a disgraced regiment. Now do you seethe compulsion?"

Stella Croyle turned the problem over in her mind. 

"Yes, I think I do, " she said, but still was rather doubtful. Then shelooked at the problem through Harry Luttrell's eyes. 

"Yes, I understand. The regiment must recover its good name in the nextwar. It was an obligation of honour on Harry to take his commission init, to bear his part in the recovery. "

"Yes. I told you, didn't I? Harry Luttrell was cradled in tradition. "

Hillyard saw Mrs. Croyle's face brighten. Now she had the key to HarryLuttrell. He had joined the Clayfords. And what was his fear atStockholm? The slovenly soldier! Yes, he had given her the real reasonafter all during that dinner on the balcony at Hasselbacken. He fearedto become the slovenly soldier if he idled longer in England. It was notbecause he was tired of her, that the separation had come. Thus shereasoned, and she reasoned just in one little respect wrong. She had thereal secret without a doubt, that "something else, " which Sir CharlesHardiman divined but could not interpret. But she did not understandthat Harry Luttrell saw in her, one of the factors, nay the chief of thefactors which were converting him into that thing of contempt, theslovenly soldier. 

"Thank you, " she said to Hillyard with a smile. She stood aside now fromthe door. "It was kind of you to bring me home and talk with me for alittle while. "

But it seems that her recovery of spirits did not last out the night. Doubts assailed her--Harry Luttrell was beneath other skies with otherpreoccupations and no message from him had ever come to her. Even ifhis love was unchanged at Stockholm, it might not be so now. Hillyardrang her up on the telephone the next morning and warm in his sympathyasked her to lunch with him. But it was a pitiful little voice whichreplied to him. Stella Croyle answered from her bed. She was not well. She would stay in bed for a day and then go to a little cottage whichshe owned in the country. She would see Hillyard again next year when hereturned from the East. 

"Yes, that's her way, " said Sir Charles Hardiman. He met Hillyard theday before he sailed for Port Said and questioned him about StellaCroyle discreetly. "She runs to earth when she's unhappy. We shall notsee her for a couple of months. No one will. "

CHAPTER V

HILLYARD'S MESSENGER

Hillyard turned his back upon the pools of the Khor Galagu at the end ofApril and wandered slowly down the River Dinder. From time to time hisshikari would lead his camels and camp-servants out on to an openclearing on the high river bank and announce a name still marked uponthe maps. Once there had been a village here, before the Kalifa sent hissoldiers and herded the tribes into the towns for his better security. Now there was no sign anywhere of habitation. The red boles of themimosa trees, purple-brown cracked earth, yellow stubble of burnt grass, the skimming of myriads of birds above the tree-tops and shy wildanimals gliding noiselessly in the dark of the forest--there was nothingmore now. It seemed that no human foot had ever trodden that region. 

Hillyard's holiday was coming to an end, for in a month the rainy seasonwould begin and this great park become a marsh. He went fluctuatingbetween an excited eagerness for a renewal of rivalry and theinterchange of ideas and the companionship of women; and a reluctance toleave a country which had so restored him to physical well-being. Neverhad he been so strong. He had recaptured, after his five years of Londonconfinement, the swift spring of the muscles, the immediate response ofthe body to the demand made upon it, and the glorious cessation offatigue when after arduous hours of heat and exertion he stretchedhimself upon his camp-chair in the shadow of his tent. On the whole hetravelled northwards reluctantly; until he came to a little open spaceten days away from the first village he would touch. 

He camped there just before noon, and at three o'clock on the followingmorning, in the company of his shikari, his skinner and his donkey-boyhe was riding along a narrow path high above the river. It was verydark, so that even with the vast blaze of stars overhead, Hillyard couldhardly see the flutter of his shikari's white robe a few paces ahead ofhim. They passed a clump of bushes and immediately afterwards heard agreat shuffling and lapping of water below them. The shikari stoppedabruptly and seized the bridle of Hillyard's donkey. The night was sostill that the noise at the water's edge below seemed to fill the world. Hillyard slipped off the back of his donkey and took his rifle from hisboy. 

"_Gamus!_" whispered the shikari. 

Hillyard almost swore aloud. There was a creek, three hours' march away, where the reed buck came down to drink in the morning. For that creekHillyard was now making with a little Mannlicher sporting rifle--and hehad tumbled suddenly upon buffalo! He was on the very edge of thebuffalo country, he would see no more between here and the houses ofSenga. 

It was his last chance and he had nothing but a popgun! He was stillreproaching himself when a small but startling change took place. Thesnuffling and lapping suddenly ceased; and with the cessation of allsound, the night became sinister. 

The shikari whispered again. 

"Now they in their turn know that we are here. " He enveloped thedonkey's head in a shawl that he was carrying. "Do not move, " hecontinued. "They are listening. "

Shikari, skinner, donkey-boy, donkey and Hillyard stood together, motionless, silent. Hillyard had come out to hunt. Down below the herdin its dumb parliament was debating whether he should be the hunted. There was little chance for any one of them if the debate went againstthem. Hillyard might bring down one--perhaps two, if by some miraculouschance he shot a bullet through both forelegs. But it would make nodifference to the herd. Hillyard pictured them below by the water'sedge, their heads lifted, their tails stiffened, waiting in thedarkness. Once the lone, earth-shaking roar of a lion spread from faraway, booming over the dark country. But the herd below never stirred. It no more feared the lion than it feared the four men on the river bankabove. An hour passed before at last the river water plashed under thetrampling hoofs. 

Hillyard threw his rifle forward, but the shikari touched him on thearm. 

"They are going, " he whispered, and again the four men waited, until theshikari raised his hand. 

"It will be good for us to move! They are very near. " He looked towardsthe east, but there was no sign yet of the dawn. 

"We will go very cautiously into the forest. We shall not know wherethey are, but they will know everything we are doing. "

In single file they moved from the bank amongst the mimosas, the donkeywith his head covered, still led by the boy. Under the cavern of thebranches it was black as pitch--so black that Hillyard did not see thehand which the shikari quietly laid upon his shoulder. 

"Listen. "

On his left a branch snapped, ahead of them a bush that had been bentaside swished back on its release. 

"They are moving with us. They are all round us, " the shikari whispered. "They know everything we do. Let us wait here. When the morning breaksthey will charge or they will go. "

So once again the little party came to a halt. Hillyard stood listeningand wondering if the morning would ever come; and even in that time oftension the habit of his mind reasserted its sway. This long, silentwaiting for the dawn in the depths of an African forest with death athis very elbow--here was another sharp event of life in vivid contrastwith all the others which had gone before. The years in London, theletter-box opposite the Abbey where he had posted his manuscripts atthree in the morning and bought a cup of coffee at the stall by thekerb--times so very close to him--the terms at Oxford, the strangehungry days on the quays of Spain, the moonlit wanderings on thefootpath over the rustic ridge and up the hill, when he composed poemsto the moon and pithy short, great thoughts--here was something fresh toadd to them if he didn't go down at daybreak under the hoofs of theherd! Here was yet a further token, that out of the vicissitudes of hislife something more, something new, something altogether different andunimagined was to come, as the crown and ultimate reason of all that hadgone before. Once more the shikari's hand touched him and pointedeastwards. The tree-trunks were emerging from the darkness. Beyond themthe black cup of the sky was thinning to translucency. Very quickly thegrey light widened beyond this vast palisade of trees. Even in herebelow the high branches, it began to steal vaporous and dim. About themon every side now the buffalo were moving. The shikari's grip tightenedon Hillyard's arm. The moment of danger had come. It would be the smashof his breast-bone against the forehead of the beast, hoofs and kneeskneading his broken body and the thrust and lunge of the short curledhorns until long after he was dead, or--the new test and preparation toadd to those which had gone before!

Suddenly the shikari cried aloud. 

"They are off"; and while he spoke came a loud snapping of boughs, thesound of heavy bodies crashing against trees and for a moment againstthe grey light in that cathedral of a forest the huge carcases of thebuffalo in mad flight were dimly visible. Then silence came again for afew moments, till the boughs above them shrilled with birds and themorning in a splendour of gold and scarlet, like a roar of trumpetsstormed the stars. 

Hillyard drew a breath. 

"Let us go on, " he said. 

They advanced perhaps fifty yards before the second miracle of thatmorning smote upon his eyes. A solitary Arab, driving a tiny, overladendonkey, was advancing towards him, his white robes flickering in and outamong the tree-boles. 

Hillyard looked at his shikari. But the shikari neither spoke noraltered the regularity of his face. Hillyard put no question inconsequence. The Arab was ten days' journey from the nearest villageand, even so, his back was turned towards it. He was moving fromsolitude into solitude still more silent and remote. It was impossible. Hillyard's eyes were playing him false. 

He shut them for an instant and opened them again, thinking that thevision would have gone. But there was the Arab still nearer to them andmoving with a swift agility. A ray of sunlight struck through thebranches of a tree and burned suddenly like a dancing flame on somethingthe man carried--a carbine with a brass hammer. And the next moment asound proved beyond all doubt to Hillyard that his eyes did not deceivehim. For he heard the slapping of the Arab's loose slippers upon thehard-caked earth. 

Oh yes, the man was real enough. For the shikari suddenly swerved fromthe head of the file towards the stranger and stopped. The two mentalked together and meanwhile Hillyard and the rest of his party halted. Hillyard lit his pipe. 

"Who is it, Hamet?" he cried, and the shikari turned with his companionand came back. 

"It is the postman, " he said as though the delivery of letters along theDinder River were the most commonplace of events. 

"The postman!" cried Hillyard. "What in the world do you mean?"

"Yes, " Hamet explained. "He carries letters between Abyssinia and Sengaon the Blue Nile. He is now on his way back to Abyssinia. "

"But how long does it take him?" Hillyard asked in amazement. 

"He goes and returns once a year. The journey takes him four months eachway unless he meets with a party shooting. Then it takes longer for hegoes with the party to get meat. "

Hillyard stared at the Arab in amazement. He was a lean slip of a man, almost as black as a negro, with his hair running back above thetemples, and legs like walking-sticks. He stood wreathed in smiles andnodding confirmation of Hamet's words. But to Hillyard, with theemotions of the dark hour just past still shivering about him, he seemedsomething out of nature. Hillyard leaned from his donkey and took thecarbine from the postman's hand. It was an ancient thing of Spanishmanufacture, heavy as a pig of lead. 

"But this can't be of any use, " he cried. "Is the man never attacked?"

Hamet talked with the Arab in a dialect Hillyard did not understand atall; and interpreted the conversation. 

"No. He has only once fired his rifle. One night--oh, a long way fartherto the south--he waked up to see an elephant fighting his little donkeyin the moonlight and he fired his rifle and the elephant ran away. Youmust know that all these little Korans he carries on his arms and roundhis neck have been specially blessed by a most holy man. "

The postman's shoulders, elbows, wrists and neck were circled about bychaplets on which little wooden Korans were strung. He fingered them andcounted them, smiling like a woman displaying her jewels to her lessfortunate friends. 

"So he is safe, " continued Hamet. "Yes, he will even have his picturetaken. Yes, he can afford to suffer that. He will stand in front of thegreat eye and the machine shall go click, and it will not do him anyharm at all. He has a letter for you. " Hamet dropped from his enthusiasmover the wonderful immunity of the postman from the dangers ofphotography into a most matter-of-fact voice. 

"A letter for me? That's impossible, " cried Hillyard. 

But the Arab was thrusting his hand here and there in the load on thedonkey's back and finally drew out a goatskin bag. Hillyard, like otherEnglishmen, had been brought up in a creed which included theinefficiency of all Postmasters-general. A blight fell upon suchpersons, withering their qualities and shrivelling them into the meanestcaricatures of bureaucrats. It could not be that the postal service wasnow to reveal resource and become the servant of romance. Yet the Arabdrew forth a sealed envelope and handed it to Hillyard. And it bore theinscription of his name. 

Oh, but it bore much more than that! It was written in a hand whichHillyard had not seen for seven years, and the mere sight of it swepthim back in a glory of recollections to Oxford, its towers and tallroofs, which mean so much more to the man who has gone down than to theyouth who is up. The forest, with its patterns of golden sunlight andits colonnades of trees crowding away into darkness, was less visiblethan those towers to Hillyard, as he stood with the envelope in hishand. Once more he swung down the High and across the Broad from alecture with a ragged gown across his arm. Merton and the House, NewCollege and Magdalen Tower--he saw the enchanted city across ChristChurch meadows from the river, he looked down upon it from Headington, and again from those high fields where, at twilight, the scholar-gipsyused to roam. For the letter was in the hand of Harry Luttrell. 

He tore it open and read:

 "_Some one in London is asking for you. Who it is I don't know. But the message came through in a secret cipher and it might be important. I think you should pack your affs. And hurry along to Senga, where I shall expect you. _"

Martin Hillyard folded the letter and put it away in his pocket. 

"He will find food in our camp, " he said to Hamet, with a nod towardsthe postman. "We may as well go on. "

Even if he returned to camp at once, it would be too late to start thatday. The sun would be high long before the baggage could be packed uponthe camels. The little party went on to the creek and built a tiny houseof reeds and boughs, in which Hillyard sat down to wait for the deer togather. He had one of the green volumes of "The Vicomte de Bragelonne"in his pocket, but this morning the splendid Four for once did notenchain him. Who was it in London who wanted him--wanted him so muchthat cipher telegrams must find him out on the banks of the DinderRiver? Was this letter the summons to the something more and somethingdifferent? Was the postman to Abyssinia the expected messenger? Themiracle of that morning predisposed him to think so. 

He sat thus for an hour, and then stepping daintily, with timid eyesalert, a tall reed-buck and his doe came through the glade towards thewater. But they did not drink; they waited, cropping the grass. Gradually, through a long hour, others gathered, tawny and yellow, anddappled-brown, and stood and fed until--perhaps a signal was given, perhaps a known moment had come--all like soldiers at a command, moveddown to the water's edge. 

Six nights later Hillyard camped at Lueisa, near to that big tree underwhich it is not wise to spread your bed. He took his bath at ten o'clockat night under the moon, and the water from the river was hot. Hestretched himself out in his bed and waked again that night after themoon had set, to fix indelibly in his memory the blazing dome of starsabove his head, and the Southern Cross burning in a corner of the sky. The long, wonderful holiday was ended. To-morrow night he would sleep ina house. Would he ever come this way again?

In the dark of the morning he struck westwards from the Dinder, across amost tedious neck of land, for Senga and the Blue Nile. 

CHAPTER VI

THE HONORARY MEMBER

At six o'clock in the evening Colin Rayne, a young civilian in the SudanService, heard, as he sat on the balcony of the mess at Senga, therhythmical thud of camels swinging in to their rest in the freshness ofthe night air. 

"There's our man, " he exclaimed, and running downstairs, he reached thedoor just as Hillyard's twelve camels and his donkeys trooped into thelight. Hillyard was riding bareheaded, with his helmet looped to hissaddle, a young man, worn thin by sun and exercise, with fair burnthair, and a brown clean shaven face. Colin Rayne went up to him as hedismounted. 

"Captain Luttrell asked me to look after you. He has got some work onhand for the moment. We'll see after your affs. "

"Thank you. "

"You might show me, by the way, where your cartridges are. "

Hillyard selected the camel on which they were packed and Rayne called aSudanese sergeant to take them into the mess. 

"Now we will go upstairs. I expect that you can do with awhisky-and-soda, " he said. 

Hillyard was presented to a Doctor Mayle, who was conducting a specialresearch into the cause of an obscure fever; and to the other officersof this headquarters of a Province. They were all young, Hillyardhimself was older than any of them. 

"Oh, we have got some married ones, too, " said Rayne, "but they live inhouses of their own like gentlefolk. "

"There are some Englishwomen here then?" said Hillyard, and for anappreciable moment there was silence. Then a shortish, square man, witha heavy moustache explained, if explanation it could be called. 

"No. They were sent off to Senaar this morning--to be out of the way. Wiser. "

Hillyard asked no questions but drank his whisky-and-soda. 

"I haven't seen Luttrell since we were at Oxford together, " he said. 

"And it's by an accident that you see him now, " said Rayne. "TheGovernor of Senga was thrown from his horse and killed on the spot downby the bridge there six weeks ago. The road gave way suddenly under hishorse's hoofs. Some one was wanted here immediately. "

"Yes, there's no doubt of that, " said Mr. Blacker, the short square man, with emphasis. 

"Captain Luttrell had done very well in Kordofan, " Rayne resumed. "Hewas fetched up here in a hurry as Acting-Governor. But no doubt theappointment will be confirmed. "

Mr. Blacker added another croak. 

"Oh, it'll be confirmed all right, if----" and he left his sentence inthe air; but his gesture finished it. 

"If there is any Luttrell left to confirm, " Martin Hillyard interpreted, though he kept his interpretation to himself. 

There certainly was in that room with the big balcony a grim expectationof trouble. It was apparent, not so much in words as in an attention todistant noises, and a kind of strained silence. The sound of a secondcaravan was heard. It was coming from the north. Rayne ran to the railof the balcony and looked anxiously out. The street here was very broadand the huts upon the opposite side already dark except at one point, where an unshaded kerosene lamp cast through on open door a panel ofglaring light upon the darkness. Rayne saw the caravan emerge spectrallyinto the light and disappear again. 

"They are our beasts, " he said in a voice of relief, and a minute laterhe called down to the soldier in charge. He spoke in the Dinka languageand the soldier replied in the same tongue. Hillyard understood enoughof it now to learn that the women had arrived safely at Senaar withoutany incident or annoyance. 

"That's good, " said Colin Rayne. He turned to Hillyard. "Luttrell's along time. Shall we go and find him?"

Both Blacker and Dr. Mayle looked up with surprise, but Hillyard hadrisen quickly, and they raised no objection. Rayne walked down thestairs first and led the way towards the rear of the building across anopen stretch of ground. The moon had not yet risen, and it was pitchdark so that Hillyard had not an idea whither he was being led. ColinRayne stopped at a small, low door in a high big wall and knocked. Aheavy key grated in a lock and the door was opened by a soldier. Hillyard found himself standing inside a big compound, in the midst ofwhich stood some bulky, whitish erection, from which a light gleamed. 

Colin Rayne led the way towards the light. It was shining through thedoorway of a chamber of new wood planks with a flat roof and somestrange, dimly-seen superstructure. Hillyard looked through the doorwayand saw a curious scene. Two Sudanese soldiers were present, one of whomcarried the lantern. The other, a gigantic creature with a skin likepolished mahogany, was stripped to the waist and held poised in hishands a huge wooden mallet with a long handle. He stood measuring hisdistance from the stem of a young tree which was wedged tightly betweena small square of stone on the ground and the flat roof above. Standingapart, and watching everything with quiet eyes was Harry Luttrell. 

Even at this first glance in the wavering light of the lantern Hillyardrealised that a change had come in the aspect of his friend. It was nota look of age, but authority clothed him as with a garment. Rayne andHillyard passed into the chamber. Luttrell turned his head and welcomedHillyard with a smile. But he did not move and immediately afterwards heraised his face to the roof. 

"Are you ready up there?"

An English voice replied through the planks. 

"Yes, sir, " and immediately afterwards a dull and heavy weight like afull sack was dumped upon the platform above their heads. 

"Good!"

Luttrell turned towards the giant. 

"Are you ready? And you know the signal?"

The Sudanese soldier grinned in delighted anticipation, with a flash ofbig white teeth, and took a firmer grip of his mallet and swung it overhis shoulder. 

"Good. Now pay attention, " said Luttrell, "so that all may be well andseemly done. "

The Sudanese fixed his eyes upon Luttrell's foot and Luttrell began totalk, rapidly and rather to himself than to his audience. Hillyard couldmake neither head nor tail of the strange scene. It was evident thatLuttrell was rehearsing a speech, but why? And what had the Sudanesewith the mallet to do with it?

A sudden and rapid sequence of events brought the truth home to him witha shock. At a point of his speech Luttrell stamped twice, and theSudanese soldier swung his mallet with all his force. The head of itstruck the great support full and square. The beam jumped from itsposition, hopped once on its end, and fell with a crash. And from abovethere mingled with the crash a most horrid clang, for, with the removalof the beam, two trap-doors swung downwards. Hillyard looked up; he sawthe stars, and something falling. Instinctively he stepped back and shuthis eyes. When he looked again, within the chamber, midway between thefloor and roof, two sacks dangling at the end of two ropes spun andjerked--as though they lived. 

Rayne had stepped back and stood quivering from head to foot byHillyard's side; Hillyard himself felt sick. He knew very well now whathe was witnessing--the rehearsal of an execution. The Sudanese soldierswere grinning from ear to ear with delight and pride. The one personquite unmoved was Harry Luttrell, whose ingenuity had invented thedevice. 

"Let it be done just so, " he said to the soldiers. "I shall not forgivea mistake. "

They saluted, and he dismissed them and turned at last to MartinHillyard. 

"It's good to see you again, " he said, as he shook hands; and then helooked sharply into Hillyard's face and laughed. "Shook you up a bit, that performance, eh? Well, they bungled things in Khartum a littlewhile ago. I can't afford awkwardness here. "

Senga was in the centre of that old Khalifa's tribe which not so manyyears ago ruled in Omdurman. It was always restless, always on thelook-out for a Messiah. 

"Messiahs are most unsettling, " said Luttrell, "especially when theydon't come. The tribe began sharpening its spear-heads a few weeks ago. Then two of them got excited and killed. That's the consequence, " and hejerked his head towards the compound, from which the two friends werewalking away. 

Hillyard was to hear more of the matter an hour later, as they all satat dinner in the mess-room. There were thousands of the tribe, all in aferment, and just half a battalion of Sudanese soldiers under Luttrell'scommand to keep them in order. 

"Blacker thinks we ought to have temporised, and that we shall getscuppered, " said Luttrell. He was the one light-hearted man at thattable, though he was staking his career, his life, and the life of thecolony on the correctness of his judgment. Sir Charles Hardiman wouldnever have recognised in the man who now sat at the head of the messtable the young man who had been so torn by this and that discriminationin the cabin of his yacht at Stockholm. There was something of thejoyous savage about him now--a type which England was to discovershortly in some strength amongst the young men who were to officer itsarmies. 

"I don't agree. I have invited the chiefs to see justice done. I amgoing to pitch them a speech myself from the scaffold--cautionary talesfor children, don't you know--and then, if old Fee-Fo-Fum with themallet don't get too excited and miss his stroke, everything will golike clockwork. "

Hillyard wondered how in the world he was going to deliver StellaCroyle's message--a flimsy thing of delicate sentimentality--to this manconcerned with life and death, and discharging his responsibilitiesaccording to the just rules of his race, without fear and without toomuch self-questioning. Indeed, the Luttrell, Acting-Governor of Senga, was a more familiar figure to Hillyard than he would have been toStella Croyle. For he had shaken off, under the pressure of immediatework and immediate decisions, the thin and subtle emotions which werehaving their way with him two years before. He had recaptured the highspirit of Oxford days, and was lit along his path by that clear flame. 

But there were tact and discretion too, as Hillyard was to learn. ForMr. Blacker still croaked at the other end of the table. 

"It's right and just and all that of course. But you are taking too higha risk, Luttrell. "

The very silence at the table made it clear to Hillyard that Luttrellstood alone in his judgment. But Luttrell only smiled and said:

"Well, old man, since I disagree, the only course is to refer the wholeproblem to our honorary member. "

And at once every countenance lightened, and merriment began to flickand dance from one to other of that company like the beads on thesurface of champagne. Only Hillyard was mystified. 

"Your honorary member!" he inquired. 

Luttrell nodded solemnly, and raised his glass. 

"Gentlemen, the Honorary Member of the Senga Mess--Sir ChichesterSplay. "

The toast was drunk with enthusiasm by all but Hillyard, who sat staringabout him and wondering what in the world the Mecænas of the FirstNights had in common with these youthful administrators far-flung to theEquator. 

"You don't drink, Martin, " cried Luttrell. A Socialist at a PublicDinner who refused to honour the Royal Toast could only have scandalisedthe chairman by a few degrees more than Hillyard's indifference did now. 

"I beg your pardon, " said Hillyard with humility. "I repair my errornow. It was due to amazement. "

"Amazement!" Colin Rayne repeated, as Hillyard drained his glass. 

"Yes. For I know the man. "

There was the silence that follows some stupendous happening; eyes wereriveted upon Hillyard in admiration; and then the silence burst. 

"He knows him!"

"It's incredible!"

"Actually knows him!"

And suddenly above the din Blacker's voice rose warningly. 

"Don't let's lose our heads! That's the great thing! Let us keep as calmas we can and think out our questions very carefully lest theHeaven-sent Bearer of Great Tidings should depart without revealing allhe knows. "

Chairs were hitched a little closer about Hillyard. The care which hadbrooded in that room was quite dispelled. 

"Have some more port, sir, " said the youngest of that gathering, eagerlypushing across the bottle. Hillyard filled his glass. Port was his, andprestige too. He might write a successful play. That was all very well. He might go shooting for eight months along by the two Niles and theDinder. That was all very well too. He was welcome at the Senga Mess. But he knew Sir Chichester Splay! He acquired in an instant theimportance of a prodigy. 

"But, since he is an honorary member of your mess, you must know himtoo, " cried Hillyard. "He must have come this way. "

"My dear Martin!" Luttrell expostulated, as one upbraiding a child. "SirChichester Splay out of London! The thing's inconceivable!"

"Inconceivable! Why, he lives in the country. "

A moment of consternation stilled all voices. Then the Doctor spoke in awhisper. 

"Is it possible that we are all wrong?"

"He lives at Rackham Park, in Sussex. "

Mr. Blacker fell back in relief. 

"I know the house. He is a new resident. It is near to Chichester. Hewent there on the Homoeopathic principle. "

The conjecture was actually true. Sir Chichester Splay, spurred by hisambition to be a country gentleman with a foot in town, had chosen theneighbourhood on account of his name, so that it might come to bebelieved that he had a territorial connection. 

"Describe him to us, " they all cried, and, when Hillyard had finished:

"Well, he might be like that, " Luttrell conceded. "It was not our idea. "

"No, " said Colin Rayne. "You will remember I always differed from all ofyou, but it seems that I am wrong too. I pictured him as a tall, melancholy man, with a conical bald head and with a habit of plucking ata black straggling beard--something like the portraits of Tennyson. "

"To me, " said Luttrell, "he was always fat and fussy, with white spats. "

"But why are you interested in him at all?" cried Hillyard. 

"We will explain the affair to you on the balcony, " answered Luttrell, as he rose. 

They moved into the dark and coolness of this spacious place, and, stretching themselves in comfort on the long cane chairs, they explainedto Hillyard this great mystery. Rayne began the tale. 

"You see, we don't get a mail here so very often. Consequently we payattention when it comes. We read the _Searchlight_, for instance, withcare. "

Mr. Blacker snatched the narrative away at this point. 

"And Sir Chichester Splay occurs in most issues and in many columns. Atfirst we merely noticed him. Some one would say, 'Oh, here's old Splayagain, ' as if--it seems incredible now--the matter was of no importance. It needed Luttrell to discover the real significance of Sir Chichester, the man's unique and astounding quality. "

Harry Luttrell interrupted now. 

"Yes, it was I, " he said with pride. "Sir Chichester one day was seen ata Flower Show in Chelsea. On another he attended the first performanceof a play. On a third day he honoured the Private View of an Exhibitionof Pictures. On a fourth he sat amongst the Distinguished Strangers inthe Gallery of the House of Commons. But that was all! This is what Ialone perceived. Always that was all!"

Luttrell leaned back and relit his cigar. 

"When other people come to be mentioned in the newspapers day after day, sooner or later some information about them slips out, somecharacteristic thing. If you don't get to know their appearance, youlearn at all events their professions, their opinions. But of SirChichester Splay--never anything at all. Yet he is there always, nothingcan happen without his presence, a man without a shadow, a being withouta history. To me, a simple soldier, he is admirable beyond words. For hehas achieved the inconceivable. He combines absolute privacy of lifewith a world-wide notoriety. He may be a stamp-collector. Do I knowthat? No. All I know is that if there were an Exhibition of StampCollections, he would be the first to pass the door. " Luttrell rose fromhis chair. 

"Therefore, " he added in conclusion, "Sir Chichester is of great valueto us at Senga. We elected him to the mess with every formality, andsome day, when we have leisure, we shall send a deputation up the Nileto shoot a Mrs. Grey's Antelope to decorate Rackham Park. " He turned toHillyard. "We have a few yards to walk, and it is time. "

The two friends walked down the stairs and turned along the road, Hillyard still debating what was, after all, the value of Sir ChichesterSplay to the Senga mess. It had seemed to him that Luttrell had notwished for further questions on the balcony, but, now that the two werealone, he asked:

"I don't see it, " he said; and Luttrell stopped abruptly and turned tohim. 

"Don't you, Martin?" he asked gently. All the merriment had gone fromhis face and voice. "If you were with us for a week you would. It's justthe value of a little familiar joke always on tap. Here are a handful ofus. We eat together, morning, noon, and night; we work together; we playpolo together--we can never get away from each other. And in consequencewe get on each other's nerves, especially in the months of hot weather. Ill-temper comes to the top. We quarrel. Irreparable things might besaid. That's where Sir Chichester Splay comes in. When the quarrel'sgetting bitter, we refer it to his arbitration. And, since he has noopinions, we laugh and are saved. " Luttrell resumed his walk to theGovernor's house. 

"Yes, I see now, " said Hillyard. 

"You had an instance to-night, " Luttrell added, as they went in at thedoor. "It's a serious matter--the order of a Province and a great manylives, and the cost of troops from Khartum, and the careers of all of usare at stake. I think that I am right, and it is for me to say. Theydisagree. Yes, Sir Chichester Splay saved us to-night, and"--a smilesuddenly broke upon his serious face--"I really should like to meethim. "

"I will arrange it when we are both in London, " Hillyard returned. 

He did not forget that promise. But he was often afterwards to recallthis moment when he made it--the silent hall, the door open upon thehot, still night, the moon just beginning to gild the dark sky, and thetwo men standing together, neither with a suspicion of the life-longconsequences which were to spring from the casual suggestion and thecareless assent. 

"You are over there, " said Luttrell, pointing to the other side of thehall. He turned towards his own quarters, but a question from Hillyardarrested him. 

"What about that message for me?"

"I know nothing about it, " Luttrell answered, "beyond what I wrote. Thetelegram came from Khartum. No doubt they can tell you more atGovernment House. Good night!"

CHAPTER VII

IN THE GARDEN OF EDEN

Just outside Senga to the north, in open country, stands a great walledzareba, and the space enclosed is the nearest approach to the Garden ofEden which this wicked world can produce. The Zoological Gardens ofCairo and Khartum replenish their cages from Senga. But there are nocages at Senga, and only the honey-badger lives in a tub with a chainround his neck, like a bull-dog. The buffalo and the elephant, thewart-hog and the reed-buck, roam and feed and sleep together. Nor dothey trouble, after three days' residence in that pleasant sanctuary, about man--except that specimen of man who brings them food. 

All day long you may see, towering above the wall close to the littlewooden door, the long necks and slim heads of giraffes looking towardsthe city and wondering what in the world is the matter with the mento-day, and why they don't come along with the buns and sugar. Oncewithin the zareba, once you have pushed your way between the giraffesand got their noses out of your jacket-pockets, you have really only tobe wary of the ostrich. He, mincing delicately around you with hislittle wicked red eye blinking like a camera shutter, may try with anill-assumed air of indifference to slip up unnoticed close behind you. If he succeeds he will land you one. And one is enough. 

Into this zareba Harry Luttrell led Martin Hillyard on the next morning. Luttrell had an hour free, and the zareba was the one spectacle inSenga. He kicked the honey-badger's tub in his little reed-house andbrought out that angry animal to the length of his strong chain and towithin an inch of his own calves. 

"Charming little beast, isn't he? See the buffalo in the middle? Thelittle elephant came in a week ago from just south of the Khor Galagu. You had something private to say to me? Now's your time. Mind theostrich, that's all. He looks a little ruffled. "

They were quite alone in the zareba. The giraffes had fallen in behindand were following them, and level with them, on Hillyard's side, theostrich stepped like a delicate lady in a muddy street. Hillyard foundit a little difficult to concentrate his thoughts on Stella Croyle'smessage. But he would have delivered it awkwardly in any case. He hadseen enough of Harry Luttrell last night to understand that an ocean nowrolled between those two. 

"On the first night of my play, 'The Dark Tower, '" he began, andsuddenly faced around as the ostrich fell back. 

"Yes!" said Luttrell, and he eyed the ostrich indifferently. "Thatanimal's a brute, isn't he?"

He took a threatening step towards it, and the ostrich sidled away as ifit really didn't matter to him where he took his morning walk. 

"Yes?" Luttrell repeated. 

"I went to a supper-party given by Sir Charles Hardiman. "

"Oh?"

Luttrell's voice was careless enough. But his eyes went watchfully toHillyard's face, and he seemed to shut suddenly all expression out ofhis own. 

"Hardiman introduced me to a friend of yours. "

Luttrell nodded. 

"Mrs. Croyle?"

"Yes. "

"She was well?"

"In health, yes!"

"I am very glad. " Unexpectedly some feeling of relief had made itselfaudible in Luttrell's voice. "It would have troubled me if you hadbrought me any other news of her. Yes, that would have troubled me verymuch. I should not have been able to forget it, " he said slowly. 

"But she is unhappy. "

Luttrell walked on in silence. His forehead contracted, a look oftrouble came into his face. Yet he had an eye all the while for themovements of the animals in the zareba. At last he halted, struck outat the ostrich with his stick, and turned to Hillyard with a gesture ofhelplessness. 

"But what can one do--except the single thing one can't do?"

"She gave me a message, if I should chance to meet you, " answeredHillyard. 

Luttrell's face hardened perceptibly. 

"Let me hear it, Martin. "

"She said that she would like you to have news of her, and that fromtime to time she would like to have a little line from you. "

"That was all?"

"Yes. "

Harry Luttrell nodded, but he made no reply. He walked back withHillyard to the door of the zareba, and the ostrich bore them company, now on this side, now on that. The elephant was rolling in the grasslike a dog, the giraffes crowded about the little door like beggarsoutside a restaurant. The two friends walked back towards the town in anair shimmering with heat. The Blue Nile glittered amongst its sand-bankslike so many ribands of molten steel. They were close upon the housebefore Luttrell answered Stella Croyle's message. 

"All _that_, " he cried, with a sharp gesture as of a man sweepingsomething behind him, "all that happened in another age when I wasanother man. "

The gesture was violent, but the words were pitiful. He was not a manexasperated by a woman's unseasonable importunity, but angry with thegrim, hard, cruel facts of life. 

"It's no good, Martin, " he added, with a smile. "Not all the king'shorses nor all the king's men----"

Hillyard was sure now that no little line would ever go from Senga tothe house in the Bayswater Road. The traditions of his house and of hisregiment had Harry Luttrell in their keeping. Messages? Martin Hillyardmight expect them, might indeed respond to and obey them, and withadvantage, just because they came out of the blue. But the men oftradition, no! The messenger had knocked upon the doors of theirfathers' houses before ever they were born. 

At the door of the Governor's house Harry Luttrell stopped. 

"I expect you'll want to do some marketing, and I shall be busy, andto-night we shall have the others with us. So I'll say now, " and hisface brightened with a smile, as though here at all events were a matterwhere the bitter laws of change could work no cruelties, "it has beenreally good to see you again. "

Certain excellent memories were busy with them both--Nuneham and SanfordLasher and the Cherwell under its overhanging branches. Then Luttrelllooked out across to the Blue Nile and those old wondrous days fadedfrom his vision. 

"I should like you to get away bukra, bukra, Martin, " he said. "Half-past one at the latest, to-morrow morning. Can you manage it?"

"Why, of course, " answered Hillyard in surprise. 

"You see, I postponed that execution, whilst you were here. I thinkit'll go off all right, but since it's no concern of yours, I would justas soon you were out of the way. I have fixed it for eight. If you startat half-past one you will be a good many miles away by then. "

He turned and went into the house and to his own work. Martin Hillyardwalked down the road along the river bank to the town. Harry Luttrellhad said his last word concerning Stella Croyle. Of that he was sure andwas glad, though Stella's tear-stained face would rise up between hiseyes and the water of the Nile. Sooner or later Harry Luttrell wouldcome home, bearing his sheaves, and then he would marry amongst his ownpeople; and a new generation of Luttrells would hold their commissionsin the Clayfords. He had said his last word concerning Stella Croyle. 

But Hillyard was wrong. For in the dark of the morning, when he hadbestridden his donkey and given the order for his caravan to march, hewas hailed by Luttrell's voice. He stopped, and Luttrell came down inhis pyjamas from the door of the house to him. 

"Good luck, " he said, and he patted the donkey's neck. "Good luck, oldman. We'll meet in England some time. "

"Yes, " said Hillyard. 

It was not to speak these words that Harry Luttrell had risen, afterwishing him good-bye the night before. So he waited. 

Luttrell was still, his hand on the little donkey's neck. 

"You'll remember me to our honorary member, won't you?"

"Yes. "

"Don't forget. "

"I won't. "

Nor was it for this reminder, either. So Hillyard still waited, and atlast the words came, jerkily. 

"One thing you said yesterday.... I was very glad to hear it. ThatStella was well--quite well. You meant that, didn't you? It's thetruth?"

"Yes, it's the truth. "

"Thank you ... I was a little afraid ... Thank you!"

He took his hand from the donkey's neck, and Hillyard rode forward onthe long and dreary stage to the one camping ground between Senga andSenaar. 

For a little while he wondered at this insistence of Harry Luttrell uponthe physical health of Stella Croyle, and why he had been afraid. Butwhen the dawn came his thoughts reverted to his own affairs. The messagedelivered to him in the forest of the River Dinder! It might meannothing. It was the part of prudence to make light of his hopes andconjectures. But the hopes would not be stilled, now that he was alone. This was the Summons, the great Summons for which, without hisknowledge, the experiences of his life, detail by detail, had buildedhim. 

CHAPTER VIII

HILLYARD HEARS NEWS OF AN OLD FRIEND

At Khartum, however, disappointment awaited him. He was received withoutexcitement by a young aide-de-camp at the Palace. 

"I heard that you had come in last night. A good trip? Dine with meto-night and you shall show me your heads. The Governor-General's inEngland. "

"There's a telegram. "

"Oh yes. It came up to us from Cairo. Some one wanted to know where youwere. They'll know about it at Cairo. We just pushed it along, youknow, " said the aide-de-camp. He dined with Hillyard, admired his heads, arranged for his sleeping compartment, and assured him that theexecution had gone off "very nicely" at Senga. 

"Luttrell made a palaver, and his patent drop worked as well as anythingin Pentonville, and every one went home cheered up and comfortable. Luttrell's a good man. "

Thus Hillyard took the train to Wadi Haifa in a chastened mood. Obviously the message was of very little, if indeed of any, importance. A man can hardly swing up to extravagant hopes without dropping tosarcastic self-reproaches on his flightiness and vanity. He was notaware that the young aide-de-camp pushed aside some pressing work tomake sure that he did go on the train; or that when the last carriagedisappeared towards the great bridge, the aide-de-camp cried, "Well, that's that, " like a man who has discharged one task at all events ofthe many left to his supervision. 

One consequence of Hillyard's new humility was that he now loitered onhis journey. He stayed a few days at Assouan and yet another few inLuxor, in spite of the heat, and reached Cairo in the beginning of Junewhen the streets were thick with dust-storms and the Government hadmoved to Alexandria. Hillyard was in two minds whether to go straighthome, but in the end he wandered down to the summer seat of government. 

If Khartum had been chilly to the enthusiast, Alexandria was chillier. It was civil and polite to Hillyard and made him a member of the Club. But it was concerned with the government of Egypt, and gently allowedHillyard to perceive it. Khartum had at all events stated "There is acablegram. " At Alexandria the statement became a question: "Is there acablegram?" In the end a weary and indifferent gentleman unearthed it. He did not show it to Hillyard, but held it in his hand and looked overthe top of it and across a roll-top desk at the inquirer. 

"Yes, yes. This seems to be what you are asking about. It is for us, youknow"--this with a patient smile as Hillyard's impatient hand reachedout for it. "Do you know a man called Bendish--Paul Bendish?"

"Bendish?" cried Hillyard. "He was my tutor at Oxford. "

"Ah! Then it does clearly refer to you. Bendish has a friend who needsyour help in London. "

Hillyard stared. 

"Do you mean to say that I was sent for from the borders of Abyssiniabecause Bendish has a friend in London who wants my help?"

The indifferent gentleman stroked his chin. 

"It certainly looks like it, doesn't it? But I do hope that you didn'tcut your expedition short on that account. " He looked remorsefully intoHillyard's face. "In any case, the rainy season was coming on, wasn'tit?"

"Yes, my expedition was really ended when the message reached me, "Hillyard was forced to admit. 

"That's good, " said the indifferent gentleman, brightening. "You willsee Bendish, of course, in England. By what ship do you sail? It's notvery pleasant here, is it?"

"I shall sail on the _Himalaya_ in a week's time. "

"Right!" said the official, and he nodded farewell and dipped his noseonce more into his papers. 

Hillyard walked to the door, conscious that he looked the fool he felthimself to be. But at the door he turned in a sort of exasperation. 

"Can't you tell me at all why Bendish's friend wants my help?" he asked. 

It was at this moment that the indifferent gentleman had the inspirationof his life. 

"I haven't an idea, Mr. Hillyard, " he replied. "Perhaps he has got intodifficulties in the writing of a revue. "

The answer certainly drove Hillyard from the room without another word. He stood outside the door purple with heat and indignation. Hillyardneither overrated nor decried his work. But to be dragged away from thebuffalo and the reed-buck of the Dinder River in order to be told thathe was a writer of revues. No! That was carrying a bad joke too far. 

Hillyard stalked haughtily along the corridor towards the outer door, but not so fast but that a youth passed him with a sheet of paper in hishand. The youth went into the room where Government cablegrams werecoded. The sheet of paper which he held in his hand was inscribed with amessage that Martin Hillyard would leave Alexandria in a week's time onthe s. S. _Himalaya_. And the message strangely enough was not addressedto Paul Bendish at all. It was headed, "For Commodore Graham. Admiralty. " The great Summons had in fact come, although Hillyard knewit not. 

He travelled in consequence leisurely by sea. He started from Alexandriaafter half the month of June had gone, and he was thus in the Bay ofBiscay on that historic morning of June the twenty-eighth, when theArchduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife, Sophia Duchess of Hohenberg, weremurdered in the streets of Saravejo. London, when he reached it, was achoir of a million voices not yet tuned to the ringing note of one. Itwas incredible that the storm, foreseen so often over the port wine, should really be bursting at last. Mediation will find a way. Not thistime; the moment has been chosen. And what will England do? Ride safe inthe calm centre of the hurricane? No ship ever did, and England won't. 

A few degenerate ones threw up their hands and cried that all wasover--_they knew_. 

Of these a gaunt-visaged man, stubborn and stupid and two generationsback a German, held forth in the hall of Hillyard's club. 

"German organisation, German thoroughness and German brains--we are nomatch for them. The country's thick with spies--wonderful men. Whereshall _we_ find their equals?"

A sailor slipped across the hall and dropped into a chair by Hillyard'sside. 

"You take no part in these discussions? The crackling of thorns--what?"

"I have been a long time away. "

"Thought so, " continued the sailor. "A man was inquiring for youyesterday--a man of the name of Graham. "

Hillyard shook his head. 

"I don't know him. "

"No, but he is a friend of a friend of yours. "

Hillyard sat up in his chair. He had been four days in London, and theengrossing menace of those days had quite thrust from his recollectionsthe telegram which had, as he thought, befooled him. 

"The friend of mine is possibly Paul Bendish, " he said stiffly. 

"Think that was the name. Graham's the man I am speaking of, " and thesailor paused. "Commodore Graham, " he added. 

Hillyard's indignation ebbed away. What if he had not been fooled? Thequenched hopes kindled again in him. There was all this talk ofwar--alarums and excursions as the stage-directions had it. Service!Suddenly he realised that ever since he had left Senga, a vague envy ofHarry Luttrell had been springing up in his heart. The ordered life ofservice--authority on the one hand, the due execution of details on theother! Was it to that glorious end in this crisis that all his life'sexperience had slowly been gathering? He looked keenly at his companion. Was it just by chance that he had crossed the hall in the midst of allthis thistle-down discussion and dropped in the chair by his side?

"But what could I do?"

He spoke aloud, but he was putting the question to himself. The sailor, however, answered it. 

"Ask Graham. "

He wrote an address upon a sheet of notepaper and handed it to Hillyard. Then he looked at the clock which marked ten minutes past three. 

"You will find him there now. "

The sailor went after his cap and left the club. Hillyard read theaddress. It was a number in a little street of the Adelphi, and as heread it, suspicion again seized upon Hillyard. After all, why should aCommodore want to see him in a little street of the Adelphi. Perhaps, after all, the indifferent official of Alexandria was right and theCommodore had ambitions in the line of revues!

"I had better go and have it out with him, " he decided, and, taking hishat and stick, he walked eastwards to Charing Cross. He turned into ashort street. At the bottom a stone arch showed where once the Thameshad lapped. Now, beyond its grey-white curve, were glimpses of greenlawns and the cries of children at their play. Hillyard stopped at ahouse by the side of the arch. A row of brass plates confronted him, butthe name of Commodore Graham was engraved on none of them. Hillyard rangthe housekeeper's bell and inquired. 

"On the top floor on the left, " he was told. 

He climbed many little flights of stairs, and at the top of each hisheart sank a little lower. When the stairs ended he confronted a mean, brown-varnished door; and he almost turned and fled. After all, themonstrous thing looked possible. He stood upon the threshold of a set ofchambers. Was he really to be asked to collaborate in a revue? He rangthe bell, and a young woman opened the door and barred the way. 

"Whom do you wish to see?" she asked. 

"Commodore Graham. "

"Commodore Graham?" she repeated with an air of perplexity, as thoughthis was the first time she had ever heard the name. 

Across her shoulder Hillyard looked into a broad room, where three othergirls sat at desks, and against one wall stood a great bureau with manytiny drawers like pigeon-holes. Several of these drawers stood open anddisclosed cards standing on their edges and packed against each other. Hillyard's hopes revived. Not for nothing had he sat from seven to tenin the office of a shipping agent at Alicante. Here was a card-index, and of an amazing volume. But his interlocutor still barred the way. 

"Have you an appointment with Commodore Graham?" she asked, still withthat suggestion that he had lunched too well and had lost his way. 

"No. But he sent for me across half the world. "

The girl raised a pair of steady grey eyes to his. 

"Will you write your name here?"

She allowed him to pass and showed him some slips of paper on a table inthe middle of the room. Hillyard obeyed, and waited, and in a fewmoments she returned, and opened a door, crossed a tiny ante-room andknocked again. Hillyard entered a room which surprised him, so greatlydid its size and the wide outlook from its windows contrast with thedinginess of its approach. A thin man with the face of a French abbé satindolently twiddling his thumbs by the side of a big bureau. 

"You wanted to see me?"

"Mr. Hillyard?"

"Yes. "

Commodore Graham nodded to the girl, and Hillyard heard the door closebehind him. 

"Won't you sit down? There are cigarettes beside you. A match? Here isone. I hope that I didn't bring you home before your time. "

"The season had ended, " replied Hillyard, who was in no mood to commithimself. "In what way can I help you?"

"Bendish tells me that you know something of Spain. "

"Spain?" cried Hillyard in surprise. "Spain means Madrid, Bilbao, and ahost of places, and a host of people, politicians, merchants, farmers. What should I know of them?"

"You were in Spain for some years. "

"Three, " replied Hillyard, "and for most of the three years picking up aliving along the quays. Oh, it's not so difficult in Spain, especiallyin summer time. Looking after a felucca while the crew drank in a café, holding on to a dinghy from a yacht and helping the ladies to step out, a little fishing here, smuggling a box of cigars past the customsofficer there--oh, it wasn't so difficult. You can sleep out in comfort. I used to enjoy it. There was a coil of rope on the quay at Tarragona;it made a fine bed. Lord, I can feel it now, all round me as I curled upin it, and the stars overhead, seen out of a barrel, so to speak!"

Hillyard's face changed. He had the spark of the true wanderer withinhim. Even recollections of days long gone could blow it into clear, redflame. All the long glowing days on the hot stones of the water-side, the glitter of the Mediterranean purple-blue under the sun, the comingof night and the sudden twinkling of lights in the cave-dwellings aboveAlmeria and across the bay from Aguilas, the plunge into the warm sea atmidnight, the glorious evenings at water-side cafés when he had half adozen coppers in his pocket; the good nature of the people! All theserecollections swept back on him in a rush. The actual hardships, thehunger, the biting winds of January under a steel-cold sky, these thingswere all forgotten. He remembered the freedom. 

"There weren't any hours to the day, " he cried, and spoke the creed ofall the wanderers in the world. "I saw the finest bull-fights in theworld, and made money out of them by selling dulces and membrilla andalmond rock from Alicante. Oh, the life wasn't so bad. But it came to anend. A shipping agent at Alicante used me as a messenger, and finally, since I knew English and no one else in his office did, turned me into ashipping clerk. "

Hillyard had quite forgotten Commodore Graham, who sat patientlytwiddling his thumbs throughout the autobiography, and now came withsomething of a start to a recognition of where he sat. He sprang up andreached for his hat. 

"So, you see, you might as well ask a Chinaman at Stepney what he knowsof England as ask me what I know of Spain. I am just wasting your time. But I have to thank you, " and he bowed with a winning pleasantness, "forreviving in me some very happy recollections which were growing dim. "

The Commodore, however, did not stir. 

"But it is possible, " he said quietly, "that you do know the very placeswhich interest me--the people too. "

Hillyard looked at the Commodore. He put down his hat and resumed hisseat. 

"For instance?"

"The Columbretes. "

Hillyard laughed. 

"Islands sixty miles from Valencia. "

"With a lighthouse, " interrupted Graham. 

"And a little tumble-down inn with a vine for an awning. "

"Oh! I didn't know there was an inn, " said Graham. "Already you havetold me something. "

"I fished round the Columbretes all one summer, " said Hillyard, with alaugh. 

Graham nodded two or three times quickly. 

"And the Balearics?"

"I worked on one of Island Line ships between Barcelona and Palmathrough a winter. "

"There's a big wireless, " said Commodore Graham. 

"At Soller. On the other side of Mallorca from Palma. You cross awonderful pass by the old monastery where Georges Sand and Chopin stayedand quarrelled. "

The literary reminiscence left Commodore Graham unmoved. 

"Did you ever go to Iviza?"

"For a month with a tourist who dug for ancient pottery. "

Graham swung round to his bureau and drummed with the tips of hisfingers upon the leather pad. He made no sign which could indicatewhether he was satisfied or no. He lit a cigarette and handed the box toHillyard. 

"Did you ever come across a man called José Medina?"

Eleven years had passed since the strange days in Spain, and thoseeleven years not without their sharp contrasts and full hours. Hillyard's act of memory was the making of a picture. One by one hecalled up the chain of coast cities wherein he had wandered. Malaga, with its brown cathedral; Almeria and its ancient castle and brightblue-painted houses glowing against the brown and barren hills; Aguilas, with its islets; Cartagena, Gandia, Alicante of the palms; Valencia--andunder the trees and on the quays, the boatmen and the captains and theresplendent officials whom he had known! They took shape before him andassumed their names. He dived amongst them for one José Medina. 

"Yes, " he replied at last, "there was a José Medina. He was a youngpeasant of Mallorca. He always said jo for yo. "

Graham's eyes brightened and his lips twitched to a smile. He glancedaside to his bureau, whereon lay a letter written by Paul Bendish atOxford. 

"He probably has a larger acquaintance with the queer birds of theMediterranean ports than any one else in England. But he does not seemto be aware of it. But if you persist in sitting quiet his knowledgewill trickle out. "

Commodore Graham persisted, and facts concerning José Medina began totrickle out. José's father had left him, the result of a Spanishpeasant's thrift, a couple of thousand pesetas. With this José Medinahad gone to Gibraltar, where he bought a felucca, with a native ofGibraltar as its nominal owner; so that José Medina might fly the flagof Britain and sleep more surely for its protection. At Gibraltar, withwhat was left of his two thousand pesetas and the credit which hismanner gained him, he secured a cargo of tobacco. 

"Gibraltar's a free port, you see, " said Hillyard. "José ran the cargoalong the coast to Benicassim, a little watering-place with a good beachabout thirty kilometres east of Valencia. He ran the felucca ashore onedark night. " Suddenly he stopped and smiled to himself. "I expect JoséMedina's in prison now. "

"On the contrary, " said Graham, "he's a millionaire. "

Hillyard stared. Then he laughed. 

"Well, those were the two alternatives for José Medina. But I am judgingby one night's experience. I never saw him again. "

Commodore Graham touched with his heel a bell by the leg of his bureau. The bell did not ring, but displaced a tiny shutter in front of the deskof his secretary in the ante-room; and Hillyard had hardly ended whenthe girl was in the room and announced:

"Admiral Carstairs. "

Commodore Graham looked annoyed. 

"What a nuisance! I am afraid that I must see him, Mr. Hillyard. "

"Of course, " said Hillyard. "Admirals are admirals. "

"And they know it!" said Commodore Graham with a sigh. 

Hillyard rose and took his hat. 

"Well, I am very grateful to you, Mr. Hillyard, " said Graham. "I can'tsay anything more to you now. Things, as you know, are altogether verydoubtful. We may slip over into smooth water. On the other hand, " and hetwiddled his thumbs serenely, "we may be at war in a month. If that wereto be the case, I might want to talk with you again. Will you leave youraddress with Miss Chayne?"

Hillyard was led out by another door, no doubt so that he might not meetthe impatient admiral. He might have gone away disheartened from thatinterview with its vague promises. But there are other and often surerindications than words. When Miss Chayne took down his address, hermanner had quite changed towards him. She had now a frank and pleasantcomradeship. The official had gone. Her smile said as plainly as printcould do: "You are with us now. "

Meanwhile Commodore Graham read through once more the letter of PaulBendish. He turned from that to a cabled report from Khartum of theopinion which various governors of districts had formed concerning theways and the discretion of Martin Hillyard. Then once more he rang hisbell. 

"There was a list of suitable private yachts to be made out, " he said. 

"It is ready, " replied Miss Chayne, and she brought it to him. 

Over that list Commodore Graham spent a great deal of time. In the endhis finger rested on the name of the steam-yacht _Dragonfly_, owned bySir Charles Hardiman, Baronet. 

CHAPTER IX

ENTER THE HEROINE IN ANYTHING BUT WHITE SATIN

Goodwood in the year nineteen hundred and fourteen! There were some, throwers of stones, searchers after a new thing on which to build areputation, who have been preaching these many years past that thetemper of England had changed, its solidity all dissolved into froth, and that a new race of neurotics was born on Mafeking night. Justninety-nine years before this Goodwood meeting, when Napoleon and theveterans of the Imperial Guard were knocking at the gates of Brussels, afamous ball was given. Goodwood of the year nineteen-fourteen, _mutatismutandis_, did but repeat that scene, the same phlegmatic enjoyment ofthe festival, the same light-heartedness and sure confidence under thegreat shadow, and the same ending. 

The whispered word went round so that there should be no panic or alarm, and of a sudden every officer was gone. Goodwood of nineteen fourteenand a July so perfect with sunlight and summer that it seemed some birdat last must break the silence of the famed beech-grove! All the worldwent to it. The motor-cars and the coaches streamed up over Duncton Hilland wound down the Midhurst Road to pleasant Charlton, with its cottagesand gardens of flowers. Martin Hillyard went too. 

As he walked away from Captain Graham's eyrie he met Sir ChichesterSplay in Pall Mall. 

"Where have you been these eight months?" inquired Sir Chichester. "'TheDark Tower' is still running, I see. A good play, Mr. Hillyard. "

"But not a great play, of course, " said Martin, his lips twitching to asmile. 

"I have been looking for you everywhere, " remarked Sir Chichester. "Youmust stay with us for Goodwood. My wife will never forgive me if I don'tsecure you. "

Hillyard gladly consented. It would be his first visit to the highracecourse on the downs--and--and he might find Stella Croyle among thecompany. It would be a little easier for him and for her too, if theymet this second time in a house of many visitors. He had no comfortablenews to give to her, and he had shrunk from seeking her out in theBayswater Road. Wrap the truth in words however careful, he could notbut wound her. Yet sooner or later she must hear of his return, andavoidance of her would but tell the story more cruelly than his lips. 

"Yes, I will gladly come, " he said, "if I may come down on the firstday. "

He was delayed in London until midday, and so motored after luncheonthrough Guildford and Chiddingfold and Petworth to Rackham Park. Thepark ran down to the Midhurst Road, and when Hillyard was shown into thedrawing-room he walked across to the window and looked out over a valleyof fields and hedges and low, dark ridges to the downs lying blue in thesunlight and the black forests on their slopes. 

From an embrasure a girl rose with a book in her hand. 

"Let me introduce myself, Mr. Hillyard. I am Joan Whitworth, and make myhome here with my aunt. They are all at Goodwood, of course, but theyshould be back at any moment. "

She rang the bell and ordered tea. Somewhere Hillyard realised he hadseen the girl before. She was about eighteen years old, he guessed, verypretty, with a wealth of fair hair deepening into brown, dark blue eyesshaded with long dark lashes and a colour of health abloom in hercheeks. 

"You have been in Egypt, uncle tells me. "

"In the Sudan, " Hillyard corrected. "I have been shooting for eightmonths. "

"Shooting!"

Joan Whitworth's eyes were turned on him in frank disappointment. "Theauthor of 'The Dark Tower'--shooting!"

There was more than disappointment in her voice. There was a hint ofdisdain. 

Hillyard did not pursue the argument. 

"I knew that I had seen you before. I remember where now. You were withSir Chichester at the first performance of 'The Dark Tower. ' I peepedout behind the curtain of my box and saw you. "

Joan's face relaxed. 

"Oh, yes, I was there. "

"But----" Hillyard began, and caught himself up. He had been on thepoint of saying that she had a very different aspect in the stalls ofthe Rubicon Theatre. But he looked her up and down and held his peace. Yet what he did substitute left him in no better case. 

"So you have not gone to the races, " he said, and once more her lipcurled in disdain. She drew herself up to her full height--she was notnaturally small, but a good honest piece of English maidenhood. 

"Do I look as if I were likely to go to the races?" she asked superbly. 

She was dressed in a sort of shapeless flowing gown, saffron in colour, and of a material which, to Hillyard's inexperienced eye, seemed canvas. It spread about her on the ground, and it was high at the throat. Abroad starched white collar, like an Eton boy's, surmounted it, and alittle black tie was fastened in a bow, and scarves floated untidilyaround her. 

"No, upon my word you do not, " cried Hillyard, nettled at last by herhaughtiness, and with such a fervour of agreement, that suddenly all heryouth rose into Joan Whitworth's face and got the better of her pose. She laughed aloud, frankly, deliciously. And her laugh was stillrippling about the room when motor-horns hooted upon the drive. 

At once the laughter vanished. 

"We shall be amongst horses in a minute, " she observed with a sigh. "Ican smell the stables already, " and she retired to her book in theembrasure of the window. 

A joyous and noisy company burst into the room. Sir Chichester, withlarger mother-of-pearl buttons on his fawn-coloured overcoat than everdecorated even a welshing bookmaker on Brighton Downs, led Hillyard upto Lady Splay. 

"My wife. Millie, Mr. Hillyard. "

Hints of Lady Splay's passion for the last new person had preparedHillyard for a lady at once gushing and talkative. He was surprised tofind himself shaking hands with a pleasant, unassuming woman of distinctgood looks. Hillyard was presented to Dennis and Miranda Brown, a youngcouple two years married, and to Mr. Harold Jupp, a man of Hillyard'sage. Harold Jupp was a queer-looking person with a long, thin, brownface, and a straight, wide mouth too close to a small pointed chin. Harold Jupp carried about with him a very aura of horses. Horses werehis only analogy; he thought in terms of horses; and perhaps, as aconsequence, although he could give no reasons for his judgments uponpeople, those judgments as a rule were conspicuously sound. Jupp shookhands with Hillyard, and turned to the student at the window. 

"Well, Joan, how have you lived without us? Aren't you bored with yourlarge, beautiful self?"

Joan looked at him with an annihilating glance, and crossed the room toMillie Splay. 

"Bored! How could I be? When I have so many priceless wasted hours tomake up for!"

"Yes, yes, my dear, " said Millie Splay soothingly. "Come and have sometea. "

"That's it, Joan, " cried Jupp, unrepressed by the girl's contempt. "Comeand have tea with the barbarians. "

Joan addressed herself to Dennis Brown, as one condescending fromOlympus. 

"I hope you had a good day. "

"Awful, " Dennis Brown admitted. "We ought to have had five nice wins onform. But they weren't trying, Joan. The way Camomile was pulled. Iexpected to see his neck shut up like a concertina. "

"Never mind, boys, " said Sir Chichester. "You'll get it back beforeFriday. "

Harold Jupp shook his head doubtfully. 

"Never sure about flat-racing. Jumping's the only thing for the poor andhonest backer. "

Joan Wentworth looked about her regretfully. 

"I understand now why you have all come back so early. "

Miranda Brown ran impulsively to her. She was as pretty as a picture, and spoke as a rule in a series of charming explosions. At this momentshe was deeply wronged. 

"Yes, Joan, " she cried. "They would go! And I know that I have backedthe winner for the last race. "

Dennis Brown contemplated his wife with amazement. 

"Miranda, you are crazy, " he cried. "He can't win. "

Harold Jupp agreed regretfully. 

"He's a Plater. That's the truth. A harmless, unnecessary Plater. I sitat the feet of Miranda Brown, Joan, but as regards horses, she doesn'tknow salt from sugar. "

Miranda looked calmly at her watch. 

"He has already won. "

Tea was brought in and consumed. At the end of it Dennis Brown observedto Harold Jupp:

"We ought to arrange what we are going to do to-morrow. "

Both men rose, and each drew from one pocket a programme of the nextday's events, and from the other a little paper-covered volume called"Form at a Glance. " Armed with their paraphernalia, they retired to atable in a window. 

"Come and live the higher life with us, Joan, " cried Harold Jupp. "Whatare you reading?"

"Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society, " Joan returned icily. But pride burned through the ice, and was audible. 

"He sounds just like a Plater, " replied Harold Jupp. 

Meanwhile Dennis Brown was immersed in his programme. 

"The first race is too easy, " he announced. 

"Yes, " said Jupp. "It's sticking out a foot. Peppercorn. "

Dennis Brown stared at his friend. 

"Don't be silly! Simon Jackson will romp home. "

Harold Jupp consulted his little brown book. 

"Peppercorn ran second to Petronella at Newbury, giving her nine pounds. Petronella met Simon Jackson at even weights at Newcastle, and SimonJackson was left in the country. Peppercorn must win. "

"Let us hear the names of the others, " interrupted Miranda, running upto the table. 

Harold Jupp read out the names. 

"Smoky Boy, Paper Crown, House on Fire, Jemima Puddleduck----" andMiranda clapped her hands. 

"Jemima Puddleduck's going to win. "

Both the young men stared at her, then both plunged their noses intotheir books. 

"Jemima Puddleduck, " Dennis Brown read, "out of Side Springs, by theQuack. "

"Oh, what a pedigree!" cried Miranda. "She must win. "

Jupp wrinkled his forehead. 

"But she's done nothing. Why must she win?" asked Dennis. 

Miranda shrugged her shoulders at the ineffable stupidity of the youngman with whom she was linked. 

"Listen to her name! Jemima Puddleduck! She can't lose!"

Both the young men dropped their books and gazed at one anotherhopelessly. Here was the whole scientific business of spotting winners, through research into pedigrees, weights, records, the favouritedistances and race courses of this or that runner, so completelydisregarded that racing might really be a matter of chance. 

"I'll tell you, Miranda, " said Harold Jupp. "Jemima Puddleduck's aPlater. "

The awful condemnation had no sooner been pronounced than the butler, with his attendant footman, appeared to remove the tea. 

"We have just heard over the telephone, sir, " he said to Sir Chichester, "the winner of the last race. "

"Oh!" cried Miranda breathlessly. "Which was it?"

"Chewing Gum. "

Miranda swept round to her husband, radiant. "There, what did I tellyou? Chewing Gum. What were the odds, Harper?" She turned again to thebutler. "Oh, you do know, don't you?"

"Yes, madam, twelve to one. They say he rolled home. "

Miranda Brown jumped in the air. 

"Oh, I have won a hundred and twenty pounds. "

Harold Jupp was sympathetic and consolatory. 

"Of course it's a mistake, Miranda. I am awfully sorry! Chewing Gum rannowhere to Earthly Paradise in the Newberry Stakes this year, andEarthly Paradise, all out to win, was beaten a month ago by sevenlengths at Warwick, by Rollicking Lady. And Rollicking Lady was in thisrace too. So you see it's impossible. Chewing Gum's a Plater. "

Miranda wrung her hands. 

"But, Harold, he _did_ win; didn't he, Harper?"

"There's no doubt about it, madam, " replied the butler with dignity. "I'av verified the hinformation from other sources. "

He left the two experts blinking. Dennis was the first to recover fromthe blow. 

"What on earth made you back him, Miranda?"

Miranda sailed to the side of Joan Whitworth. 

"You are both of you so very unpleasant that I am seriously inclined notto tell you. But I always back horses with the names of things to eat. "

The two scientists were dumb. They stared open-mouthed. Somewhere, itseemed, a religion tottered upon its foundations. Sacrilege itself couldhardly have gone further than Miranda Brown had gone. 

"But--but, " Harold Jupp stammered feebly, "you don't _eat_ chewing gum. "

Miranda flattened him out with a question. 

"What becomes of it, then?" and there was no answer. But Miranda was notcontent with her triumph. She must needs carry the war unwisely into theenemy's camp. 

"After all, what in the world can have possessed you, Dennis, to back asilly old mare like Barmaid?"

Dennis Brown saw his opportunity. 

"I always back horses with the names of things to kiss, " he declared. 

Jupp laughed aloud; Sir Chichester chuckled; Miranda looked as haughtyas good-humour and a dainty personality enabled her to do. 

"Vulgar, don't you think?" she asked of Joan. "But racing men _are_vulgar. Oh, Joan! have you thought out your book to-day? Can you nowbegin to write it? Will you write it in the window, with the South Downsin front of your eyes? Oh, it'll be wonderful!"

"What ho!" cried Mr. Jupp. "Miranda has joined the highbrows. "

Dennis Brown was too seriously occupied to waste his time upon Miranda'senthusiasms. 

"It's a pity we can't get the evening papers, " he said gloomily. "Ishould dearly like to see the London forecasts for to-morrow. "

"I brought some evening papers down with me, " said Hillyard, and "Didyou?" cried Sir Chichester, and his eyes flashed with interest. ButHarold Jupp was already out of the room. He came back from the hall witha bundle of newspapers in his hands, pink and white and yellow andgreen. He carried them all relentlessly past Sir Chichester to the tablein the window. Sir Chichester to a newspaper, was a needle to a magnet;and while Dennis Brown read out the selections for the morrow's races of"The Man of Iron" in the _Evening Patriot_, and "Hitchy Koo" in _TheLamppost_, Sir Chichester edged nearer and nearer. 

Lady Splay invited Hillyard to play croquet with her in the garden; andhalf-way through the game Hillyard approached the question whichtroubled him. 

"I was wondering whether I should meet Mrs. Croyle here. "

Millicent Splay drove her ball before she answered, and missed her hoop. 

"What a bore!" she cried. "Now I shall have to come back again. I didn'tknow that you had met Stella. "

"I met her only once. I liked her. "

Millie Splay nodded. 

"I am glad. There's always a room here for Stella. I told her soimmediately after I met her, and she took me at my word, as I meant herto do. But she avoids Goodwood week and festivals generally, and she iswise. For though I would take her anywhere myself, you know what longmemories people have for other people's sins. There might behumiliations. "

"I understand that, " said Hillyard, and he added, "I gathered from Mrs. Croyle that you had remained a very staunch friend. "

Millie Splay shrugged her shoulders. 

"I am a middle-aged woman with a middle-aged woman's comprehension. There are heaps of things I loathe more and more each day, meanness, forinstance, and an evil tongue. But, for the other sins, more and more Isee the case for compassion. Stella was hungry of heart, and she let thehunger take her. She had her blind, wild hour or two; she was a fool;she was--well, everything the moralists choose to call her. But she hasbeen paying for her hour ever since, and will go on paying. Now, if Ican only hit your yellow ball from here, I shall have rather a good gameon. "

Lady Splay succeeded and, carrying the four croquet balls with her, wentround the rest of the hoops and pegged out. 

"I must go in and change, " she said, and suddenly, in a voice ofmelancholy, she cried, "Oh, I do wish----" and stopped. 

"What?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter, " she answered. But her eyes were upon thewindow, where Joan Whitworth stood in full view in all her disfiguringpanoply. Lady Splay wrung her hands helplessly. "Oh, dear, dear, if sheweren't so thorough!" she moaned. 

When they returned into the drawing-room, Sir Chichester was stillstanding near to Harold Jupp and Dennis Brown, shifting from one foot toanother, and making little inarticulate sounds in his throat. 

"Haven't you two finished yet?" asked Millicent Splay. 

"Just, " said Dennis Brown, rubbing his hands together with a laugh, "andwe ought to have four nice wins to-morrow. "

"Good!" said Sir Chichester. "Then might I have a newspaper?"

"But of course, " said Dennis Brown, and he handed one over the table tohim. "You haven't been waiting for it all this time, Sir Chichester?"

"Oh no, no, no, " exclaimed Sir Chichester, quickly. He glanced with aswift and experienced eye down the columns, and tossed the paper aside. 

"Might I have another?"

"But of course, sir. "

The second paper was disposed of as rapidly as the first, and the othersfollowed in their turn. 

"Nothing in them, " said Sir Chichester with a resigned air. "Nothing inthem at all. "

Millie Splay laughed. 

"All that my husband means is that his name is not to be found in anyone of them. "

"The occurrence seems so rare that he has no great reason to complain, "said Hillyard; and, in order to assuage any disappointment which mightstill be rankling in the baronet's bosom, Hillyard related at thedinner-table, with the necessary discretions, his election to the messat Senga. 

Sir Chichester was elated. "So far away my name is known! Really, thatis very pleasant hearing!"

There was no offence to him in the reason of his honorary membership ofthe Senga mess, which, however carefully Hillyard sought to hide it, could not but peep out. Sir Chichester neither harboured illusionshimself as to his importance nor sought to foster them in others. Therewas none of the "How do these things get into the papers?" about _him_. 

"I am not a public character. So I have to take trouble to keep myselfin print. And I do--a deuce of a lot of trouble. "

"Now, why?" asked Harold Jupp, who possessed an inquiring mind and wasnever satisfied by anything but the most definite statements. 

"Because I like it, " replied Sir Chichester. "I am used to it, and Ilike it. Unless I see my name in real print every morning, I have allday the uncomfortable sensation that I am not properly dressed. "

Millie Splay and the others round the table, with the exception of oneperson, laughed. To that one person, Sir Chichester here turnedgood-humouredly:

"All right, you can turn your nose up, Joan. It seems extraordinary toyou that I should like to see my name in print. I can tell you somethingmore extraordinary than that. The public likes it too. Just because I amnot a public character, every reference to me must be of an exclusivelypersonal kind. And that's just the sort of reference which the publiceats. It is much more thrilled by the simple announcement that a SirChichester Splay, of whom it has never heard, has bought a new pair ofpurple socks with white stripes than it would be by a full account of aCabinet crisis. "

Once more the company laughed at Sir Chichester's apology for hisfoible. 

Lady Splay turned to Hillyard. 

"And who is the ingenious man who discovered this way of keeping thepeace at Senga?"

Hillyard suddenly hesitated. 

"A great friend of mine, " he answered with his eyes on Millie Splay'sface. "He was with me at Oxford. A Captain Luttrell. "

But it was clear almost at once that the name had no associations inLady Splay's mind. She preferred to entertain her friends in the countrythan to live in town. She knew little of what gossip might run thestreets of London; and since Luttrell was, as yet, like Sir Chichester, in that he was not a public character, there had been no wide-run gossipabout Stella Croyle or himself which Millicent Splay was likely to meet. 

Hillyard thought at first, that with a woman's self-control she turned ablank face to him of a set purpose. But one little movement of hersreassured him. Her eyes turned towards Joan Whitworth, as though askingwhether this Harry Luttrell was a match for her, and she said:

"You must bring your friend down to see us, when he comes back toEngland. We are almost acquainted as it is. "

No! Millicent Splay did not connect Harry Luttrell with Stella Croyle. It would have been better if Hillyard, that very night, had enlightenedher. But he was neither a gossip nor a meddler. It was not possible thathe should. 

CHAPTER X

THE SUMMONS

It is curious to recollect how smoothly the surface water ran duringthat last week of peace. Debates there were, of course, and muchargument across the table. It was recognised that great changes, social, economic, military, would come and great adaptations have to be made. But, meanwhile, to use the phrase which was soon to be familiar in halfa million mouths, people carried on. The Brown couple, for instance. Each morning they set out gaily, certain of three or four nice wins;each evening they returned after a day which was "simply awful. " HaroldJupp was at hand with his unfailing remedy. 

"We'll go jumping in the winter and get it all back easily. Flatracing's no good for the poor. The Lords don't come jumping. "

Joan Whitworth carried on too, in her sackcloth and sashes. She wasmoved by the enthusiastic explosions of Miranda Brown to reveal somedetails of the great novel which was then in the process of incubation. 

"_She_ insists on being married in a violet dress, " said Joan, "with theorgan playing the 'Funeral March of a Marionette. '"

"Oh, isn't that thrilling!" cried Miranda. 

"But why does she insist upon these unusual arrangements?" asked HaroldJupp. 

Joan brushed his question aside. 

"It was symbolical of her. "

"Yes. Linda would have done that, " said Miranda. "I suppose her marriageturns out very unhappily?"

"It had to, " said Joan, quite despondent over this unalterablenecessity. 

"Now, why?" asked Jupp in a perplexity. 

"Her husband never understood her. "

"What ho!" cried Dennis Brown, looking up from his scientific researchesinto "Form at a Glance. "

"I expect that he talked racing all day, " said Miranda. 

Dennis Brown treated the rejoinder with contempt. His eyes were fixedsympathetically on the young writer-to-be. 

"I hate crabbing any serious effort to elevate us, Joan, but, honestly, doesn't it all sound a little conventional?"

He could have used no epithet more deplorable. Joan shot at him oneannihilating glance. Miranda bubbled with indignation. 

"Don't notice them, Joan dear! They don't know the meaning of words. They are ribald, uneducated people. You call your heroine Linda?Linda--what?"

Mr. Jupp supplied a name. 

"Linda Spavinsky, " said he. "She comes of the ancient Scottish family ofthat name. "

"Pig! O pig!" cried Joan, routed at last from her superior serenity; anda second afterwards her eyes danced and with a flash of sound whiteteeth she broke into honest laughter. She did her best to suppress hersense of fun, but it would get the better of her from time to time. 

This onslaught upon Joan Whitworth took place on the Wednesday evening. Sir Chichester came into the room as it ended, with a telegram in hishand. 

"Mario Escobar wires, Millie, that he is held up in London by press ofwork and will only be able to run down here on Friday for the night. "

Hillyard looked up. 

"Mario Escobar?"

"Do you know him?" asked Millie Splay. 

"Slightly, " answered Hillyard. "Press of work! What does he do?"

"Runs about with the girls, " said Dennis Brown. 

Sir Chichester Splay would not have the explanation. 

"Nonsense, my dear Dennis, nonsense, nonsense! He has a great manysocial engagements of the most desirable kind. He is, I believe, interested in some shipping firms. "

"I like him, " said Millie Splay. 

"And so do I, " added Joan, "very much indeed. " The statement wasdefiantly thrown at Harold Jupp. 

"I think he is charming, " said Miranda. 

Harold Jupp looked from one to the other. 

"That seems to settle it, doesn't it? But----"

"But what?" asked Sir Chichester. 

"Need we listen to the ridiculous exhibitions of male jealousy?" Mirandaasked plaintively. 

"But, " Harold Jupp repeated firmly, "I do like a man to have anotheraddress besides his club. Now, I will lay a nice five to one that no onein this room knows where Mario Escobar goes when he goes home. "

A moment's silence followed upon Harold Jupp's challenge. To the men, the point had its importance. The women did not appreciate theimportance, but they recognised that their own menfolk did, and they didnot interrupt. 

"It's true, " said Sir Chichester, "I always hear from him with his clubas his address. But it simply means that he lives at an hotel and is notsure that he will remain on. "

Thus the little things of every day occupied the foreground of RackhamPark. Millicent Splay had her worries of which Joan Whitworth was thecause. She loved Joan; she was annoyed with Joan; she admired Joan; shewas amused at Joan; and she herself could never have told you which ofthese four emotions had the upper hand. So inextricably were theyintermingled. 

She poured them out to Martin Hillyard, as they drove through the Parkat Midhurst on the Thursday morning. 

"What do you think of Joan?" she asked. "She is beautiful, isn't she, with that mass of golden hair and her eyes?"

"Yes, she is, " answered Hillyard. 

"And what a fright she is making of herself! She isn't _dressed_ at all, is she? She is just--protected by her clothes. "

Hillyard laughed and Millicent Splay sighed. "And I did hope she wouldhave got over it all by Goodwood. But no! Really I could slap her. But Imight have known! Joan never does things by halves. "

"She seems thorough, " said Hillyard, although he remembered, with somedoubts as to the truth of his comment, moments now and again when moreprimitive impulses had bubbled up in Joan Whitworth. 

"Thorough! Yes, that's the word. Oh, Mr. Hillyard, there was a time whenshe really dressed--_dressed_, you understand. My word, she was thoroughthen, too. I remember coming out of the Albert Hall on a Melbaafternoon, when we could get nothing but a hansom cab, and a policemanactually had to lift her up into it like a big baby because her skirtwas so tight. And look at her now!"

Millicent Splay thumped the side of the car in her vexation. 

"But you mustn't think she's a fool. " Lady Splay turned menacingly onthe silent Hillyard. 

"But I don't, " he protested. 

"That's the last thing to say about her. "

"I never said it, " declared Martin Hillyard. 

"I should have lost my faith in you, if you had, " rejoined MillicentSplay, even now hardly mollified. 

But she could not avoid the subject. Here was a new-comer to RackhamPark. She could not bear that he should carry away a wrong impression ofher darling. 

"I'll tell you the truth about Joan. She has lived her sheltered lifewith us, and no real things have yet come near her. No real troubles, nodeep joys. Her parents even died when she was too young to know them. But she is eighteen and alive to her finger-tips. Thereforeshe's--expectant. "

"Yes, " Hillyard agreed. 

"She is searching for the meaning, for the secrets of life, sure thatthere is a meaning, sure that there are secrets, if only she could gethold of them. But she hasn't got hold of them. She runs here. She runsthere. She explores, she experiments. That's why she's dressed like atramp and thinking out a book where the heroine gets married to theFuneral March of a Marionette. Oh, my dear person, it just means, as italways means with us poor creatures, that the right man hasn't comealong. "

Millie Splay leaned back in her seat. 

"When he does!" she cried. "When he does! Did you see the magnolia thismorning? It burst into flower during the night. Joan! I thought oncethat it might be Harold Jupp. But it isn't. "

Lady Splay spoke with discouragement. She had the matchmaking fever inher blood. Martin Hillyard remembered her glance when he had casuallyspoken of Harry Luttrell. Then she startled him with words which he wasnever to forget, and in which he chose to find a real profundity. 

"The right man has not come along. So Joan mistakes anything odd forsomething great, and thinks that to be unusual is to be strong. It's amood of young people who have not yet waked up. "

They drove to the private stand and walked through into the paddock. Millie Splay looked round at the gay and brilliant throng. She sighed. 

"There she is, moping in the drawing-room over PrinceHohenstiel--whatever his name is. She _won't_ come to Goodwood. No, shejust won't. "

Yet Joan Whitworth did come to Goodwood that year, though not upon thisday. 

No one in that household had read the newspapers so carefully each dayas Martin Hillyard. As the prospect darkened each morning, he was in adistress lest a letter should not have been forwarded from his flat inLondon, or should have been lost in the post. Each evening when theparty returned from the races his first question asked whether there wasno telegram awaiting him. So regular and urgent were his inquiries thatthe house-party could not be ignorant of his preoccupation. And on theafternoon of the Thursday a telegram in its orange envelope was lyingupon the hall-table. 

"It's for you, Mr. Hillyard, " said Lady Splay. 

Hillyard held it in his hands. So the summons had come, the summonshoped for, despaired of, made so often into a whip wherewith he lashedhis arrogance, the summons to serve. 

"I shall have to go up to town this evening, " he said. 

Anxious faces gathered about him. 

"Oh, don't do that!" said Harold Jupp. "We have just got to like you. "

"Yes, wait until to-morrow, my dear boy, " Sir Chichester suggested. Even Joan Whitworth descended to earth and requested that he shouldstay. 

"It's awfully kind of you, " stammered Martin. "But I am afraid that thisis very important. "

Lady Splay was practical. 

"Hadn't you better see first?" she asked. 

Hillyard, with his thoughts playing swiftly in the future like a rapier, was still standing stock-still with the unopened telegram in his hand. 

"Of course, " he said. "But I know already what it is. "

The anxious little circle closed nearer as he tore open the envelope. Heread:

 "_I have refused the Duke. Money is cash--I mean trash. Little one I am yours. _--LINDA SPAVINSKY. "

The telegram had been sent that afternoon from Chichester. 

Hillyard gazed around at the serious faces which hemmed him in. Itbecame a contest as to whose face should hold firm longest. Joan herselfwas the first to flee, and she was found rocking to and fro in silentlaughter in a corner of the library. Then Hillyard himself burst into aroar. 

"I bought that fairly, " he admitted, and he went up several points inthe estimation of them all. 

The last day of the races came--all sunshine and hot summer; lights andshadows chasing across the downs, the black slopes of Charlton forest onthe one side, parks and green fields and old brown houses, sloping tothe silver Solent, upon the other; and in the centre of the plain, byBosham water, the spire of Chichester Cathedral piercing the golden air. Paddock and lawn and the stands were filled until about two in theafternoon. Then the gaps began to show to those who were concerned towatch. Especially about the oval railings in the paddock, within which, dainty as cats and with sleek shining skins, the racehorses stepped, thecrowd grew thin. And in a few moments, the word had run round like fire, "The officers had gone. "

Hillyard stood reflecting upon the stupendous fact. Never had he sobitterly regretted that physical disqualification which banned him fromtheir company. Never had he so envied Luttrell. He was in the uttermostdepression when a small, brown-gloved hand touched his arm. He turnedand saw Joan Whitworth at his side, her lovely face alive withexcitement, her eyes most friendly. It was hardly at all the Joan heknew. Joan had courage, but to face Goodwood in the clothes she affectedat Rackham Park was beyond it. From her grey silk stockings and suèdeshoes to the little smart blue hat which sat so prettily on her hair, she was, as Millicent Splay would have admitted, really dressed. 

"There is a real telegram for you, " she said. She held it out to himenclosed in an envelope which had been already opened. 

"_Please come to see me--Graham_, " he read, and the actual receipt ofthe message stirred within him such a whirl of emotion that, for amoment or two, Joan Whitworth spoke and he was not aware of it. Suddenly, however, he understood that she was speaking words ofimportance. 

"I hope I did right to open it, " she said. "Colonel Brockley rode overthis morning to tell us that his son had been recalled to his battalionby a telegram. I knew you were expecting one. When this one came, Ithought that it might be important and that you ought to have it atonce. On the other hand it might be another telegram, " and her facedimpled into smiles, "from Linda Spavinsky. I didn't know what to doabout it. But Mario Escobar was quite certain that I ought to open it. "

"Mario Escobar?" cried Hillyard. 

"Yes. He had just arrived. He was quite certain that we ought to openit, so we did. "

"We?" A note of regret in his voice made her ask anxiously:

"Was I wrong?"

Hillyard hastened to reassure her. 

"Not a bit. Of course you were quite right, and I am very grateful. "

Joan's face cleared again. 

"You see, I thought that if it was important I could bring it over anddrive you back again. "

"Will you?" Hillyard asked eagerly. "But now you are here you ought tostay. "

Joan would not hear of the proposal, and Hillyard himself was in a feverto be off. They found Sir Chichester and his wife in the paddock, andHillyard wished his hosts good-bye. Mario Escobar, who had driven overwith Joan Whitworth, was talking to them. Escobar turned to MartinHillyard. 

"We met at Sir Charles Hardiman's supper party. You have not forgotten?You are off? A new play, I hope, to go into rehearsal. "

He smiled and bowed, and waved his hands. Hillyard went away with JoanWhitworth and mounted beside her into a little two-seated car which shehad been accustomed to drive in her unregenerate days. She had notforgotten her skill, and she sent the little car spinning up and downthe road into the hills. It was an afternoon of blue and gold, with thelarks singing out of sight in the sky. The road wound up and down, darkhedges on one side, fields yellow with young wheat upon the other, andthe scent of the briar-rose in the air. Joan said very little, andHillyard was content to watch her as she drove, the curls blowing abouther ears and her hands steady and sure upon the wheel as she swung thecar round the corners and folds of the hills. Once she asked of him:

"Are you glad to go?"

He made no pretence of misunderstanding her. 

"Very, " he answered. "If the great trial is coming, I want to fall backinto the rank and file. Pushing and splashing is for peace times. "

"Oh, I understand that!" she cried. 

These were the young days. The jealousies of Departments, the intriguesto pull this man down and put that man up, not because of his capacityor failure, but because he fitted or did not fit the inner politics ofthe Office, the capture of honours by the stay-at-homes--all the littlemiseries and horrors that from time immemorial have disfigured themanagement of wars--they lay in the future. With millions of people, aswith this couple speeding among the uplands, the one thought was--thegreat test is at hand. 

"You go up to London to-night, and it may be a long while before we seeyou, " said Joan. She brought the car to a halt on the edge of DunctonHill. "Look for luck and for memory at the Weald of Sussex, " she criedwith a little catch in her throat. 

Fields and great trees, and here and there the white smoke of a passingtrain and beyond the Blackdown and the misty slopes of LeithHill--Hillyard was never to forget it, neither that scene nor the eagerface and shining eyes of Joan Whitworth against the blue and gold of thesummer afternoon. 

"You will remember that you have friends here, who will be glad to hearnews of you, " she said, and she threw in the clutch and started the cardown the hill. 

CHAPTER XI

STELLA RUNS TO EARTH

"You have been back in England long?" asked Stella Croyle. 

"A little while, " said Hillyard evasively. 

It was the first week of September. But since his return from RackhamPark to London his days had been passed in the examination of files ofdocuments; and what little time he had enjoyed free from that labour hadbeen given to quiet preparations for his departure. 

"You might have come to see me, " Stella Croyle suggested. "You knew thatI wished to see you. "

"Yes, but I have been very busy, " he answered. "I am going away. "

Stella Croyle looked at him curiously. 

"You too! You have joined up?"

Hillyard shook his head. 

"No good, " he answered. "I told you my lungs were my weak point. I amturned down--and I am going abroad. It's not very pleasant to findoneself staying on in London, going to a little dinner party here andthere where all the men are oldish, when all of one's friends havegone. "

Stella Croyle's face and voice softened. 

"Yes. I can understand that, " she said. 

Hillyard watched her narrowly, but there was no doubt that she wassincere. She had received him with an air of grievance, and a hardaccent in her voice. But she was entering now into a comprehension ofthe regrets which must be troubling him. 

"I am sorry, " she continued. "I never cared very much for women. I havevery few friends amongst them. And so I am losing--every one. " She heldout her hand to him in sympathy. "But if I were a man and had beenturned down by the doctors, I don't think that I could stay. I shouldgo like you and hide. "

She smiled and poured out two cups of tea. 

"That is a habit of yours, even though you are not a man, " Hillyardreplied. 

"What do you mean?"

"You run away and hide. "

Stella looked at her visitor in surprise. 

"Who told you that?"

"Sir Charles Hardiman. "

Stella Croyle was silent for a few moments. 

"Yes, that's true, " and she laughed suddenly. "When things go wrong, Ibecome rather impossible. I have often made up my mind to live entirelyin the country, but I never carry the plan out. "

She let Hillyard drink his tea and light a cigarette before sheapproached the question which was torturing her. 

"You had a good time in the Sudan!" she began. "Lots of heads?"

"Yes. I had a perfect time. "

"And your friend? Captain Luttrell. Did you meet him?"

Hillyard had pondered on the answer which he would give to her when sheasked that question. If he answered, "Yes, "--why, then he must go on, hemust tell her something of what passed between Luttrell and himself, howhe delivered his message and what answer he received. Let him wrap thatanswer up in words, however delicate and vague, she would see straightto the answer. Her heart would lead her there. To plead forgetfulnesswould be merely to acknowledge that he slighted her; and she would notbelieve him. So he lied. 

"No. I never met Luttrell. He was away down in Khordofan when I was onthe White Nile. "

Stella Croyle had turned a little away from Hillyard when she put thequestion; and she sat now with her face averted for a long while. Nothing broke the silence but the ticking of the clock. 

"I am sorry, " said Hillyard. 

No doubt her disappointment was bitter. She had counted very much, nodoubt, on this chance of the two men meeting; on her message reachingher lover, and a "little word" now and again from him coming to herhands. Some morning she would wake up and find an envelope in thefamiliar writing waiting upon the tray beside her tea--that, no doubt, had been the hope which she had lived on this many a day. Hillyard wasnot fool enough to hold that he understood either the conclusions atwhich women arrived, or the emotions by which they jumped to them. Buthe attributed these hopes and thoughts with some confidence to StellaCroyle--until she turned and showed him her face. The sympathy andgentleness had gone from it. She was white with passion and her eyesblazed. 

"Why do you lie to me?" she cried. "I met Harry this morning. "

Hillyard was more startled by the news of Luttrell's presence in Londonthan confused by the detection of his lie. 

"Harry Luttrell!" he exclaimed. "You are sure? He is in England?"

"Yes. I met him in Piccadilly outside Jerningham's"--she mentioned thegreat outfitters and provision merchants--"he told me that he had runacross you in the Sudan. What made you say that you hadn't?"

Hillyard was taken at a loss. 

"Well?" she insisted. 

Hillyard could see no escape except by the way of absolute frankness. 

"Because I gave him your message, Mrs. Croyle, " he replied slowly, "andI judged that he was not going to answer it. "

Stella Croyle was inclined to think that the world was banded againsther, to deceive her and to do her harm. They had all been engaged, Hardiman and the rest of them, in keeping Harry Luttrell away from her:in defending him, whether he wished it or not, from the wiles of theenchantress. Stella Croyle was quick enough in the up-take where herwounded heart was not concerned, but she was never very clear in anyjudgment which affected Harry Luttrell. Passion and disappointment andhope drew veils between the truth and her, and she dived below the plainreason to this or that far-fetched notion for the springs of hisconduct. Almost she had persuaded herself that Harry Luttrell, by thepowerful influence of friends, was being kept against his will from herside. Her anger against Hillyard had sprung, not from the mere fact thathe had lied to her, but from her fancy that he had joined the imaginaryband of her enemies. She understood now that in this she had been wrong. 

"I see, " she said gently. "It was to spare me pain?"

"Yes. "

Suddenly Stella Croyle laughed--and with triumph. She showed to Hillyarda face from which all the anger had gone. 

"You need not have been so anxious to spare me. Harry is coming herethis afternoon. "

She saw the incredulity flicker in Hillyard's eyes, but she did notmind. 

"Yes, " she asserted. "He goes down this evening to a camp in the NewForest where his battalion is waiting to go to France. He starts at sixfrom Waterloo. He promised to run in here first. "

Hillyard looked at the clock. It was already half-past four. He had notthe faintest hope that Luttrell would come. Stella had no doubt pressedhim to come. She had probably been a little importunate. Luttrell'spromise was an excuse, just an excuse to be rid of her--nothing more. 

"Luttrell has probably a great deal to do on this last afternoon, " hesuggested. 

"Of course, he won't be able to stay long, " Stella Croyle agreed. "Still, five minutes are worth a good deal, aren't they, if you havewaited for them two years?"

She was impenetrable in her confidence. It clothed her about likearmour. Not for a moment would she doubt--she dared not! Harry wascoming back to the house that afternoon. Would he break something--somelittle china ornament upon the mantel-shelf? He generally knocked oversomething. What would it be to-day, the mandarin with the nodding head, or the funny little pot-bellied dwarf which she had picked up atChristie's the day before? Stella smiled delightedly as she selectedthis and that of her little treasures for destruction. Oh, to-day HarryLuttrell could sweep every glass or porcelain trinket she possessedinto the grate--when once he had passed through the doorway--when onceagain he stood within her room. She sat with folded hands, hope like arose in her heart, sure of him, so sure of him that she did not evenwatch the hands of her clock. 

But the hands moved on. 

"I will stay, if I may, " said Hillyard uncomfortably. "I will go, ofcourse, when----" and he could not bring himself to complete thesentence. 

Stella, however, added the words, though in a quieter voice and withless triumph than she had used before. 

"When he comes. Yes, do stay. I shall be glad. "

Slowly the day drew in. The sunlight died away from the trees in thepark. In the tiny garden great shadows fell. The dusk gathered andHillyard and Stella Croyle sat without a word in the darkening room. ButStella had lost her pride of carriage. On the mantelpiece the clockstruck the hour--six little tinkling silvery strokes. At that moment aguard was blowing his whistle on a platform of Waterloo and a trainbeginning slowly to move. 

"He will have missed his train, " said Stella in an unhappy whisper. "Hewill be here later. "

"My dear, " replied Hillyard, and leaning forward he took and gentlyshook her hand. "Soldiers don't miss their trains. "

Stella did not answer. She sat on until the lamps were lit in thestreets outside and in this room the dusk had changed to black night. 

"No, he will not come, " she said at last, in a low wail of anguish. Sherose and turned to Hillyard. Her face glimmered against the darknessdeathly white and her eyes shone with sorrow. 

"It was kind and wise of you to wish to spare me, " she said. "Oh, I canpicture to myself how coldly he heard you. He never meant to come herethis afternoon. "

Stella Croyle was wrong, just as Hillyard had been. Harry Luttrell hadmeant to pay his farewell visit to Stella Croyle, knowing well that hewas unlikely ever to come back, and understanding that he owed her it. But an incident drove the whole matter from his thoughts, and theincident was just one instance to show how wide a gulf now separatedthese two. 

He had called at a nursing home close to Portland Place where a ColonelOakley lay dying of a malignant disease. Oakley had been the chiefspirit of reviving the moral and the confidence of the disgracedClayfords. He had laboured unflinchingly to restore its discipline, toweld it into one mind, with dishonour to redeem, and a single arm toredeem it. He had lived for nothing else--until the internal troublelaid him aside. Luttrell called at half-past three to tell him that allwas well with his old battalion, and was met by a nurse who shook herhead. 

"The last two days he has been lying, except for a minute here andthere, in a coma. You may see him if you like, but it is a question ofhours. "

Luttrell went into the bedroom where the sick man lay, so thin of faceand hand, so bloodless. But it seemed that the Fates wished to deal theColonel one last ironic stroke, before they let him die. For, whileLuttrell yet stood in the room, Colonel Oakley's eyes opened. This lastmoment of consciousness was his, the very last; and while it stillendured, suddenly, down Portland Place, with its drums beating, itssoldiers singing, marched a battalion. The song and the music swelled, the tramp of young, active, vigorous soldiers echoed and reached downthe quiet street. Colonel Oakley turned his face to his pillow and burstinto tears; the bitterness of death was given him to drink inoverflowing measure. It seemed as though a jibe was flung at him. 

The tramp of the battalion had not yet died away when Oakley sank againinto unconsciousness. 

"It was pretty rough that he should just wake up to hear that and toknow that he would never have part in it, eh?" said Luttrell, speakingin a low voice more to himself than to the nurse. "What he did for us!Pretty hard treatment, eh?"

Luttrell left the home with one thought filling his mind--the regiment. It had got to justify all Oakley's devotion; it had got somehow to makeamends to him, even if he never was to know of it, for this last unfairstroke of destiny. Luttrell walked across London, dwelling upon thequalities of individual men in the company which was his command--howthis man was quick, and that man stupid, and that other inclined toswank, and a fourth had a gift for reading maps, and a fifth would makea real marksman; and so he woke up to find himself before the bookstallin the station at Waterloo. Then he remembered the visit he hadpromised, but there was no longer any time. He took the train to the NewForest, and three days later went to France. 

But of Luttrell's visit to Colonel Oakley, Stella Croyle never knew. And, again, very likely it would not have mattered if she had. They wereparted too widely for insight and clear vision. 

 * * * * *

Hillyard carried away with him a picture of Stella's haunted anddespairing face. It was over against him as he dined at his club, gleaming palely from out of darkness, the lips quivering, the eyes sadwith all the sorrows of women. He could blame neither the one nor theother--neither Stella Croyle nor Harry Luttrell. One heart called to theother across too wide a gulf, and this heart on the hither side waslistening to quite other voices and was deaf to her cry for help. ButHillyard was on the road along which Millicent Splay had alreadytravelled. More and more he felt the case for compassion. He carried thepicture of Stella's face home with him. It troubled his sleep; byconstant gazing upon it he became afraid.... 

He waked with a start to hear a question whispered at his ear. "Where isshe? How has she passed this night?" The morning light was glimmeringbetween the curtains. The room was empty. Yet surely those words hadbeen spoken, actually spoken by a human voice.... He took his telephoneinstrument in his hand and lifted the receiver. In a little while--but awhile too long for his impatience--his call was acknowledged at theexchange. He gave Stella Croyle's number and waited. Whilst he waited helooked at his watch. The time was a quarter past seven. 

An unfamiliar and sleepy voice answered him from her house. 

"Will you put me on to Mrs. Croyle?" he requested, and the reply cameback:

"Mrs. Croyle went away with her maid last night. "

"Last night?" cried Hillyard incredulously. "But I did not leave thehouse myself until well after six, and she had then no plans forleaving. "

Further details, however, were given to him. Mrs. Croyle had called up agarage whence cars can be hired. She had packed hurriedly. She had leftat nine by motor. 

"Where for?" asked Hillyard. 

The name of an hotel in the pine country of Surrey was given. 

"Thank you, " said Hillyard, and he rang off. 

She had run to earth in her usual way, when trouble and grief brokethrough her woman's armour and struck her down--that was all! Hillyardlighted a cigarette and rang for his tea. Yes, that was all! She wasacting true to her type, as the jargon has it. But against his will, herface took shape before him, as he had seen it in the darkness of herroom and ever since--ever since!

He rang again, and more insistently. He possessed a small, swiftmotor-car. Before the clocks of London had struck eight he wastravelling westwards along the King's Road. Hillyard was afraid. He didnot formulate his fears. He was not sure of what he feared. But he wasafraid--terribly afraid; and for the first time anger rose up in hisheart against his friend. Luttrell! Harry Luttrell! At this very momenthe was changing direction in columns of fours upon the drill ground, happy in the smooth execution of the manoeuvre by his men anduntroubled by any thought of the distress of Stella Croyle. Well, littlethings must give way to great--women to the exigencies of drill!

Meanwhile, Hillyard grew more afraid, and yet more afraid. He swept downthe hill to Cobham, passed between the Hut and the lake, and was throughRipley before the shutters in the shops were down. The dew was heavy inthe air; all the fresh, clean smell of the earth was in that Septembermorning. And as yet the morning itself was only half awake. At last theHog's Back rose, and at a little inn, known for its comfort--and its_chef_--Hillyard's car was stopped. 

"Mrs. Croyle?" Hillyard asked at the office. 

"Her maid is here, " said the girl clerk, and pointed. 

Hillyard turned to a girl, pretty and, by a few years, younger thanStella Croyle. 

"I have orders not to wake Mrs. Croyle until she rings, " said the maid. Jenny Prask, she was called, and she spoke with just a touch of pleasantSussex drawl. "Mrs. Croyle has not been sleeping well, and she lookedfor a good night's rest in country air. "

The maid was so healthful in her appearance, so reasonable in herargument, that Hillyard's terrors, fostered by solitude, began to losetheir vivid colours. 

"I understand that, " he stammered. "Yet, Jenny----"

Jenny Prask smiled. 

"You are Mr. Hillyard, I think?"

"Yes. "

"I have heard my mistress speak of you. " Hillyard knew enough of maidsto understand that "mistress" was an unusual word with them. Here, itseemed, was a paragon of maids, who was quite content to be publiclyStella Croyle's maid, whose gentility suffered no offence by therecognition of a mistress. 

"If you wish, I will wake her. "

Jenny Prask went up the stairs, Hillyard at her heels. She knocked uponthe door. No answer was returned. She opened it and entered. 

Stella Croyle was up and dressed. She was sitting at a table by thewindow with some sheets of notepaper and some envelopes in front of her, and her back was towards Hillyard and the open door. But she was dressedas she had been dressed the evening before when he had left her; thecurtains in the room were drawn, and the electric lights on thewriting-table and the walls were still burning. The bed had not beenslept in. 

Stella Croyle rose and turned towards her visitors. She tottered alittle as she stood up, and her eyes were dazed. 

"Why have you come here?" she asked faintly, and she fell rather thansat again in her chair. 

Hillyard sprang forward and tore the curtains aside so that thesunlight poured into the room, and Stella opened and shut her eyes witha contraction of pain. 

"I had so many letters to write, " she explained, "I thought that I wouldsit up and get through with them. "

Hillyard looked at the table. There were great black dashes on thenotepaper and lines, and here and there a scribbled picture of a face, and perhaps now and again half a word. She had sat at that table allnight and had not even begun a letter. Hillyard's heart was torn withpity as he looked from her white, tired face to the sheets of notepaper. What misery and unhappiness did those broad, black dashes and idle linesexpress?

"You must have some breakfast, " he said. "I'll order it and have itready for you downstairs by the time you are ready. Then I'll take youback to London. "

The blood suddenly mounted into her face. 

"You will?" she cried wildly. "In a reserved compartment, so that I maydo nothing rash and foolish? Are you going to be kind too?"

She broke into a peal of shrill and bitter laughter. Then her head wentdown upon her hands, and she gave herself up to such a passion ofsobbing and tears as was quite beyond all Hillyard's experience. Yet hewould rather hear those sobs and see her bowed shoulders shaking underthe violence of them than listen again to the dreadful laughter whichhad gone before. He had not the knowledge which could enable him tounderstand her sudden outburst, nor did he acquire that knowledge untillong afterwards. But he understood that quite unwittingly he had touchedsome painful chord in that wayward nature. 

"I am going to take you back in my motor-car, " he said. "I'll bedownstairs with the breakfast ready. "

She had probably eaten nothing, he reckoned, since teatime the daybefore. Food was the steadying thing she needed now. He went to the doorwhich Jenny Prask held open for him. 

"Don't leave her!" he breathed in a whisper. 

Jenny Prask smiled. 

"Not me, sir, " she said fervently. 

Hillyard remembered with comfort some words which she had spoken inappreciation of the loving devotion of her maid. 

"In three-quarters of an hour, " said Jenny; and later on that morning, with a great fear removed from his heart, Hillyard drove Stella Croyleback to London. 

CHAPTER XII

IN BARCELONA

It was nine o'clock on a night of late August. 

The restaurant of the Maison Dorée in the Plaza Cataluña at Barcelonalooks across the brilliantly-lighted square from the south side. On thepavement in front of it and of its neighbour, the Café Continental, thevendors of lottery tickets were bawling the lucky numbers they had forsale. Even in this wide space the air was close and stale. Within, a fewpeople left over in the town had strayed in to dine at tables placedagainst the walls under flamboyant decorations in the style ofFragonard. At a table Hillyard was sitting alone over his coffee. Acrossthe room one of the panels represented a gleaming marble terraceoverlooking a country-side bathed in orange light; and on the terracestood a sedan chair with drawn curtains, and behind the chair stood asaddled white horse. Hillyard had dined more than once during the lastfew months at the Maison Dorée; and the problem of that picture hadalways baffled him. A lovers' tryst! But where were the lovers? In someinner room shaded from the outrage of that orange light which never wason sea or land? Or in the sedan chair? Or were their faces to bediscovered, as in the puzzle pictures, in the dappling of the horse'sflanks, or the convolutions of the pillars which supported the terraceroof, or the gilded ornamentations of the chair itself? Hillyard wasspeculating for the twentieth time on these important matters with avague hope that one day the door of the sedan chair would open, whenanother door opened--the door of the restaurant. A sharp-visaged manwith a bald forehead, a clerk, one would say, or a commercial traveller, looked round the room and went forward to Hillyard's table. He wentquite openly. 

The two men shook hands, and the new-comer seated himself in front ofHillyard. 

"You will take coffee and a cigar?" Hillyard asked in Spanish, and gavethe order to the waiter. 

The two men talked of the heat, the cinematograph theatres at the sideof the Plaza, the sea-bathing at Caldetas, and then the sharp-faced manleaned forward. 

"Ramon says there is no truth in the story, señor. "

Hillyard struck a match and held it to his companion's cigar. 

"And you trust Ramon, Señor Baeza?"

Lopez Baeza leaned back with a gesture of unqualified assent. 

"As often and often you can trust the peasant of my country, " he said. 

Hillyard agreed with a nod. He gazed about the room. 

"There is no one interesting here to-night, " he said idly. 

"No, " answered Lopez Baeza. "The theatres are closed, the gay peoplehave gone to St. Sebastian, the families to the seaside. Ouf, but it ishot. "

"Yes. "

Hillyard dropped his voice to a whisper and returned to the subject ofhis thoughts. 

"You see, my friend, it is of so much importance that we should make nomistake here. "

"_Claro!_" returned Lopez Baeza. "But listen to me, señor. You know thatour banks are behind the times and our post offices not greatly trusted. We have therefore a class of messengers. "

Hillyard nodded. 

"I know of them. "

"Good. They are not educated. Most of them can neither read nor write. They are simply peasants. Yet they are trusted to carry the mostimportant letters and great sums of money in gold and silver from placeto place. And never do they betray their trust. It is unknown. Why, señor, I know myself of cases where rich men have entrusted theirdaughters to the care of the messengers, sure that in this way theirdaughters will arrive safely at their destination. "

"Yes, " said Hillyard. "I know of these men. "

"Ramon Castillo is as honest as the best of them. "

"Yes, but he is not one of them, " said Hillyard. "He is a stevedore withthirty years of the quayside and at the port of Barcelona, where thereare German ships with their officers and crews on board. "

Hillyard was troubled. He drew from his pocket creased letters and readthem for the twentieth time with a frowning countenance. 

"There is so much at stake. Two hundred feluccas--two hundredmotor-driven feluccas! And eighteen thousand men, on shore and sea? Seewhat it means! On our side, the complete surveillance of the WesternMediterranean! On the other side--against us--two hundred travellingsupply bases for submarines, two hundred signal stations. I want to besure! I want neither to give the enemy the advantage by putting him uponhis guard, nor to miss the great opportunity myself. "

Lopez Baeza nodded. 

"Why not talk with Ramon Castillo yourself?" he asked. 

"That is what I want to do. "

"I will arrange for it. When?"

"To-night, " said Hillyard. 

Lopez Baeza lifted his hands in deprecation. 

"Yes. I can take you to his house--now. But, señor, Ramon is a poor man. He lives in a little narrow street. "

Hillyard looked quietly at Lopez Baeza. He had found men on theMediterranean littoral whom he could trust with his life and everythingthat was his. But a good working principle was to have not overmuchfaith in any one. A noisome little street in the lower quarters ofBarcelona--who could tell what might happen after one had plunged intoit?

"I will come with you, " he said. 

"Good, " said Lopez. "I will go on ahead. " And once more Hillyard's quieteyes rested upon Baeza's face. "It is not wise that we should walk outtogether. There is no one here, it is true, but in the chairs outsidethe cafés--who shall say?"

"Yes. You go on ahead, " Hillyard agreed. "That is wise. "

Lopez rose. 

"Give me five minutes, señor. Then down the Rambla. The second turningto the right, beyond the Opera House. You will see me at the corner. When you see me, follow!"

Hillyard rose and shook hands cordially with Lopez Baeza with the air ofa man who might never see his friend again for years. Baeza commendedhim to God and went out of the restaurant on to the lighted footway. 

Hillyard read through the two creased letters again, though he knew themby heart. They had reached him from William Lloyd, an English merchantat Barcelona, at two different dates. The first, written six weeks ago, related how Pontiana Tabor, a servant of the firm, had come into Lloyd'sprivate office and informed him that on the night of the 27th June aGerman submarine had entered a deep cove at the lonely north-east pointof the island of Mallorca, and had there been provisioned by JoséMedina's men, with José Medina's supplies, and that José Medina haddriven out of Palma de Mallorca in his motor-car, and travelling bylittle-known tracks, had been present when the operation was in process. The name of a shoemaker in a street of Palma was given as corroboration. 

The second letter, which had brought Hillyard post-haste off the seainto Barcelona, was only three days old. Once more Pontiana Tabor hadbeen the bearer of bad news. José Medina had been seen entering theGerman Consulate in Barcelona, between eleven and twelve o'clock of themorning of August 22nd. 

Hillyard was greatly troubled by these two letters. 

"We can put José Medina out of business, of course, " he reflected. ForJosé Medina's tobacco factories were built at a free port in Frenchterritory. "But I want the man for my friend. "

He put the letters back in his pocket and paid his bill. As he went outof the Maison Dorée, he felt in the right-hand pocket of his jacket tomake sure that a little deadly life preserver lay ready to his hand. 

He did not distrust Lopez Baeza. All the work which Baeza had done forhim had, indeed, been faithfully and discreetly done. But--but there wasalways a certain amount of money for the man who would work the doublecross--not so very much, but still, a certain amount. And Hillyard wasalways upon his guard against the intrusion of a contempt for theGerman effort. That contempt was easy enough for a man who, having readyear after year of the wonders of the loud-vaunted German system ofespionage, had come fresh from his reading into contact with the actualagents. Their habit of lining their pockets at the expense of theirGovernment, their unfulfilled pretensions, their vanity andextravagance, and, above all, their unimaginative stupidity in theirestimation of men--these things were apt in the early years of the warto bewilder the man who had been so often told to fall down before thegreat idol of German efficiency. 

"The German agent works on the assumption that the mind of everyforeigner reasons on German lines, but with inferior intelligence. Butbehind the agent is the cunning of Berlin, with its long-deliberatedplans and its concocted ingenuity of method. And though on the wholethey are countered, as with amazement they admit, by the amateurs fromEngland, still every now and then--not very often--they do bringsomething off. "

Thus Hillyard reasoned as he turned the corner of the Plaza Cataluñainto the wide Rambla. It might be that the narratives of Pontiana Taborand the denials of Ramon Castillo were all just part of one littlesubsidiary plan in the German scheme which was to reach its achievementby putting an inconvenient Englishman out of the way for good in one ofthe dark, narrow side streets of Barcelona. 

After the hot day the Rambla, with its broad tree-shaded alley in themiddle, its carriage-ways on each side of the alley, and its shops andfootwalks beyond the carriage-ways, was crowded with loiterers. TheSpaniard, to our ideas, is simple in his pleasure. To visit acinematograph, to take a cooling temperance drink at the MunicipalKiosque at the top of the Rambla, and to pace up and down the broad walkwith unending chatter--until daybreak--here were the joys of Barcelonafolk in the days of summer. Further down at the lower end of the Ramblayou would come upon the dancing halls and supper-cafés, with separaterooms for the national gambling game, "Siete y Media, " but they hadtheir own clientele amongst the bloods and the merchant captains fromthe harbour. The populace of Barcelona walked the Rambla under thegreat globes of electric light. 

Hillyard could only move slowly through the press. Every one dawdled. Hillyard dawdled too. He passed the Opera House, and a little furtherdown saw across the carriage-way, Lopez Baeza in front of a lightedtobacco shop at the corner of a narrow street. Hillyard crossed thecarriage-way and Baeza turned into the street, a narrow thoroughfarebetween tall houses and dark as a cavern. Hillyard followed him. Thelights of the Rambla were left behind, the houses became more slatternlyand disreputable, the smells of the quarter were of rancid food and baddrains. Before a great door Baeza stopped and clapped his hands. 

A jingle of keys answered him, and rising from the step of another housethe watchman of the street crossed the road. He put a key into the door, opened it, and received the usual twopence. Baeza and Hillyard passedin. 

"Ramon is on the top floor. We have to climb, " said Baeza. 

He lit a match, and the two men mounted a staircase with a carvedbalustrade, made for a king. Two stories up, the great staircase ended, and another of small, steep and narrow steps succeeded it. When Baeza'smatch went out there was no light anywhere; from a room somewhere abovecame a sound of quarrelling voices--a woman's voice high and shrill, aman's voice hoarse and drunken, and, as an accompaniment, the wailing ofa child wakened from its sleep. 

At the very top of the house Baeza rapped on a door. The door wasopened, and a heavy, elderly man, wearing glasses on his nose, stood inthe entrance with the light of an unshaded lamp behind him. 

"Ramon, it is the chief, " said Baeza. 

Ramon Castello crossed the room and closed an inner door. Then heinvited Hillyard to enter. The room was bare but for a few pieces ofnecessary furniture, but all was scrupulously clean. Ramon Castillo setforward a couple of chairs and asked his visitors to be seated. He wasin his shirt-sleeves, and he wore the rope-soled sandals of the Spanishpeasant, but he was entirely at his ease. He made the customary littlespeech of welcome with so simple a dignity and so manifest a sinceritythat Hillyard could hardly doubt him afterwards. 

"It is my honour to welcome you not merely as my chief, but as anEnglishman. I am poor, and I take my pay, but Señor Baeza will assureyou that for twenty-five years I have been the friend of England. Andthere are thousands and thousands of poor Spaniards like myself, wholove England, because its law-courts are just, because there is a realfreedom there, because political power is not the opportunity ofoppression. "

The little speech was spoken with great rapidity and with deep feeling;and, having delivered it, Ramon seated himself on the side of the tableopposite to Hillyard and Baeza and waited. 

"It is about Pontiana Tabor, " said Hillyard. "He is making a mistake?"

"No, señor; he is lying, " and he used the phrase which has no exactequivalent in the English. "He is a _sin verguenza_. "

"Tell me, my friend, " said Hillyard. 

"Pontiana Tabor swears that José Medina was seen to enter the GermanConsulate before noon on August the 22nd. But on August the 21st Medinawas in Palma, Mallorca; he was seen there by a captain of the IslanaCompany, and a friend of mine spoke to him on the quay. If, therefore, he was in the German Consulate here on the 22nd, he must have crossedthat night by the steamer to Barcelona. But he did not. His name was noton the list of passengers, and although he might have avoided that, hewas not seen on board or to come on board. I have spoken with officersand crew. José Medina did not cross on the 21st. Moreover, Señor Baezahas seen a letter which shows that he was certainly in Palma on the23rd. "

"That is true, " said Baeza. "Medina was in Palma on the 21st, and inPalma on the 23rd, and he did not cross to Barcelona on the night of the21st, nor back again to Palma on the night of the 22nd. Therefore he wasnot seen to visit the German Consulate on the morning of the 22nd, and, as Ramon says, Pontiana is lying. "

"Why should Pontiana lie?" asked Hillyard. 

Ramon took his pince-nez from the bridge of his nose, and, holding thembetween his finger and thumb, tapped with them upon his knee. 

"Because, señor, there are other contrabandists besides José Medina; onelittle group at Tarragona and another near Garucha--and they would allbe very glad to see José Medina get into trouble with the British andthe French. His feluccas fly the British flag and his factories are onFrench soil. There would be an end of José Medina. "

The letters were put in front of Hillyard. He read them over carefully, and at the end he said:

"If Pontiana Tabor lied in this case of the Consulate--and that seemsclear--it is very likely that he lied also in the other. Yes. "

As a matter of fact, Hillyard had reasons of his own to doubt the truthof the story which ascribed to Medina the actual provisioning of asubmarine--reasons which had nothing whatever to do with José Medinahimself. 

The destruction of shipping by German submarines in this western sectionof the Mediterranean had an intermittent regularity. There would be tensuccessive days--hardly ever more than ten days--during which ships weresunk. Thereafter for three weeks, steamships and sailing ships wouldfollow the course upon which they were ordered, without hurt or loss. After three weeks, the murderous business would begin again. There wasbut one explanation in Hillyard's opinion. 

"The submarines come out of Pola. When they reach the line between theBalearics and the Spanish coast, they have oil for ten days' cruising, and then return to their base, " he argued. 

Now, if a submarine had been provisioned by José Medina in a creek ofMallorca, the ten days' cruise would be extended to three weeks. Thishad never happened. Moreover, the date fixed by Pontiana Tabor happenedto fall precisely in the middle of one of those periods of three weeksduring which the terror did not haunt those seas. Pontiana Tabor had notknown enough. He had fixed his date at a venture. 

"Yes, " said Hillyard, rising from his chair. "I agree with you, SeñorRamon. Tabor is a liar. What troubled me was that I had no clue as towhy he should lie. You have given me it, and with all my heart I thankyou. "

He shook the stevedore's hand and stood for a moment talking and jokingwith him upon other subjects. Hillyard knew the value of a smile and ajest and a friendly manner. Your very enemy in Spain will do you a goodturn if you meet him thus. Then he turned to Baeza. 

"I shall be back, perhaps, in a week, but perhaps not. I will let youknow in the usual way. "

The two men went down the stairs and into the street. It was empty nowand black, but at the far end, as at the end of a tunnel, the Ramblablazed and roared and the crowds swung past like a procession. 

"It is best that we should separate here, " said Lopez Baeza, "if youhave no further instructions. "

"Touching the matter of those ships, " Hillyard suggested. 

"Señor Fairbairn has it in hand. "

"Good. Then, my friend, I have no further instructions, " said Hillyard. "I agree with you about Ramon. I will go first. "

He shook hands with Baeza, crossed the road and disappeared into themouthway of an alley which ran up the hill parallel to the Rambla. Thealley led into another side street, and turning to the right, Hillyardslipped out into the throng beneath the trees. He sauntered, as idle andas curious as any in that broad walk. He took a drink at a café, neitherhiding himself unnaturally nor ostentatiously occupying a chair at theedge of the awning. He sat there for half an hour. But when he roseagain he made sure that no one was loitering to watch his movements. Hesauntered up to the very end of the Rambla past the ice-cream kiosque. The great Plaza spread in front of him, and at the corner across theroad stood a double line of motor-cars, some for hire, others waitingfor parties in the restaurants opposite. He walked across the roadwayand disappeared in between the motor-cars as if he intended to cross thePlaza by the footway to the Paseo de la Reforma. A second later amotor-car shot out from the line and took the road to Tarragona. 

Hillyard was inside the car. The tall houses of the city gave place tovillas draped in bougainvillea behind gardens of trees. Then the villasceased and the car sped across the flats of Llobegrat and climbed to thefinest coast-road in the world. It was a night for lovers. A full moon, bright as silver, sailed in the sky; the broad, white road rose anddipped and wound past here and there a blue cottage, here and there apeasant mounted on his donkey and making his journey by night to escapethe burning day. Far below the sea spread out most gently murmuring, andacross a great wide path of glittering jewels, now a sailing-ship glidedlike a bird, now the black funnels of a steamer showed. So light was thewind that Hillyard could hear the kick of its screw, like the beating ofsome gigantic clock. He took his hat from his head and threw wide openhis thin coat. After the heavy days of anxiety he felt a nimbleness ofheart and spirit which set him in tune with the glory of that night. Suspicions, vague and elusive, had for so long clustered about JoséMedina, and then had come the two categorical statements, dates andhours, chapter and verse! He was still not sure, he declared to himselfin warning. But he was sure enough to risk the great move--the movewhich he alone could make! He should no doubt have been dreaming of JoanWhitworth and fitting her into the frame of that August night. But hehad not thought of her by one o'clock in the morning; and by one o'clockin the morning his motor-car had come to a stop on the deserted quay ofTarragona harbour under the stern of an English yacht. 

CHAPTER XIII

OLD ACQUAINTANCE

At six o'clock on the second morning after Hillyard's visit toBarcelona, the steam-yacht _Dragonfly_ swept round the point of LaDragonera and changed her course to the south-east. She steamed with afollowing breeze over a sea of darkest sapphire which broke in sparklingcascades of white and gold against the rocky creeks and promontories onthe ship's port side. Peasants working on the green terraces above therocks stopped their work and stared as the blue ensign with the UnionJack in the corner broke out from the flagstaff at the stern. 

"But it's impossible, " cried one. "Only yesterday a French mail-steamerwas chased in the passage between Mallorca and Minorca. It'simpossible. "

Another shaded his eyes with his hand and looked upon the neat yachtwith its white deck and shining brass in contemptuous pity. 

"Loco Inglés, " said he. 

The tradition of the mad Englishman has passed away from France, but ithas only leaped the Pyrenees. Some crazy multi-millionaire was justrunning his head into the German noose. They gave up their work andsettled down contentedly to watch the yacht, multi-millionaire, captainand crew and all go up into the sky. But the _Dragonfly_ passed fromtheir sight with the foam curling from her bows and broadening out intoa pale fan behind her; and over the headlands for a long time they sawthe streamer of her smoke as she drove in to Palma Bay. 

Hillyard, standing by the captain's side upon the bridge, watched thegreat cathedral rise from out of the water at the end of the bay, towersand flying buttresses and the mass of brown stone, before even a housewas visible. The _Dragonfly_ passed a German cargo steamer which hadsought refuge here at the outbreak of war. She was a large ship, full ofoil, and she had been moved from the quay-side to an anchorage in thebay by the captain of the port, lest by design or inadvertence sheshould take fire and set the town aflame. There she lay, a source ofendless misgiving to every allied ship which sailed these waters, keptclean and trim as a yacht, her full crew on board, her dangerous cargobelow, in the very fairway of the submarine; and there the scruples ofthe Allies allowed her to remain while month followed month. Historiansin later years will come across in this or that Government office inParis, in London and in Rome, warnings, appeals, and accounts of thepresence of this ship; and those anxious for a picturesque contrast mayset against the violation of Belgium and all the "scrap of paper"philosophy, the fact that for years in the very centre of the Germansubmarine effort in the Western Mediterranean, the German steamer_Fangturm_, with her priceless cargo of oil, was allowed by thescrupulous honour of the Allies to swing unmolested at her anchor inPalma Bay. Hillyard could never pass that great black ship in thoseneutral waters without a hope that his steering-gear would just at thismoment play him false and swing his bows at full speed on to her side. The _Dragonfly_ ran past her to the arm of the great mole and was mooredwith her stern to the quay. A small crowd of gesticulating idlersgathered about the ropes, and all were but repeating the phrases of thepeasants upon the hill-side, as Hillyard walked ashore down the gangway. 

"But it's impossible that you should have come. "

"Just outside there is one. The fisherman saw her yesterday. "

"She rose and spoke to one of the fishing-boats. "

"But it is impossible that you should have come here. "

"Yet I am here, " answered Hillyard, the very mad multi-millionaire. "What will you, my friends? Shall I tell you a secret? Yes, but tell noone else! The Germans would be most enraged if they found out that weknew it. There aren't any submarines. "

A little jest spoken in a voice of good-humour, with a friendly smile, goes a long way anywhere, but further in Spain than anywhere else inthe world. The small crowd laughed with Hillyard, and made way for him. 

A man offered to him with a flourish and a bow a card advertising agarage at which motor-cars could be hired for expeditions in the island. Hillyard accepted it and put it into his pocket. He paid a visit to hisconsul, and thereafter sat in a café for an hour. Then he strolledthrough the narrow streets, admired this and that massive archway, withits glimpse of a great stone staircase within, and mounted the hill. Almost at the top, he turned sharply into a doorway and ran up thestairs to the second floor. He knocked upon the door, and a maid-servantanswered. 

"Señor José Medina lives here?"

"Yes, señor. "

"He is at home?"

"No, señor. He is in the country at his _finca_. "

Hillyard thanked the girl, and went whistling down the stairs. Standingin the archway, he looked up and down the street with something of theair of a man engaged upon a secret end. One or two people were moving inthe street; one or two were idling on the pavement. Hillyard smiled andwalked down the hill again. He took the advertisement card from hispocket and, noting the address, walked into the garage. 

"It will please me to see something of the island, " he said. "I am notin Mallorca for long. I should like a car after lunch. " He gave the nameof a café between the cathedral and the quay. "At half-past two? Thankyou. And by which road shall I go for all that is most of Mallorca?"

This was Spain. A small group of men had already invaded the garage andgathered about Hillyard and the proprietor. They proceeded at once totake a hand in the conversation and offer their advice. They suggestedthe expedition to Miramar, to Alcudia, to Manacor, discussing the timeeach journey would take, the money to be saved by the shorter course, the dust, and even the gradients of the road. They had no interest inthe business in the garage, and they were not at all concerned in thesuccess of Hillyard's excursion. That a stranger should carry away withhim pleasant recollections of the beauties of Mallorca, was a matter ofsupreme indifference to them all. But they were engaged in the favouritepursuit of the Spaniards of the towns. They were getting through acertain small portion of the day, without doing any work, and withoutspending any money. The majority favoured the road past Valdemosa, overthe Pass of Soller to Miramar and its rocky coast on the north-east sideof the island, as indeed Hillyard knew the majority must. For there isno road like it for beauty in the Balearics, and few in all Spain. 

"I will go that way, then, " said Hillyard, and he strolled off to hisluncheon. 

He drove afterwards over the plain, between groves of olive and almondtrees with gnarled stems and branches white with dust, mounted by thetwisting road, terraces upon his left and pine-clothed mountainside uponhis right, past Valdemosa to the Pass. The great sweep of rock-boundcoast and glittering sea burst upon his view, and the boom of watersurging into innumerable caves was like thunder to his ears. At a littlegate upon the road the car was stopped at a word from Hillyard. 

"I am going in here, " he said. "I may be a little while. "

The chauffeur looked at Hillyard with surprise. Hillyard had never beento the house before, but he could not mistake it from the descriptionwhich he had been given. He passed through an orchard to the door of anoutrageous villa, built in the style of a Swiss chalet and glaring withyellow paint. A man in his shirt-sleeves came to the door. 

"Señor José Medina?" Hillyard inquired. 

He held out his card and was ushered into the room of ceremony whichwent very well with the exterior of the yellow chalet. A waxed floor, heavy white lace curtains at the windows, a table of walnut-wood, chairswithout comfort, but with gold legs, all was new and never to be usedand hideous. Hillyard looked around him with a nod of comprehension. This is what its proprietor would wish for. With a hundred old houses toselect from for a model--no! This is the way his fancies would run. Theone beauty of the place, its position, was Nature's. Hillyard went tothe window, which was on the side of the house opposite to the door. Helooked down a steep terraced garden of orange trees and bright flowersto the foam sparkling on the rocks a thousand feet below. 

"You wished to see me, señor, " and Hillyard turned with curiosity. 

Twelve years had passed since he had seen José Medina, but he hadchanged less than Hillyard expected. Martin remembered him as small andslight, with a sharp mobile face and a remarkable activity which was thevery badge of the man; and these characteristics he retained. He wasstill like quick-silver. But he was fast losing his hair, and he worepince-nez. The dress of the peasant and the cautious manner of thepeasant, both were gone. In his grey lounge suit he had the look of aquick-witted clerk. 

"You wished to see me, señor, " he repeated, and he laid the card uponthe table. 

"For a moment. I shall hope not to detain you long. "

"My time and my house are yours. "

José Medina had clearly become a _caballero_ since those early days ofadventure. Hillyard noted the point for his own guidance, thanking hisstars meanwhile that the gift of the house was a meaningless politeness. 

"I arrived at Palma this morning, in a yacht, " said Hillyard. 

José Medina was prepared for the information. He bowed. There had beenneither smile nor, indeed, any expression whatever upon his face sincehe had entered the room. 

"I have heard of the yacht, " he said. "It is a fine ship. "

"Yes. "

José Medina looked at Hillyard. 

"It flies the English flag. "

Hillyard bowed. 

"As do your feluccas, señor, I believe. "

A mere twitch of the lips showed that Medina appreciated the point. 

"But I, " continued Hillyard, "am an Englishman, while you, señor----"

José Medina was not, if he could help it, to be forced to cry "a hit"again. 

"Whereas I, señor, am a neutral, " he answered. The twitch of the lipsbecame a smile. He invited Hillyard to a chair, he drew up anotherhimself, and the two men sat down over against one another in the middleof that bare and formal room. 

That one word neutral, so delicately emphasised, warned Hillyard thatJosé Medina was quite alive to the reason of his visit. He could, ofcourse, have blurted it out at once. He could have said in so manywords, "Your tobacco factories are on French soil, and your two hundredfeluccas are nominally owned in Gibraltar. Between French and English weshall close you down unless you help. " But he knew very well that hewould have got no more than fair words if he had. It is not thus thatdelicate questions are approached in Spain. Even the blackmailer doesnot dream of bluntly demanding money, or exposing his knowledge that hewill get it. He pleads decently the poverty of his family and the longillness of his mother-in-law; and with the same decency the blackmailedyields to compassion and opens his purse. There is a gentlemanlyreticence to be observed in these matters and Hillyard was well aware ofthe rules. He struck quite a different note. 

"I shall speak frankly to you, Señor Medina, as one _caballero_ toanother"; and José Medina bowed and smiled. 

"I put my cards upon the table. I ask you whether in your heart you arefor the Germans or for us. "

José Medina hitched his chair a little closer and holding up one handwith fingers spread ticked off his points, as he spoke them, with theother. 

"Let us see! First, you come to me, señor, saying you are English, andspeaking Spanish with the accent of Valencia. Good! I might reply, señor, how do I know? I might ask you how I am to be sure that when thatBritish flag is hauled down from your yacht outside the bay over there, it is not a German one which should take its place. Good! But I do notmake these replies. I accept your word as a _caballero_ that you areEnglish and not an enemy of England laying a trap for me. Good!" He tookoff his eye-glasses and polished them. 

"Now listen to me!" he continued. "I am a Spaniard. We of Spain havelittle grievances against England and France. But these are matters forthe Government, not for a private person. And the Government bids us beneutral. Good! Now I speak as a private person. For me England meansopportunity for poor men to become great and rich. You may say I havebecome rich without the opportunities of England. I answer I am one inmany thousands. England means Liberty, and within the strict limits ofmy neutrality I will do what a man may for that great country. "

Hillyard listened and nodded. The speech was flowing and spoken withgreat fervour. It might mean much. It might mean nothing at all. Itmight be the outcome of conviction. But it might again be nothing morethan the lip-service of a man who knew very well that England and Francecould squeeze him dry if they chose. 

"I wish, " said Hillyard cordially, "that the captains of the ports ofSpain spoke also with your voice. "

José Medina neither assumed an ignorance of the German leanings of theport officials nor expressed any assent. But, as if he had realised thethought which must be passing in Hillyard's mind, he said:

"You know very well, señor, that I should be mad if I gave help to theGermans. I am in your hands. You and France have but to speak the word, and every felucca of mine is off the seas. But what then! There areeighteen thousand men at once without food or work thrown adrift uponthe coast of Spain. Will not Germany find use for those eighteenthousand men?"

Hillyard agreed. The point was shrewd. It was an open, unanswerablereply to the unuttered threat which perhaps Hillyard might be promptedto use. 

"I have spoken, " continued José Medina. "Now it is for you, señor. Tellme what within the limits of my neutrality I can do to prove to you thesincerity of my respect for England?"

Hillyard took a sheet of paper and a pencil from his pocket. He drew arough map. 

"Here are the Balearic Islands; here, farther to the west, theColumbretes; here the African coast; here the mainland of Spain. Nowwatch, I beg you, señor, whilst I sketch in the routes of your feluccas. At Oran in Africa your factories stand. From them, then, we start. Wedraw a broad thick line from Oran to the north-east coast of Mallorca, that coast upon which we look down from these windows, a coasthoneycombed with caves and indented with creeks like an edge of finelace--a very storehouse of a coast. Am I not right, Señor Don José?" Helaughed, in a friendly good-humoured way, but the face of José Medinadid not lose one shade of its impassiveness. He did not deny that thecaves of this coast were the storehouse of his tobacco; nor did heagree. 

"Let us see!" he said. 

"So I draw a thick line, since all your feluccas make for this islandand this part of the island first of all. From here they diverge--youwill correct me, I hope, if I am wrong. "

"I do not say that I shall correct you if you are wrong, " said JoséMedina. 

Hillyard was now drawing other and finer lines which radiated like thesticks of an outspread fan from the north-east coast of Mallorca to theSpanish mainland; and he went on drawing them, unperturbed by José'srefusal to assist in his map-making. Some of the lines--a few--ended atthe Islands of the Columbretes, sixty miles off Valencia. 

"Your secret storehouse, I believe, señor, " he remarked pleasantly. 

"A cruiser of our Government examined these islands most carefully afortnight ago upon representations from the Allies, and found nothing ofany kind to excite interest, " replied José Medina. 

"The cruiser was looking for submarine bases, I understand, nottobacco, " Martin Hillyard observed. "And since it was not the cruiser'scommission to look for tobacco, why should it discover it?"

José Medina shrugged his shoulders. José Medina's purse was very longand reached very high. It would be quite impolitic for that cruiser todiscover José Medina's tobacco stores, as Medina himself and MartinHillyard, and the captain of the cruiser, all very well knew. 

Martin Hillyard continued to draw fine straight lines westwards from thenorthern coast of Mallorca to the mainland of Spain, some touching theshore to the north of Barcelona, some striking it as far south asAlmeria and Garrucha. When he had finished his map-making he handed theresult to José Medina. 

"See, señor! Your feluccas cut across all the trade-routes through theMediterranean. Ships going east or going west must pass between theBalearics and Africa, or between the Balearics and Spain. We are here inthe middle, and, whichever course those ships take, they must cross thelines on which your feluccas continually come and go. "

José Medina looked at the map. He did not commit himself in any way. Hecontented himself with a question: "And what then?"

"So too with the German submarines. They also must cross and cross againin their cruises, those lines along which your feluccas continually comeand go. "

José Medina threw up his hands. 

"The submarines! Señor, if you listen to the babblers on the quays, youwould think that the seas are stiff with them! Schools of them likewhales everywhere! Only yesterday Palma rang with the account of one. Itpursued a French steamer between Minorca and Mallorca. It spoke to afishing boat! What did it not do? Señor, there was no submarineyesterday in the channel between Minorca and Mallorca. If there had beenI must have known. "

And he sat back as though the subject were disposed of. 

"But submarines do visit these waters, Señor Medina, and they do sinkships, " replied Hillyard. 

José Medina shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands. 

"_Claro!_ And it is said that I supply them with their oil. " He turnedswiftly to Hillyard. "Perhaps you have heard that story, señor?"

Hillyard nodded. 

"Yes. I did not believe it. It is because I did not believe it that I amhere, asking your help. "

"I thank you. It is the truth. I will tell you something now. Not one ofmy captains has ever seen one of those submarines, neither on this sidenor on that, " and Medina touched the lines which Hillyard had drawn onboth sides of the Balearics on his chart. "Now, what can I do?"

"One simple thing, and well within your scruples as a neutral, " repliedHillyard. "These submarines doubly break the laws of nations. Theyviolate your territorial waters, and they sink merchant ships withoutregard for the crews. "

"Yes, " said José Medina. 

"You have agents along the coast. I have friends too in every town, Englishmen who love both England and Spain, Spaniards who love bothSpain and England. We will put, if you permit, your agents in touch withmy friends. "

"Yes, " said José Medina innocently. "How shall we do that? We must havelists prepared. "

Hillyard smiled gently. 

"That is not necessary, señor. We know your agents already. If you willsecretly inform them that those who speak in my name, " and he took hiscard from the table, and gave it into Medina's hands, "are men to betrusted, it will be enough. "

José Medina agreed. 

"I will give them instructions. "

"And yet another instruction if you will be so kind, to all yourcaptains. "

"Yes?"

"That they shall report at the earliest possible moment to your nearestagent ashore, the position of any submarine they have seen. "

José Medina assented once more. 

"But it will take a little time, señor, for me to pass that instructionround. It shall go from captain to captain, but it will not be prudentto give it out more widely. A week or two--no more--and every captain inmy fleet shall be informed. That is all?"

Hillyard was already rising from his chair. He stood straight up. 

"All except that they will be forbidden too, " he added with a smile, "to supply either food or drink or oil to any enemy vessel. "

José Medina raised his hands in protest. 

"That order was given months ago. But it shall be repeated, and you cantrust me, it shall be obeyed. "

The two men went to the door of the villa, and stood outside in thegarden. It seemed the interview was over, and the agreement made. Butindeed the interview as Hillyard had planned it had hardly begun. He hada series of promises which might be kept or broken, and the keeping orbreaking of them could not be checked. José Medina was very likely to beholding the common belief along that coast that Germany would surely winthe war. He was in the perfect position to keep in with both sides werehe so minded. It was not to content himself with general promises thatHillyard had brought the _Dragonfly_ to Palma. 

He turned suddenly towards José Medina with a broad laugh, and clappedhim heartily upon the back. 

"So you do not remember me, Señor José?"

Medina was puzzled. He took a step nearer to Hillyard. Then he shook hishead, and apologised with a smile. 

"I am to blame, señor. As a rule, my memory is not at fault. But on thisoccasion--yes. "

Through the apology ran a wariness, some fear of a trick, some hint ofan incredulity. 

"Yet we have met. "

"Señor, it must be so. "

"Do you remember, Señor José, your first venture?" asked Hillyard. 

"Surely. "

"A single sailing-felucca beached at one o'clock in the morning on theflat sand close to Benicassim. "

José Medina did not answer. But the doubt which his politeness could notquite keep out of his face was changing into perplexity. This history ofhis first cargo so far was true. 

"That was more than thirteen years ago, " Hillyard continued. "Thirteenyears last April. "

José Medina nodded. Date, place, hour, all were correct. His eyes werefixed curiously upon his visitor, but there was no recognition in them. 

"There were two carts waiting, to carry the tobacco up to the hills. "

"Two?" José Medina interrupted sharply. "Let me think! That first cargo!It is so long ago. "

Medina reflected carefully. Here was a detail of real importance whichwould put this Señor Hillyard to the test--if only he could himselfremember. It was his first venture, yes! But there had been so many liketo it since. Still--the very first. He ought to remember that! And as heconcentrated his thoughts the veil of the years was rent, and he saw, hesaw quite clearly the white moonlit beach, the felucca with its mastbent like a sapling in a high wind, and the great yard of the sailathwart the beam of the boat, the black shadow of it upon the sand, andthe carts--yes, the carts!

"There were two carts, " he agreed, and a change was just faintly audiblein his voice--a change for which up till now Hillyard had listened withboth his ears in vain. A ring of cordiality, a suggestion that thebarriers of reserve were breaking down. 

"Yes, señor, there were two carts. "

Medina was listening intently now. Would his visitor go on with thehistory of that night!

And Hillyard did go on. 

"The tobacco barrels were packed very quickly into the carts, and thecarts were driven up the beach and across the Royal road, and into atrack which led back to the hills. "

José Medina suddenly laughed. He could hear the groaning and creaking ofthose thin-wheeled springless carts which had carried all his fortuneson that night thirteen years ago, the noise of them vibrating for milesin the air of that still spring night! What terror they had caused him!How his heart had leaped when--and lo! Hillyard was carrying on thetale. 

"Two of the Guardia Civil stepped from behind a tree, arrested yourcarts, and told the drivers to turn back to the main road and thevillage. "

"Yes. "

"You ran in front of the leading cart, and stood there blocking the way. The Guardia told you to move or he would fire. You stood your ground. "

"Yes. "

"Why the Guardia did not fire, " continued Hillyard, "who shall say? Buthe did not. "

"No, he did not, " José Medina repeated with a smile. "Why? It wasFate--Fortune--what you will. "

"You sent every one aside, and remained alone with the guards--for along time. Oh, for a long time! Then you called out, and your men cameback, and found you alone with your horses and your carts. How you hadpersuaded the guards to leave you alone----"

"Quien sabe?" said Medina, with a smile. 

"But you had persuaded them, even on that first venture. So, " and nowHillyard smiled. "So we took your carts up in to the mountains. "

"We?" exclaimed José. He took a step forward, and gazed keenly intoMartin Hillyard's face. Hillyard nodded. 

"I was one of your companions on that first night venture of yoursthirteen years ago. "

"_Claro!_ You were certainly there, " returned José Medina, and he was nolonger speaking either with doubt or with the exaggerated politeness ofa Spaniard towards a stranger. He was not even speaking as _caballero_to _caballero_ the relationship to which, in the beginning, Hillyard hadmost wisely invited him. He was speaking as associate to associate, asfriendly man to friendly man. "On that night you were certainly with me!No, let me think! There were five men, yes, five and a boy fromValencia--Martin. "

He pronounced the word in the Spanish way as Marteen. 

"Who led the horse in the first cart, " said Hillyard, and he pointed tohis visiting card which José Medina still held in his hand. José Medinaread it again. 

"Marteen Hillyard. " He came close to Hillyard, and looked in his eyes, and at the shape of his features, and at the colour of his hair. "Yes, it is the little Marteen, " he cried, "and now the little Marteen swingsinto Palma in his great steam yacht. Dios, what a change!"

"And José Medina owns two hundred motor-feluccas and employs eighteenthousand men, " answered Hillyard. 

José Medina held out his hand suddenly with a great burst of cordial, intimate laughter. 

"Yes, we were companions in those days. You helped me to drive my cartsup into the mountains. Good!" He patted Hillyard on the shoulder. "Thatmakes a difference, eh? Come, we will go in again. Now I shall helpyou. "

That reserve, that intense reserve of the Spaniard who so seldom admitsanother into real intimacy, and makes him acquainted with his privatelife, was down now. Hillyard had won. José Medina's house and hischattels were in earnest at Martin Hillyard's disposal. The two men wentback through the house into a veranda above the steep fall of garden andcliff, where there were chairs in which a man could sit at his ease. 

José Medina fetched out a box of cigars. 

"You can trust these. They are good. "

"Who should know if you do not?" answered Hillyard as he took one; andagain José Medina patted him on the shoulder, but this time with agurgle of delight. 

"_El pequeño_ Martin, " he said, and he clapped his hands. From somerecess of the house his wife appeared with a bottle of champagne and twoglasses on a tray. 

"Now we will talk, " said José Medina, "or rather I will talk and youshall listen. "

Hillyard nodded his head, as he raised the glass to his lips. 

"I have learnt in the last years that it is better to listen than totalk, " said he. "_Salut!_"

CHAPTER XIV

"TOUCHING THE MATTER OF THOSE SHIPS"

It has been said that Hillyard joined a service with its traditions tocreate. Indeed, it had everything to create, its rules, its methods, itswhole philosophy. And it had to do this quickly during the war, and justfor the war; since after the war it would cease to be. Certainconclusions had now been forced by experience quite definitely onHillyard's mind. Firstly, that the service must be executive. Itsservants must take their responsibility and act if they were going tocope with the intrigues and manoeuvres of the Germans. There was notime for discussions with London, and London was overworked in any case. The Post Office, except on rare occasions, could not be used; telegrams, however ingenious the cipher, were dangerous; and even when Londonreceived them, it had not the knowledge of the sender on the spot, wherewith to fill them out. London, let it be admitted, or rather thatone particular small section of London with which Hillyard dealt, was atone with Hillyard. Having chosen its men it trusted them, until suchtime as indiscretion or incapacity proved the trust misplaced; in whichcase the offender was brought politely home upon some excuse, cordiallythanked, and with a friendly shake of the hand, shown the door. 

Hillyard's second conclusion was that of one hundred trails, ten at themost would lead to any result: but you must follow each one of thehundred up until you reach proof that you are in a blind alley. 

The third was the sound and simple doctrine that you can confidentlylook to Chance to bring you results, probably your very best results, ifyou are prepared and equipped to make all your profit out of chance themoment she leans your way. Chance is an elusive goddess, to be seizedand held prisoner with a swift, firm hand. Then she'll serve you. But ifthe hand's not ready and the eye unexpectant, you'll see but the trailof her robe as she vanishes to offer her assistance to another morewakeful than yourself. 

In pursuit of this conviction, Hillyard steamed out of Palma Bay on themorning of the day after his interview with José Medina, and crossing tothe mainland cruised all the next night southwards. At six o'clock inthe morning he was off a certain great high cape. The sea was smooth asglass. The day a riot of sunlight and summer, and the great headlandwith its high lighthouse thrust its huge brown knees into the water. 

The _Dragonfly_ slowed down and dawdled. Three men stood in the sternbehind the white side-awning. Hillyard was on the bridge with hiscaptain. 

"I don't really expect much, " he said, seeking already to discount apossible disappointment. "It's only a possibility, I don't count on it. "

"Six o'clock off the cape, " said the captain. "We are on time. "

"Yes. "

Both men searched the smooth sea for some long, sluggish, inexplicablewave which should break, or for a V-shaped ripple such as a fixed stakewill make in a swiftly running stream. 

"Not a sign, " said the captain, disconsolately. 

"No. Yet it is certainly true that the keeper of that lighthouse paid anamount equal to three years' salary into a bank three weeks ago. It istrue that oil could be brought into that point, and stored there, and noone but the keeper be the wiser. And it is true that the _Acquitania_ isat this moment in this part of the Mediterranean steaming east forSalonika with six thousand men on board. Let's trail our coat a bit!"said Hillyard, and the captain with a laugh gave an order to the signalboy by his side. 

The boy ran aft and in a few seconds the red ensign fluttered up theflagstaff, and drooped in the still air. But even that provocationproduced no result. For an hour and a half the _Dragonfly_ steamedbackwards and forwards in front of the cape. 

"No good!" Hillyard at last admitted. "We'll get on to the_Acquitania_, and advise her. Meanwhile, captain, we had better make forGibraltar and coal there. "

Hillyard went to the wireless-room, and the yacht was put about for thegreat scarped eastern face of the Rock. 

"One of the blind alleys, " said Hillyard, as he ate his breakfast in thedeck-saloon. "Next time perhaps we'll have better luck. Something'llturn up for sure. "

Something was always turning up in those days, and the yacht had notindeed got its coal on board in Gibraltar harbour when a message camewhich sent Hillyard in a rush by train through Madrid to Barcelona. Hereached Barcelona at half past nine in the morning, took his breakfastby the window of the smaller dining-room in the hotel at the corner ofthe Plaza Cataluña, and by eleven was seated in a flat in one of theneighbouring streets. The flat was occupied by Lopez Baeza who turnedfrom the window to greet him. 

"I was not followed, " said Hillyard as he put down his hat and stick. Habit had bred in him a vigilance, or rather an instinct which quicklymade him aware of any who shadowed him. 

"No, that is true, " said Baeza, who had been watching Hillyard'sapproach from the window. 

"But I should like to know who our young friend is on the kerb opposite, and why he is standing sentinel. "

Lopez Baeza laughed. 

"He is the sign and token of the commercial activity of Spain. "

From behind the curtains, stretched across the window, both now lookeddown into the street. A youth in a grey suit and a pair oforange-coloured buttoned boots loitered backwards and forwards overabout six yards of footwalk; now he smoked a cigarette, now he leanedagainst a tree and idly surveyed the passers by. He apparently hadnothing whatever to do. But he did not move outside the narrow limits ofhis promenade. Consequently he had something to do. 

"Yes, " continued Baeza with a chuckle, "he is a proof of our initiative. I thought as you do three days ago. For it is just three days since hetook his stand there. But he is not watching this flat. He is notconcerned with us at all. He is an undertaker's tout. In the houseopposite to us a woman is lying very ill. Our young friend is waitingfor her to die, so that he may rush into the house, offer hiscondolences and present the undertaker's card. "

Hillyard left the youth to his gruesome sentry-go and turned back intothe room. A man of fifty, with a tawny moustache, a long and rathernarrow face and eyeglasses, was sitting at an office table with somepapers in front of him. 

"How do you do, Fairbairn?" Hillyard asked. 

Fairbairn was a schoolmaster from the North of England, with a knowledgeof the Spanish tongue, who had thrown up schoolmastering, prospects, everything, in October of 1914. 

"Touching the matter of those ships, " said Hillyard, sitting downopposite to Fairbairn. 

Fairbairn grinned. 

"It worked very well, " said he, "so far. "

Hillyard turned towards Lopez and invited him to a seat. "Let me heareverything, " he said. 

Spanish ships were running to England with the products of Cataluña andreturning full of coal, and shipowners made their fortunes and wages ranhigh. But not all of them were content. Here and there the captains andthe mates took with them in their cabin to England lists of questionsthoughtfully compiled by German officers; and from what they saw inEnglish harbours and on English seas and from what secret news wasbrought to them, they filled up answers to the questions and broughtthem back to the Germans in Spain. So much Hillyard already knew. 

"A pilot, Juan de Maestre, went on board the ships, collected theanswers, made a report and took it up to the German headquarters here. That Ramon Castillo found out, " said Fairbairn. "Steps were taken withthe crew. The ships would be placed on the black list. There would be nocoal for them. They must be laid up and the crews dismissed. The crew ofthe _Saragossa_ grasped the position, and the next time Juan de Maestrestepped on board he was invited to the forecastle, thumped, droppedoverboard into the salubrious waters of the dock and left to swimashore. Juan de Maestre has had enough. He won't go near the Germans anymore. He is in a condition of extreme terror and neutrality. Oh, he'swonderfully neutral just now. "

"We might catch him perhaps on the rebound!" Hillyard suggested. 

"Lopez thinks so, " said Fairbairn, with a nod towards Baeza. 

"I can find him this evening, " Baeza remarked. 

The three men conferred for a little while, and as a consequence of thatconference Lopez Baeza walked through the narrow streets of the old townto a café near the railway station. In a corner a small, wizened, squareman was sitting over his beer, brooding unhappily. Baeza took a seat byhis side and talked with Juan de Maestre. He went out after a fewminutes and hired a motor-car from the stand in front of the station. Inthe car he drove to the park and went once round it. At a junction oftwo paths on the second round the car was stopped. A short, small manstepped out from the shadow of a great tree and swiftly stepped in. 

"Drive towards Tibidabo, " Baeza directed the driver, and inside thedark, closed car Baeza and Juan de Maestre debated, the one persuading, the other refusing. It was long before any agreement was reached, butwhen Baeza, with the perspiration standing in beads upon his face, returned to his flat in the quiet, respectable street, he found MartinHillyard and Fairbairn waiting for him anxiously. 

"_Hecho!_" he cried. "It is done! Juan de Maestre will continue to go onboard the ships and collect the information and write it out for theGermans. But we shall receive an exact copy. "

"How?" asked Hillyard. 

"Ramon will meet a messenger from Juan. At eight in the morning of everysecond day Ramon is to be waiting at a spot which from time to time wewill change. The first place will be the cinema opposite to the old BullRing. "

"Good, " said Hillyard. "In a fortnight I will return. "

He departed once more for Gibraltar, cruised up the coast, left hisyacht once more in the harbour of Tarragona and travelled by motor-carinto Barcelona. 

Fairbairn and Lopez Baeza received him. It was night, and hot with astaleness of the air which was stifling. The windows all stood open inthe quiet, dark street, but the blinds and curtains were closely drawnbefore the lamps were lit. 

"Now!" said Hillyard. "There are reports. "

Fairbairn nodded grimly as he went to the safe and unlocked it. 

"Pretty dangerous stuff, " he answered. 

"Reliable?" asked Hillyard. 

Fairbairn returned with some sheets of blue-lined paper written overwith purple ink, and some rough diagrams. 

"I am sure, " he replied. "Not because I trust Juan de Maestre, butbecause he couldn't have invented the information. He hasn't theknowledge. "

Lopez Baeza agreed. 

"Juan de Maestre is keeping faith with us, " he said shortly, and, to thejudgment of Lopez Baeza, Hillyard had learnt to incline a ready ear. 

"This is the real thing, Hillyard, " said Fairbairn, pulling at hismoustache. "Look!"

He handed to Martin a chart. The points of the compass were marked in acorner. Certain courses and routes were given, and fixed lightsindicated by which the vessel might be guided. There was a number ofpatches as if to warn the navigator of shallows, and again a number ofsmall black cubes and squares which seemed to declare the position ofrocks. There was no rough work in this chart. It was elaborately andskilfully drawn, the work of an artist. 

"This is a copy made by me. Juan de Maestre left the original documentwith us for an hour, " said Fairbairn, and he allowed Hillyard tospeculate for a few seconds upon the whereabouts of that dangerous andreef-strewn sea. "It's not a chart of any bay or water at all. It's aplan of Cardiff by night for the guidance of German airships. Thosepatches are not shallows, but the loom in the sky of the furnaces. Theblack spots are the munition factories. Here are the docks, " he pointedwith the tip of his pencil. "The _Jesus-Maria_ brought that back a weekago. Let it get from here to Germany, as it will do, eh? and a Zeppelincoming across England on a favourable night could make things hum inCardiff. "

Hillyard laid the sketch down and took another which Fairbairn held outto him. 

"Do you see this?" Fairbairn continued. "This gives the exact line ofthe nets between the English and the Irish coasts, and the exact pointsof latitude and longitude where they are broken for the passage ofships, and the exact number and armament of the trawlers which guardthose points. "

Hillyard gazed closely at the chart. It gave the positions clearlyenough, but it was a roughly-made affair, smudged with dingy fingers anduneven in its drawing. He laid it upon the table by the side of the mapof Cardiff and compared one with the other. 

"This, " he said, touching the roughly-drawn map of a section of theChannel, "this is the work of the ship's captain?"

"Yes. "

"But what of this?" and Hillyard lifted again the elaborate chart ofCardiff by night. "Some other hand drew this. "

Fairbairn agreed. 

"Yes. Here is the report which goes with the charts. The chart ofCardiff was handed to the captain in an inn on shore. It came from anunknown person, who is mentioned as B. 45. "

Hillyard seized upon the report and read it through, and then the othersupon the top of that. Cloth, saddlery, equipment of various kinds wereneeded in England, and a great sea-borne trade had sprung up between thetwo countries, so that ships constantly went to and fro. In more thanone of these reports the hieroglyph B. 45 appeared. But never a hintwhich could lead to his detection--never anything personal, not a clueto his age, his business, his appearance, even his abode--nothing butthis baffling symbol B. 45. 

"You have cabled all this home, of course, " Hillyard observed toFairbairn. 

"Yes. They know nothing of the B. 45. They are very anxious for anydetails. "

"He seems to be a sort of letter-box, " said Hillyard, "a centre-pointfor the gathering in of information. "

Fairbairn shook his head. 

"He is more active than that, " he returned, and he pointed to a passagehere and there, which bore him out. It was the first time that MartinHillyard had come across this symbol, and he was utterly at a loss toconjecture the kind of man the symbol hid. He might be quite obscure, the tenant of some suburban shop, or, again, quite prominent in thepublic eye, the owner of a fine house, and generous in charities; hemight be of any nationality. But there he was, somewhere under theoak-trees of England, doing his secret, mean work for the ruin of thecountry. Hillyard dreamed that night of B. 45. He saw him in his dreams, an elusive figure without a face, moving swiftly wherever people weregathered together, travelling in crowded trains, sitting at thedinner-tables of the great, lurking at the corners of poor tenements. Hillyard hunted him, saw him deftly pocket a letter which a passingstranger as deftly handed him, or exchange some whispered words withanother who walked for a few paces without recognition by his side, butthough he hurried round corners to get in front of him and snatch aglance at his face, he could never come up with him. He waked with thesunlight pouring in between the lattices of his shutters from the PlazaCataluña, tired and unrefreshed. B. 45! B. 45! He was like some figurefrom a child's story-book! Some figure made up of tins and sticks andendowed with malevolent life. B. 45. London asked news of him, and hestalked through London. Where should Hillyard find his true image andcounterpart?

 * * * * *

It is not the purpose of this narrative to describe how one ChristobalQuesada, first mate of the steamship _Mondragon_, utterly overreachedhimself by sending in a report of a British hospital ship, sure to leavethe harbour of Alexandria with gun-carriages upon her deck; how thereport was proved to be a lie; how it was used as the excuse for thebarbarous sinking of the great ships laden with wounded, and ablaze fromstern to stern with green lights, the red cross glowing amidships like awondrous jewel; how Christobal Quesada was removed from his ship in aFrench port, and after being duly arraigned for his life, met his deathagainst a prison wall. Fairbairn wrote to Martin Hillyard:

 "_The execution of Quesada has put an end to the whole wicked question. So long as the offender was only put in prison with the certainty of release at the end of the war, whilst his family lived comfortably on German money, the game went merrily on. But the return of the "Mondragon, " minus her executed mate, has altered the whole position. Juan de Maestre has nothing whatever to do nowadays. _"

Hillyard smiled with contentment. He could understand a German going toany lengths for Germany. He was prepared to do the same himself for hiscountry. But when a neutral under the cloak of his neutrality meddles inthis stupendous conflict for cash, for his thirty miserable pieces ofsilver, he could feel no inclination of mercy. 

"Let the neutrals keep out!" he murmured. "This is not their affair. Letthem hold their tongues and go about their own business!"

He received Fairbairn's letter in the beginning of the year 1916. He wasstill no nearer at that date to the discovery of B. 45; nor were they anybetter informed in London. Hillyard could only wait upon Chance to slipa clue into his hand. 

CHAPTER XV

IN A SLEEPING-CAR

The night express from Paris to Narbonne and the Spanish frontier wasdue to leave the Quai d'Orsay station at ten. But three-quarters of anhour before that time the platform was already crowded, and many of theseats occupied. Hillyard walked down the steps a little before half-pastnine with the latest of the evening papers in his hand. 

"You have engaged your seat, monsieur, " the porter asked, who wascarrying Hillyard's kit-bag. 

"Yes, " said Martin absently. He was thinking that on the boulevards thenewsboys might now be crying a later edition of the papers than thatwhich he held, an edition with still more details. He saw themsurrounded in the darkened street by quiet, anxious groups. 

"Will you give me your ticket, monsieur?" the porter continued, and asHillyard looked at him vacantly, "the ticket for your seat. "

Hillyard roused himself. 

"I beg your pardon. I have a compartment in the sleeping-car, numberseleven and twelve. "

Amongst many old principles of which Martin Hillyard had first learnedthe wisdom during these last years, none had sunk deeper than this--thatthe head of an organisation cannot do the work of any of its members andhope that the machine will run smoothly. His was the task of supervisionand ultimate direction. He held himself at the beck and call of thosewho worked under him. He responded to their summons. And it was inresponse to a very urgent summons from Fairbairn that he had hurried thecompletion of certain arrangements with the French authorities in Parisand was now returning to the south! But he was going very reluctantly. 

It was July, 1916. The first battle of the Somme, launched some dayspast, was at its very climacteric. The casualties had been and wereterrible. Even at this moment of night the fury of the attack was notrelaxed. All through the day reports, exasperating in their brevity, hadbeen streaming into Paris, and rumour, as of old, circled swift-wingedabove the city, making good or ill the deficiencies of the telegrams. One fact, however, had leaped to light, unassailably true. TheClayfords, stationed on the north of the line at Thiepval, had redeemedtheir name and added a new lustre to their erstwhile shining record. Thedevotion of the officers, the discipline of the men, had borne theirfruits. At a most critical moment the Clayfords had been forced tochange front against a flank attack, under a galling fire and in thevery press of battle, and the long extended line had swung to its newposition with the steadiness of veterans, and, having reached it, hadstood fast. Hillyard rejoiced with a sincerity as deep as if he himselfheld his commission in that regiment. But the losses had been terrible;and Martin Hillyard was troubled to the roots of his heart by doubtswhether Harry Luttrell were at this moment knowing the deep contentmentthat the fixed aim of his boyhood and youth had been fulfilled; orwhether he was lying out on the dark ground beneath the stars unaware ofit and indifferent. Hillyard nursed a hope that some blunder had beenmade, and that he would find his compartment occupied. 

The controller, in his brown uniform with the brass buttons and hispeaked cap, stood at the steps of the car with the attendant. 

"Eleven and twelve, " said Hillyard, handing to him his ticket. 

The attendant, a middle-aged, stout man with a black moustache and agreasy face, shot one keen glance from under the peak of his cap at theoccupant of numbers 11 and 12, and then led the way along the corridor. 

The compartment was empty. Hillyard looked around it with a grudgingeye. 

"I am near the middle of the coach here, I think, " he said. 

"Yes, monsieur, quite in the middle. "

"That is well, " answered Hillyard. "I am an invalid, and cannot sleepwhen there is much motion. "

He spoke irritably, with that tone of grievance peculiar to the man whothinks his health is much worse than it is. 

"Can I get coffee in the morning?" he asked. 

"At half-past six, monsieur. But you must get out of the train for it. "

Hillyard uttered an exclamation of disgust, and shrugged his shoulders. "What a country!" the gesture said as plainly as speech. 

"But it is the war, monsieur!" the attendant expostulated withindignation. 

"Oh, yes, I know! The war!" Hillyard retorted with ill-humour. "Do Iwant a bath? I cannot have it. It is the war. If a waiter is rude to me, it is the war. If my steak is over-cooked it is the war. The war! It isthe excuse for everything. "

He told the porter to place his bag upon the upper berth, and, stillgrumbling, gave him some money. He turned sharply on the attendant, whowas smiling in the doorway. 

"Ah, it seems to you funny that an invalid should be irritable, eh?" hecried. "I suppose it must be--damnably funny. "

"Monsieur, there are very many men who would like to-night to beinvalids with a sleeping compartment to themselves, " returned theattendant severely. 

"Well, I don't want to talk about it any more, " said Hillyard roughly, and he shouldered his way out again on to the platform. 

The attendant followed him. The smile upon his face was sleeker thanever. He was very amused and contented with his passenger in thecompartment numbers 11 and 12. He took the cap off his head and wipedthe perspiration from his forehead. 

"Ouf! It is hot to-night. " He looked after Hillyard with a chuckle, andremarked to the controller, "This is a customer who does not like hislittle comforts to be disarranged!"

The controller nodded contemptuously. 

"They must travel--the English! The tourism--that is sacred, even if allEurope burns. "

Hillyard strolled towards the stairs, and as he drew near to them hiseyes brightened. A man about six years older than himself, tall, broad-shouldered, slim of waist, with a short, fair moustache, wasdescending towards him. 

 * * * * *

The war has killed many foolish legends, but none more foolish than thelegend of the typical Frenchman, conceived as a short, rotund, explosiveperson, with a square, brown beard of curly baby-hair and a shiny silkhat with a flat brim. There have been too many young athletes of cleanbuild on view whose nationality, language and the uniforms ofpowder-blue and khaki could alone decide. The more curious might, perhaps, if the youth were in mufti, cast a downward glance at theboots; but even boots were ceasing to be the sure tell-tale they onceused to be. This man descending the stairs with a limp was theCommandant Marnier, of the 193rd Regiment, wounded in 1915, and nowattached to the General Staff. He was in plain clothes; he was lookingfor Martin Hillyard, and no stranger but would have set him and the manfor whom he was looking in the same category of races. 

The Commandant Marnier saw Martin Hillyard clearly enough long before hereached the foot of the stairs. But nevertheless he greeted him with anappearance of surprise. 

"But what luck!" he said aloud. "You leave by this train?"

"Yes. It may be that I shall find health. "

"Yes, yes. So your friends will pray, " returned the Commandant, fallinginto Hillyard's pace. 

"The telegram we sent for you----" Marnier began. 

"Yes!"

"There is an answer already. Your friend is unhurt. I have brought you acopy. I thought that perhaps I might catch you before your trainstarted. "

He gave the slip of typewritten message into Hillyard's hand. 

"That was most kind of you, " said Hillyard. "You have removed a greatanxiety. It would have been many days before I should have received thisgood news if you had not gone out of your way to hurry with it here. "

Hillyard was moved, partly by the message, partly by the considerationof Marnier, who now waved his thanks aside. 

"Bah! We may not say 'comrade' as often as the Boche, but perhaps we areit all the more. I will not come further with you towards your carriage, for I have still a few things to do. "

He shook Hillyard by the hand and departed. Hillyard turned from himtowards his sleeping-car, but though his chief anxiety was dispelled, his reluctance to go was not. And he looked at the long, brightly-littrain which was to carry him from this busy and high-hearted city with adesire that it would start before its time, and leave him a derelictupon the platform. He could not bend his thoughts to the work which wasat his hand. The sapphire waters of the South had quite lost theirsparkle and enchantment. Here, here, was the place of life! Theexhilaration of his task, its importance, the glow of thankfulness whensome real advantage was won, a plot foiled, a scheme carried tosuccess--these matters were all banished from his mind. Even thewar-risk of it was forgotten. He thought with envy of the men intrenches. Yet the purpose of his yacht was long since known to theGermans; the danger of the torpedo was ever present on her voyages, andthe certainty that if she were sunk, and he captured, any means would betaken to force him to speak before he was shot, was altogether beyonddispute. Even at this moment he carried hidden in a match-box a littlephial, which never left him, to put the sure impediment between himselfand a forced confession of his aims and knowledge. But he was not awareof it. How many times had he seen the red light at Europa Point onGibraltar's edge change to white, sometimes against the scarlet bars ofdawn, sometimes in the winter against a wall of black! But on theplatform of the Quai d'Orsay station, in a bustle of soldiers going onshort leave to their homes, and rattling with pannikins andiron-helmets, he could remember none of these consolations. 

He reached his carriage. 

"Messieurs les voyageurs, en route!" cried the controller. 

"What a crowd!" Hillyard grumbled. "Really, it almost disposes one tosay that one will never travel again until this war is over. "

He walked along the corridor to his compartment and sat down as thetrain started with a jerk. The door stood open, and in a few minutes theattendant came to it. 

"Who is in the next compartment on the other side of the lavatory?"Hillyard asked. 

"A manufacturer of Perpignan and his wife. "

"Does he snore?" Hillyard asked. "If he snores I shall not sleep. Itshould be an offence against your bye-laws for a traveller to snore. "

He crossed one leg across his knee and unlaced his shoe. 

The attendant came into the room. 

"It is possible, monsieur, that I might hurry and fetch you your coffeein the morning, " he said. 

"It is worth five francs to you if you do, " replied Hillyard. 

"Then monsieur will not move from his compartment until luncheon. I willsee to it. Monsieur will bolt his door, and in the morning I will knockwhen I bring the coffee. "

"Good, " returned Hillyard ungraciously. 

The attendant retired, and Hillyard closed the door. But the ventilatinglattice in the lower part of the door was open, and Hillyard could seethe legs of the attendant. He was waiting outside--waiting for what?Hillyard smiled to himself and took down his bag from the upper berth. He had hardly opened it when the attendant knocked and entered. 

"You will not forget, monsieur, to bolt your door. In these days it isnot wise to leave it on the latch. "

"I won't forget, " Hillyard replied surlily, and once more the attendantretired; and again he stood outside the door. He did not move until thebolt was shot. The attendant seemed very pleased that this fool of atourist who thought of nothing but his infirmities should safely boltthe door of the compartments numbers 11 and 12; and very pleased, too, to bring to this churlish, discontented traveller his coffee in themorning, so that he need not leave compartments numbers 11 and 12unguarded. Hillyard chuckled as the attendant moved away. 

"I am to be your watch-dog, am I? Your sentinel? Very well! Come, let medeserve your confidence, my friend. "

The train thundered out of the tunnel and through the suburbs of Paris. Hillyard drew a letter from Fairbairn out of his pocket and read itthrough. 

"Compartments numbers 11 and 12 on the night train from the Quai d'Orsaystation to Cerbère. Good!" murmured Hillyard. "Here I am in compartmentsnumbers 11 and 12. Now we wait until the married couple from Perpignanand the attendant are comfortably asleep. "

He undressed and went to bed, but he did not sleep. He lay in the berthin the darkness, listening intently as the train rushed out of Parisacross the plains of France. Once or twice, as the hours passed, heheard a stealthy footstep in the corridor outside, and once the faintestpossible little click told that the latch of his door had been lifted tomake sure that the bolt was still shot home in its socket. Hillyardsmiled. 

"You are safe, my friend, " he breathed the words towards the anxious onein the corridor. "No one can get in. The door is locked. The door of thedressing-room too. Sleep in your corner in peace. "

The train sped over a moonlit country, spacious, unhurt by war. It movedwith a steady, rhythmical throb, like an accompaniment to a tune or aphrase, ever repeated and repeated Hillyard found himself fitting wordsto the pulsation of the wheels. "Berlin ... Berne ... Paris ... Cerbère... Barcelona ... Madrid ... Aranjuez and the world"; and back again, reversing the order: "Madrid ... Barcelona ... Cerbère ... Paris ... Berne ... Berlin. "

But the throb of the train set the interrogation at the end of thestring of names. So that the sequence of them was like a questiondemanding confirmation.... 

Towards three in the morning, when there was no movement in the corridorand the lights were blue and dim, Hillyard silently folded back hisbedclothes and rose. In the darkness he groped gently for the door ofthe lavatory between his compartment and the compartment of themanufacturer of Perpignan. He found the handle, and pressed it downslowly; without a creak or a whine of the hinges the door swung opentowards him. Through the clatter he could hear that the manufacturer ofPerpignan was snoring. But Hillyard did not put his trust in snores. Hecrept with bare feet across the washing-room, and, easing over thehandle of the further door, locked the manufacturer out. Again there hadbeen no sound. He shut the door of his own compartment lest the swing ofthe train should set it banging and arouse the sleepers. Towards thecorridor there was a window of painted glass, and through this window apale, dim light filtered in. Hillyard noticed, for the first time, thata small diamond-shaped piece of the coloured glass was missing, at aboutthe level of a man's head. It was advisable that Martin Hillyard shouldbe quick--or he might find the tables turned. With his ears more thanever alert, he set up the steps for the upper berth, in the lavatory, and whilst he worked his eyes watched that little aperture at the levelof a man's head, which once a diamond-shaped piece of coloured glass hadclosed.... 

The door of the manufacturer was unlocked, the steps folded in theirplace, and Hillyard back again in his bed before two minutes had passed. And once more the throb of the train beat into a chain of towns whichwent backwards and forwards like a shuttle in his brain. But there wasno note of interrogation now. 

"Berlin ... Berne ... Paris ... Cerbère ... Barcelona ... Madrid ... Aranjuez and the world"; and with a thump the train set a firm full stopto the sequence. Across the broad plain, meadowland and plough, flower-garden and fruit the train thundered down to the Pyrenees. Pariswas far away now, and the sense of desolation at quitting it quite gonefrom Hillyard's breast. 

"Berlin ... Berne ... Paris ... Cerbère ... Barcelona ... Madrid. "

Here was one of the post-roads by which Germany reached the outer world. Others there were beyond doubt. Sweden and Rotterdam, Mexico and SouthAmerica--but here was one, and to-morrow, nay, to-day, the communicationwould be cut, and Germany so much the poorer. 

The train steamed into Cerbère at one o'clock of the afternoon. 

"Every one must descend here, monsieur, for the examination of luggageand passports, " said the attendant. 

"But I am leaving France!" cried Hillyard. "I go on into Spain. Whyshould France, then, examine my luggage?"

"It is the war, monsieur. "

Hillyard lifted up his hands in indignation too deep for words. Hegathered together his bag and his coat and stick, handed them to aporter and descended. He passed into the waiting-room, and was directedby a soldier with a fixed bayonet to take his place in the queue ofpassengers. But he said quietly to the soldier:

"I would like to see M. De Cassaud, the Commissaire of Police. "

Hillyard was led apart; his card was taken from him; he was usheredinstantly into an office where an elderly French officer sat in muftibefore a table. He shook Hillyard cordially by the hand. 

"You pass through? I myself hope to visit Barcelona again very soon. Jean, wait outside with monsieur's baggage, " this to the porter who hadpushed in behind Hillyard. M. De Cassaud rose and closed the door. Hehad looked at Hillyard's face and acted quickly. 

"It is something more than compliments you want from me, monsieur. Well, what can I do?"

"The second sleeping-car, compartments numbers 11 and 12, " said Hillyardurgently. "In the water-tank of the lavatory there is a little metalcase with letters from Berlin for Barcelona and Madrid. But wait, monsieur!"

M. De Cassaud was already at the door. 

"It is the attendant of the sleeping-car who hides them there. If he canbe called into an office quietly on some matter of routine and heldthere whilst your search is made, then those in Madrid and Barcelona towhom these letters are addressed may never know they have been sent atall!"

M. De Cassaud nodded and went out. Hillyard waited nervously in thelittle whitewashed room. It was impossible that the attendant shouldhave taken fright and bolted. Even if he bolted, it would be impossiblethat he should escape across the frontier. It was impossible that heshould recover the metal case from the water-tank, while the carriagestood openly at the platform of Cerbère station. He would be certain towait until it was shunted into the cleaning shed. But so manycertainties had been disproved, so many possibilities had come to passduring the last two years, that Hillyard was sceptical to hisfinger-tips. M. De Cassaud was a long time away. Yes, certainly M. DeCassaud was a very long----and the door opened, and M. De Cassaudappeared. 

"He is giving an account of his blankets and his towels. There are twosoldiers at the door. He is safe. Come!" said the Commissaire. 

They crossed the platform to the carriage, whilst Hillyard described theattendant's anxiety that he should bolt his door. "No doubt he gave thesame advice to the manufacturer of Perpignan, " Hillyard added. 

It was M. De Cassaud who arranged and mounted the steps in the tinywashing-room. 

"Look, monsieur, " said Hillyard, and he pointed to the little aperturein the coloured glass of the window. "One can see from the corridor whatis going on in this room. That is useful. If a traveller complains--bah, it is the war!" and Hillyard laughed. 

M. De Cassaud looked at the window. 

"Yes, that is ingenious, " he said. 

He drained off the water, folded back his sleeve, and plunged his arminto the tank. Then he uttered a little cry. He drew up into the lightan oblong metal can, like a sandwich-case, with the edges solderedtogether to make it water-tight. He slipped it into his pocket andturned again to the window. He looked at it again curiously. 

"Yes, that is ingenious, " he said softly, like a man speaking tohimself. Then he led the way back to his office, looking in at theguard-room on the platform to give an order on the way. 

The soldered edges of the case were quickly split asunder and a smallpackage of letters written on very thin paper revealed. 

"You will let me take these on with me, " pleaded Martin. "You shall havethem again. But some of them may want a special treatment of which wehave the secret. "

M. De Cassaud was doubtful about the propriety of such a procedure. 

"After all I found them, " Martin urged. 

"It would be unusual, " said M. De Cassaud. "The regulations, youknow----"

Martin Hillyard smiled. 

"The regulations, for you and me, my friend, are those we makeourselves. "

M. De Cassaud would admit nothing so outrageous to his trained andrather formal mind. But he made a list of these letters and of theiraddresses as though he was undecided. He had not finished when asergeant entered and saluted. The attendant of the sleeping-car had beentaken to the depot. He had been searched and a pistol had been foundupon him. The sergeant laid a very small automatic Colt upon the tableand retired. M. De Cassaud took up the little weapon and examined it. 

"Do you know these toys, Monsieur Hillyard?" he asked. 

"Yes. They are chiefly used against the mosquitoes. "

"Oh, they will kill at twenty-five paces, " continued the Commissaire;and he looked quickly at Hillyard. "I will tell you something. You ransome risk last night when you explored that water-tank. Yes, indeed! Itwould have been so easy. The attendant had but to thrust the muzzle ofthis through the opening of the window, shoot you dead, raise an alarmthat he had caught you hiding something, and there was he a hero and youa traitor. Yes, that is why I said to you the little opening in thewindow was ingenious! Ah, if he had caught you! Yes, if he had caughtyou!"

Martin was quick to take advantage. 

"Then let me have those letters! I will keep my French colleaguesinformed of everything. "

"Very well, " said M. De Cassaud, and he suddenly swept the lettersacross to Hillyard, who gathered them up hastily and buttoned them awayin his pocket before de Cassaud could change his mind. 

"It is all very incorrect, " said the Commissaire reproachfully. 

"Yes, but it is the war, " replied Hillyard. "I have the authority of theattendant of the sleeping-car for saying so. "

CHAPTER XVI

TRICKS OF THE TRADE

"Now!" said Hillyard. 

Fairbairn fetched a couple of white porcelain developing dishes to thetable. Hillyard unlocked a drawer in his bureau. They were in thedeck-saloon of the _Dragonfly_, steaming southwards from Valencia. Outside the open windows the brown hill-sides, the uplands of olivetrees and the sun-flecked waves slipped by in a magical clear light; andthe hiss of the beaded water against the ship's planks filled the cabinwith a rustle as of silk. Hillyard drew a deep breath of excitement ashe took out from the drawer the letters he had carried off from M. DeCassaud. He had travelled straight through Barcelona to Valencia withthe letters in his pocket, picking up Fairbairn at the Estación deFrancia on the way, and now, in the sunlight and in the secrecy of theopen sea, they were to appraise the value of their catch. 

They sat at the table and examined them, opening the envelopes with theskill and the care which experience had taught them. For, even thoughthis post-road was henceforth closed it might possibly be worth while tosend forward these letters. One or two were apparently family lettersfor German soldiers, interned at Pampluna; one or two were businesscommunications from firms in Berlin to their agents in Spain; and theseseemed genuine enough. 

"They may be of value to the War Trade Board, " said Fairbairn; and heput them aside for dispatch to London. As he turned back Hillyard criedsuddenly:

"Here we are!"

He had come to the last letter of the little heap. He was holding theenvelope in front of him and he read out the address:

 _"Mr. Jack Williams, _ _"Alfredo Menandez, 6, _ _"Madrid. "_

Fairbairn started up, and tugging at his moustache, stared at theenvelope over Hillyard's shoulder. 

"By Jove!" he said. "We may have got something. "

"Let us see!" returned Hillyard, and he opened the envelope. 

As he spread out the letter both men laughed. The date of the month hadbeen corrected by the writer--thus:

 8 "_July_ 27th, 1916. "

[Transcriber's note: The original text has a slash through the 7. ]

There was no doubt any longer in either of these two men's minds thathidden away under the commonplaces of a letter of affection was amessage of grave importance. 

"They are full of clever tricks in Berlin, " said Hillyard cheerfully. Hecould afford to contemplate that cleverness with complacency, for it wasnow to serve his ends. 

There was a German official of high importance living in the CalleAlfredo Menandez, although not at number 6 in that street. The streetwas a short one with very few numbers in it; and it had occurred to theGerman official to point out to the postman in that street that ifletters came to English names in that street of which the owners couldnot be discovered, they were probably for the governess of his children, who had a number of English relations moving about Spain, and wasaccustomed to receive their letters for them, and in any case, fivepesetas would be paid for each of them. Shortly after, letters had begunto arrive addressed to English nonexistent people in the quiet littleCalle Alfredo Menandez, sometimes from Allied countries, sometimes fromHolland, or from Port-Bou over against Cerbère in Spain; and every oneof these found its natural way to the house of the German official. Thechoice of English names had a certain small ingenuity in that, whenpassing through the censorship of Allied countries, they were a littlemore likely to be taken at their face value than letters addressed toforeigners. 

So far so good. But the German high official was a very busy person; andletters might find their way into his hands which were really intendedfor English persons and not for him at all. Accordingly, to make allclear, to warn him that here indeed was a letter deserving his kindattention, that little trifling alteration in the date was adopted; asthough a man writing on the 28th had mislaid the calendar or newspaperand assigned the 27th to the day of writing, and afterwards haddiscovered his mistake. It was no wonder accordingly that hope ran highin both Fairbairn and Hillyard as they read through this letter;although, upon the face of it, it was nothing but a sentimental effusionfrom a sister to a brother. 

"We have got to clear all this nonsense away first, " said Hillyard. 

Fairbairn took the letter, and placing it on one of the developingdishes, poured over it a liquid from a bottle. 

"That won't take very long, " he said. 

Meanwhile Hillyard busied himself with the second of the two whiteporcelain dishes. He brought out a cruet stand from a cupboard at theside of the stove and filled the dish half full of vinegar. He addedwater until the liquid rose within half an inch of the rim, and rockedthe dish that the dilution might be complete. Next he took a newcopying-pencil from the pen-tray on his bureau and stripping the woodaway with his knife, dropped the blue lead into the vinegar and water. This lead he carefully dissolved with the help of a glass pestle. 

"There! It's ready, " he said. 

"I, too, " added Fairbairn. 

He lifted out of the developing dish a wet sheet of writing paper whichwas absolutely blank. Not one drop of the black ink which had recordedthose sentimental effusions remained. It was just a sheet of notepaperwhich had accidentally fallen into a basin of water. 

"That's all right, " said Hillyard; and Fairbairn gently slid the sheetinto the dish in front of Hillyard. And for a while nothing happened. 

"It's a clever trick, isn't it?" Hillyard used the words again, but nowwith a note of nervousness. "No unlikely paraphernalia needed. Just acopying pencil and some vinegar, which you can get anywhere. Yes, it's aclever trick!"

"If it works, " Fairbairn added bluntly. 

Both men watched the dish anxiously. The paper remained blank. Thesolution did not seem to work. It was the first time they had ever madeuse of it. The coast slid by unnoticed. 

"Lopez was certain, " said Fairbairn, "quite certain that this was thedeveloping formula. "

Hillyard nodded gloomily, but he did not remove his eyes from thatirresponsive sheet. 

"There may be some other ingredient, something kept quitesecret--something known only to one man or two. "

He sat down, hooking his chair with his foot nearer to the table. 

"We must wait. "

"That's all there is to be done, " said Fairbairn, and they waited; andthey waited. They had no idea, even if the formula should work, whetherthe writing would flash up suddenly like an over-exposed photographicplate, or emerge shyly and reluctantly letter by letter, word by word. Then, without a word spoken, Fairbairn's finger pointed. A brown stainshowed on the whiteness of the paper--just a stroke. It was followed bya curve and another stroke. Hillyard swiftly turned the oblongdeveloping dish so that the side of it, and not the end, was towards himnow. 

"The writing is across the sheet, " he said, and then with a cry, "Look!"

A word was coming out clear, writing itself unmistakably in the middleof the line, at the bottom of the sheet--a signature. Zimmermann!

"From the General Staff!" said Hillyard, in a whisper of excitement. "Myword!" He looked at Fairbairn with an eager smile of gratitude. "It'syour doing that we have got this--yours and Lopez Baeza's!"

Miraculously the brown strokes and curves and dots and flourishestrooped out of nothing, and fell in like sections and platoons andcompanies with their due space between them, some quick and trim, somerather slovenly in their aspect, some loitering; but in the end thebattalion of words stood to attention, dressed for inspection. The brownhad turned black before Hillyard lifted the letter from the solution andspread it upon a sheet of blotting paper. 

"Now let us see!" and they read the letter through. 

One thousand pounds in English money were offered for reliableinformation as to the number of howitzers and tanks upon the Britishfront. 

A second sum of a thousand pounds for reliable information as to themanufacture of howitzers and tanks in England. 

"So far, it's not very exciting, " Hillyard remarked with disappointment, as he turned the leaf. But the letter progressed in interest. 

A third sum of a thousand pounds was offered for a list of the postalsections on the British front, with the name, initials and rank of areally good and reliable British soldier in each section who wasprepared to receive and answer correspondence. 

Fairbairn chuckled and observed:

"I think Herr Zimmermann might be provided with a number of such goodand reliable soldiers selected by our General Staff, " and he added witha truculent snort, "We could do with that sum of a thousand pounds here. You must put in a claim for it, Hillyard. Otherwise they'll snaffle itin London. "

Fairbairn, once a mild north-country schoolmaster, of correctphraseology and respectable demeanour, had, under the pressure of hisservice, developed like that white sheet of notepaper. He had suffered

 "A sea-change Into something rich and strange"

and from a schoolmaster had become a buccaneer with a truculent mannerand a mind of violence. London, under which name he classed allGovernment officials, offices, departments, and administrations, particularly roused his ire. London was ignorant, London was stupid, London was always doing him and the other buccaneers down, was alwayssnaffling something which he ought to have. Fairbairn, uttering onesnort of satisfaction, would have shot it with his Browning. 

"Get it off your chest, old man, " said Hillyard soothingly, "and we'llgo on with this letter. It looks to me as if----" He was glancingonwards and checked himself with an exclamation. His face became graveand set. 

"Listen to this, " and he read aloud, translating as he went along. 

 "_Since the tubes have been successful in France, the device should be extended to England. B45 is obviously suitable for the work. A submarine will sink letters for the Embassy in Madrid and a parcel of the tubes between the twenty-seventh and the thirtieth of July, within Spanish territorial waters off the Cabo de Cabron. A green light will be shown in three short flashes from the sea and it should be answered from the shore by a red and a white and two reds. _"

Hillyard leaned back in his chair. 

"B45, " he cried in exasperation. "We get no nearer to him. "

"Wait a bit!" Fairbairn interposed. "We are a deal nearer to him throughZimmermann's very letter here. What are these tubes which have been sosuccessful in France? Once we get hold of them and understand them andknow what end they are to serve, we may get an idea of the kind of manobviously suitable for handling them. "

"Like B45, " said Hillyard. 

"Yes! The search will be narrowed to one kind of man. Oh, we shall bemuch nearer, if only we get the tubes--if only the Germans in Madriddon't guess this letter's gone astray to us. "

Hillyard had reflected already upon that contingency. 

"But why should they? The sleeping-car man is held _incomunicado_. Thereis no reason why they should know anything about this letter at all, ifwe lay our plans carefully. "

He folded up the letter and locked it away in the drawer. He looked fora while out of the window of the saloon. The yacht had rounded the CaboSan Antonio. It was still the forenoon. 

"This is where José Medina has got to come in, " he declared. "You mustgo to Madrid, Fairbairn, and keep an eye on Mr. Jack Williams. Meanwhile, here José Medina has got to come in. "

Fairbairn reluctantly agreed. He would much rather have stayed upon thecoast and shared in the adventure, but it was obviously necessary that akeen watch should be kept in Madrid. 

"Very well, " he said, "unless, of course, you would like to go to Madridyourself. "

Hillyard laughed. 

"I think not, old man. "

He mounted the ladder to the bridge and gave the instructions to theCaptain, and early that evening the _Dragonfly_ was piloted into theharbour of Alicante. Hillyard and Fairbairn went ashore. They had somehours to get through before they could take the journey they intended. They sauntered accordingly along the esplanade beneath the palm treesuntil they came to the Casino. Both were temporary members of that club, and they sat down upon the cane chairs on the broad side-walk. Amilitary band was playing on the esplanade a little to their right, andin front of them a throng of visitors and townspeople strolled and satin the evening air. Hillyard smiled as he watched the kaleidoscopicgrouping and re-grouping of men and children and women. The revolutionsof his life, a subject which in the press of other and urgent mattershad fallen of late into the background of his thoughts, struck him againas wondrous and admirable. He began to laugh with enjoyment. He lookedat Fairbairn. How dull in comparison the regular sequences of hiscareer!

"I wandered about here barefoot and penniless, " he said, "not so verylong ago. On this very pavement!" He struck it with his foot, commendingto Fairbairn the amazing fact. "I have cleaned boots, " and he called toa boy who was lying in wait with a boot-black's apparatus on his backfor any dusty foot. "Chico, come and clean my shoes. " He jested with theboy with the kindliness of a Spaniard, and gave him a shining peseta. Hillyard was revelling in the romance of his life under the spur of theexcitement which the affair of the letter had fired in him. "Yes, Iwandered here, passing up and down in front of this very Casino. "

And Fairbairn saw his face change and his eyes widen as though herecognised some one in the throng beneath the trees. 

"What is it?" Fairbairn asked, and for a little while Hillyard did notanswer. His eyes were not following any movements under the trees. Theysaw no one present in Alicante that day. Slowly he turned to Fairbairn, and answered in voice of suspense:

"Nothing! I was just remembering--and wondering!"

He remained sunk in abstraction for a long time. "It can't be!" at gripswith "If it could be!" and a rising inspiration that "It was!" A man hadonce tried him out with questions about Alicante, a man who was afraidlest he should have seen too much. But Hillyard had learnt to hold histongue when he had only inspirations to go upon, and he disclosednothing of this to Fairbairn. 

Later on, when darkness had fallen, the two men drove in a motor-carsouthwards round the bay and through a shallow valley to the fishingvillage of Torrevieja. When you came upon its broad beach of shingle andsand, with its black-tarred boats hauled up, and its market booths, youmight dream that you had been transported to Broadstairs--except for onefact. The houses are built in a single story, since the village isafflicted with earthquakes. Two houses rise higher than the rest, thehotel and the Casino. In the Casino Hillyard found José Medina's agentfor those parts sitting over his great mug of beer; and they talkedtogether quietly for a long while. 

Thus Martin Hillyard fared in those days. He played with life and death, enjoying vividly the one and ever on the brink of the other, but thedeep, innermost realities of either had as yet touched him not at all. 

CHAPTER XVII

ON A CAPE OF SPAIN

The great cape thrusts its knees far out into the Mediterranean, andclose down by the sea on the very point a lighthouse stands out from thegreen mass like a white pencil. South-westwards the land runs sharplyback in heights of tangled undergrowths and trees, overhangs a wide bayand drops at the end of the bay to the mouth of a spacious, emptyharbour. Eastwards the cape slopes inland at a gentler angle with anundercliff, a narrow plateau, and behind the plateau mountain walls. Twotiny fishing villages cluster a mile or two apart at the water's edge, and high up on the cape's flanks here and there a small rude settlementclings to the hillside. There are no roads to the cape. From the eastyou may ride a horse towards it, and lose your way. From the west youmust approach by boat. So remote and unvisited is this region that thewomen in these high villages, their homes cut out of the actual brownrock, still cover their faces with the Moorish veil. 

There are no roads, but José Medina was never deterred by the lack ofroads. His business, indeed, was a shy one, and led him to prefer wildcountry. A high police official in one great town said of him:

"For endurance and activity there is no one like José Medina between thesea and the Pyrenees. You think him safe in Mallorca and look! He landsone morning from the steamer, jumps into a motor-car, and in fiveminutes--whish!--he is gone like the smoke of my cigarette. He willdrive his car through our mountains by tracks, of which the guardiacivil does not even know the existence. "

By devious tracks, then, now through narrow gullies in brown and barrenmountains, now striking some village path amidst peach trees andmarguerites, José Medina drove Martin Hillyard down to the edge of thesea. Here amongst cactus bushes in flower, with turf for a carpet, acamp had been prepared near to one of the two tiny villages. José Medinawas king in this region. The party arrived in the afternoon of thetwenty-sixth day of the month, all of the colour of saffron from thedust-clouds the car had raised, and Hillyard so stiff and bruised withthe intolerable jolting over ruts baked to iron, that he could hardlyclimb down on to the ground. He slept that night amidst such a music ofbirds as he had never believed possible one country could produce. Through the night of the twenty-sixth he and José Medina watched; theirlanterns ready to their hands. Lights there were in plenty on the sea, but they were the lights of acetylene lamps used by the fishermen ofthose parts to attract the fish; and the morning broke with thelighthouse flashing wanly over a smooth sea, pale as fine jade. 

"There are three more nights, " said Hillyard. He was a little dispiritedafter the fatigue of the day before and the long, empty vigil on the topof the day. 

The next watch brought no better fortune. There was no moon; the nightwas of a darkness so clear that the stars threw pale and tremulous pathsover the surface of the water, and from far away the still air vibratedfrom time to time with the throbbing of propellers as the ships withoutlights passed along the coast. 

Hillyard rose from the blanket on which he and José Medina had beenlying during the night. It had been spread on a patch of turf in a breakof the hill some hundreds of feet above the sea. He was cold. Theblanket was drenched and the dew hung like a frost on bush and grass. 

"It looks as if they had found out, " he said. 

"This is only the second night, " said José Medina. 

"It all means so much to me, " replied Hillyard, shivering in thebriskness of the morning. 

"Courage, the little Marteen!" cried José Medina. "After breakfast and afew hours' sleep, we shall take a rosier view. "

Hillyard, however, could not compose himself to those few hours. Thedread lest the Germans should have discovered the interception of theirletters weighed too heavily upon him. Even in the daylight he needsmust look out over that placid sunlit sea and imagine here and thereupon its surface the low tower and grey turtle-back of a submarine. Success here might be so great a thing, so great a saving of lives, sodire a blow to the enemy. Somehow that day slowly dragged its burninghours to sunset, the coolness of the evening came, and the swiftdarkness upon its heels, and once more, high up on the hillside, thevigil was renewed. And at half-past one in the morning, far away at sea, a green light, bright as an emerald, flashed thrice and was gone. 

"Did I not say to you, 'Have courage'?" said José Medina. 

"Quick! the Lanterns!" replied Hillyard. "The red first! Good! Now thewhite. So! And the red again. Now we must wait!" and he sank down againupon the blanket. All the impatience and languor were gone from him. Themoment had come. He was at once steel to meet it. 

"Yes, " said José Medina, "we shall see nothing more now for a longwhile. "

They heard no sound in that still night; they saw no gleam of lights. Itseemed to Hillyard that æons passed before José touched him on the elbowand pointed downwards. 

"Look!" he whispered excitedly. 

Right at their very feet the long, grim vessel lay, so near thatHillyard had the illusion he could pitch a stone on to the conningtower. He now held his breath, lest his breathing should be heard. Thenthe water splashed, and a moment afterwards the submarine turned andmoved to sea. They gave it five minutes, and then climbed down to a tinycreek. A rowing-boat lay in readiness there, with one man at the tillerand two at the oars. 

"You saw it, Manuel?" said Medina as he and Hillyard stepped in. 

"Yes, Señor José. It was very close. Oh, they know these waters!"

The oars churned the phosphorescent water into green fire, and the foamfrom the stem of the boat sparkled as though jewels were scattered intoit by the oarsmen as they rowed. They stopped alongside a little whitebuoy which floated on the water. The buoy was attached to a rope; thatagain to a chain. A mat was folded over the side of the boat and thechain drawn cautiously in and coiled without noise. Hillyard saw the twomen who were hauling it in bend suddenly at their work and heave with agreater effort. 

"It is coming, " said one of them, and the man at the tiller went forwardto help them. Hillyard leaned over the side of the heavy boat and stareddown into the water. But the night was too dark for him to see anythingbut the swirl of green fire made by the movement of the chain and thefire-drops falling from the links. At last something heavy knockedagainst the boat's flanks. 

"Once more, " whispered the man from the tiller. "Now!"

And the load was perched upon the gunwale and lowered into the boat. Itconsisted of three square and bulky metal cases, bound together by thechain. 

"We have it, my friend Marteen, " whispered José Medina, with a laugh ofsheer excitement. He was indeed hardly less stirred than Hillyardhimself. "Not for nothing did the little Marteen lead the horse acrossthe beach of Benicassim. Now we will row back quickly. We must be faraway from here by the time the world is stirring. "

The boatmen bent to their oars with a will, and the boat leaped upon thewater. They had rowed for fifty yards when suddenly far away a cannonboomed. The crew stopped, and every one in the boat strained his eyesseawards. Some one whispered, and Hillyard held up his hand for silence. Thus they sat immobile as figures of wax for the space of ten minutes. Then Hillyard relaxed from his attention. 

"They must have got her plump with the first shot, " he said; and, indeed, there was no other explanation for that boom of a solitarycannon across the midnight sea. 

José Medina laughed. 

"So the little Marteen had made his arrangements?"

"What else am I here for?" retorted the little Marteen, and though hetoo laughed, a thrill of triumph ran through the laugh. "It just neededthat shot to round all off. I was so afraid that we should not hear it, that it might never be fired. Now it will never be known, if your menkeep silent, whether they sunk their cargo or were sunk with it onboard. "

The crew once more drove the blades of their oars through the water, anddid not slacken till the shore was reached. They clambered up the rocksto their camp bearing their treasure, and up from the camp again to thespot where José's motor-car was hidden. José talked to the boatmen whilethe cans were stowed away in the bottom of the car, and then turned toHillyard. 

"There will be no sign of our camp at daybreak. The tent will begone--everything. If our luck holds--and why should it not?--no one needever know that the Señor Marteen and his friend José Medina picnickedfor three days upon that cape. "

"But the lighthouse-keepers! What of them?" objected Hillyard. In him, too, hope and excitement were leaping high. But this objection heoffered up on the altars of the gods who chastise men for the insolenceof triumph. 

"What of them?" José Medina repeated gaily. "They, too, are my friendsthis many a year. " He seated himself at the wheel of the car. "Come, forwe cannot drive fast amongst these hills in the dark. "

Hillyard will never forget to the day of his death that wild passagethrough the mountains. Now it was some sudden twist to avoid aprecipice, now a jerk and a halt whilst José stared into the darknessahead of him; here the car jolted suddenly over great stones, then itsank to the axle in soft dust; at another place the bushes whipped theirfaces; and again they must descend and build a little bridge of boughsand undergrowth over a rivulet. But so high an elation possessed himthat he was unconscious both of the peril and the bruises. He could havesung aloud. They stopped an hour after daybreak and breakfasted by theside of the car in a high country of wild flowers. The sun was hiddenfrom them by a barrier of hills. 

"We shall strike an old mine-road in half an hour, " said José Medina, "and make good going. "

They came into a district of grey, weathered rock, and, making a widecircuit all that day, crept towards nightfall down to the road betweenAguilas and Cartagena; and once more the sea lay before them. 

"We are a little early, " said Medina. "We will wait here until it isdark. The carabineros are not at all well disposed to me, and there area number of them patrolling the road. "

They were above the road and hidden from it by a hedge of thick bushes. Between the leaves Hillyard could see a large felucca moving westwardssome miles from the shore and a long way off on the road below two tinyspecks. The specks grew larger and became two men on horses. They becamelarger still, and in the failing light Hillyard was just able todistinguish that they wore the grey uniform of the Guardia Civil. 

"Let us pray, " said Medina with a note of anxiety in his voice, "thatthey do not become curious about our fishing-boat out there!"

As he spoke the two horsemen halted, and did look out to sea. Theyconversed each with the other. 

"If I were near enough to hear them!" said José Medina, and he suddenlyturned in alarm upon Hillyard. "What are you doing?" he said. 

Hillyard had taken a large. 38 Colt automatic pistol from his pocket. Hisface was drawn and white and very set. 

"I am doing nothing--for the moment, " he answered. "But those two menmust ride on before it is dark and too late for me to see them. "

"But they are of the Guardia Civil, " José Medina expostulated in awedtones. 

To the Spaniard, the mere name of the Guardia Civil, so great is itsprestige, and so competent its personnel, inspires respect. 

"I don't care, " answered Hillyard savagely. "In this war why should twomen on a road count at all? Let them go on, and nothing will happen. "

José Medina, who had been assuming the part of protector and adviser tohis young English friend, had now the surprise of his life. He foundhimself suddenly relegated to the second place and by nothing but sheerforce of character. Hillyard rested the point of his elbow on the earthand supported the barrel of his Colt upon his left forearm. He aimedcarefully along the sights. 

"Let them go on!" he said between his teeth. "I will give them until thelast moment--until the darkness begins to hide them. But not a momentlonger. I am not here, my friend, for my health. I am here because thereis a war. "

"The little Marteen" was singularly unapparent at this moment Here wasjust the ordinary appalling Englishman who had not the imagination tounderstand what a desperately heinous crime it would be to kill two ofthe Guardia Civil, who was simply going to do it the moment it becamenecessary, and would not lose one minute of his sleep until his dyingday because he had done it. José Medina was completely at a loss as helooked into the grim indifferent face of his companion. The two horsemenwere covered. The Colt would kill at more than five hundred yards, andit had no more to do than carry sixty. And still those two fools sat ontheir horses, and babbled to one another, and looked out to sea. 

"What am I to do with this loco Inglés?" José Medina speculated, wringing his hands in an agony of apprehension. He had no share in thosememories which at this moment invaded Martin Hillyard, and touched everyfibre of his soul. Martin Hillyard, though his eye never left the sightsof his Colt nor his mind wavered from his purpose, was with asubordinate consciousness stealing in the dark night up the footpathbetween the big, leafy trees over the rustic railway bridge to thesummit of the hill. He was tramping once more through lanes, betweenfields, and stood again upon a hillock of Peckham Rye, and saw themorning break in beauty and in wonder over London. The vision gainedfrom the foolish and romantic days of his boyhood, steadied his fingerupon the trigger after all these years. 

Then to José's infinite relief the two horsemen rode on. The long, black, shining barrel of the Colt followed them as they dwindled on theroad. They turned a corner, and as Hillyard replaced his pistol in hispocket, José Medina rolled over on his back, and clapped his hands tohis face. 

"You might have missed, " he gasped. "One of them at all events. "

Hillyard turned to him with a grin. The savage was not yet exorcised. 

"Why?" he asked. "Why should I have missed one of them? It was mybusiness not to. "

José Medina flung up his hands. 

"I will not argue with you. We are not made of the same earth. "

Hillyard's face changed to gentleness. 

"Pretty nearly, my friend, " he said, and he laid a hand on José Medina'sshoulder. "For we are good friends--such good friends that I do notscruple to drag you into the same perils as myself. "

Hillyard had not wasted his time during those three years when he loafedand worked about the quays of Southern Spain. He touched the right chordnow with an unerring skill. Hillyard might be the mad Englishman, theloco Inglés! But to be reckoned by one of them as one of them--here wasan insidious flattery which no one of José Medina's upbringing couldpossibly resist. 

At nightfall they drove down across the road on to the beach. Arowing-boat was waiting, and Medina's manager from Alicante beside theboat on the sand. The cases were quickly transferred from the car to theboat. 

"We will take charge of the car, " said José to his manager, and hestepped into the boat, and sat down beside Hillyard. "This is myadventure. I see it through to the end, " he explained. 

A mile away the felucca picked them up. Hillyard rolled himself up in arug in the bows of the boat. He looked up to the stars tramping the skyabove his head. 

 "And gentlemen in England now a-bed. "

Drowsily he muttered the immemorial line, and turning on his side sleptas only the tired men who know they have done their work can sleep. Hewas roused in broad daylight. The felucca was lying motionless upon thewater; no land was anywhere in sight; but above the felucca towered thetall side of the steam yacht _Dragonfly_. 

Fairbairn was waiting at the head of the ladder. The cases were carriedinto the saloon and opened. The top cases were full of documents andletters, some private, most of them political. 

"These are for the pundits, " said Hillyard. He put them back again, andturned to the last case. In them were a number of small glass tubes, neatly packed in cardboard boxes with compartments lined with cottonwool. 

"This is our affair, Fairbairn, " he said. He took one out, and a look ofperplexity crept over his face. The tube was empty. He tried another andanother, and then another; every one of the tubes was empty. 

"Now what in the world do you make of that?" he asked. 

The tubes had yet to be filled and there was no hint of what they wereto be filled with. 

"What I am wondering about is why they troubled to send the tubes atall?" said Fairbairn slowly. "There's some reason, of course, somethingperhaps in the make of the glass. "

He held one of the tubes up to the light. There was nothing todistinguish it from any one of the tubes in which small tabloids aresold by chemists. 

Hillyard got out of his bureau the letter in which these tubes werementioned. 

"'They have been successful in France, '" he said, quoting from theletter. "The scientists may be able to make something of them in Paris. This letter and the tubes together may give a clue. I think that I hadbetter take one of the boxes to Paris. "

"Yes, " said Fairbairn gloomily. "But----" and he shrugged his shoulders. 

"But it's one of the ninety per cent, which go wrong, eh?" Hillyardfinished the sentence with bitterness. Disappointment was heavy uponboth men. Hillyard, too, was tired by the tension of these lastsleepless days. He had not understood how much he had counted uponsuccess. 

"Yes, it's damnably disheartening, " he cried. "I thought these tubesmight lead us pretty straight to B45. "

"B45!"

The exclamation came from José Medina, who was leaning against thedoorpost of the saloon, half in the room, half out on the sunlit deck. He had placed himself tactfully aloof. The examination of the cases wasnone of his business. Now, however, his face lit up. 

"B45. " He shut the door and took a seat at the table. "I can tell youabout B45. "

CHAPTER XVIII

THE USES OF SCIENCE

It was Hillyard's creed that chance will serve a man very capably, if heis equipped to take advantage of its help; and here was an instance. Thepreparation had begun on the morning when Hillyard took the _Dragonfly_into the harbour of Palma. Chance had offered her assistance some monthslater in an hotel at Madrid; as Medina was now to explain. 

"The day after you left Mallorca, " said José Medina, "it was known allover Palma that you had come to visit me. "

"Of course, " answered Martin. 

"I was in consequence approached almost immediately, by the other side. "

"I expected that. It was only natural. "

"There is a young lady in Madrid, " continued José Medina. 

"Carolina Muller?"

"No. "

"Rosa Hahn, then. "

"Yes, " said José Medina. 

José rose and unlocking a drawer in his bureau took out from it a sheafof photographs. He selected one and handed it with a smile to Hillyard. It was the portrait of a good-looking girl, tall, dark, and intelligent, but heavy about the feet, dressed in Moorish robes, and extended on adivan in Oriental indolence against a scene cloth which outdid theluxuries of Llalla Rookh. 

"That's the lady, I think. "

Medina gazed at the picture with delight. He touched his lips with hisfingers, and threw a kiss to it. His sharp, sallow face suddenlyflowered into smiles. 

"Yes. What a woman! She has real intelligence, " he exclaimed fervently. 

José Medina was in the habit of losing his heart and keeping his head agood many times in an ordinary year. 

"It's an extraordinary thing, " Martin Hillyard remarked, "that howeverintelligent they are, not one of these young ladies can resist thetemptation to have her portrait taken in Moorish dress at thephotographer's in the Alhambra. "

José Medina saw nothing at all grotesque or ridiculous in thisparticular foible. 

"They make such charming pictures, " he cried. 

"And it is very useful for us, too, " remarked Hillyard. "Thephotographer is a friend of mine. "

José was still gazing at the photograph. 

"Such a brain, my friend! She never told a story the second timedifferently, however emotional the moment. She never gave away asecret. "

"She probably didn't know any, " said Hillyard. 

But José would not hear of such a reason. 

"Oh, yes! She has great influence. She knows people in Berlin--greatpeople. She is their friend, and I cannot wonder. What an intelligence!"

Martin Hillyard laughed. 

"She seems to have fairly put it over you at any rate, " he said. He wasnot alarmed at José Medina's fervour. For he knew that remarkable man'scapacity for holding his tongue even in the wildest moments of histemporary passions. But he took the photograph away from Medina andlocked it up again. The rapturous reminiscences of Rosa Hahn'sintelligence checked the flow of that story which was to lead him toB45. 

"So you know about her?" José said with an envious eye upon the lockeddrawer. 

"A little, " said Martin Hillyard. 

Rosa Hahn was a clerk in the office of the Hamburg-Amerika Line beforethe war, and in the Spanish Department. She was sent to Spain in thelast days of July, 1914, upon Government work, and at a considerablesalary, which she enjoyed. She seemed indeed to have done little else, and Berlin, after a year, began to complain. Berlin had a lower opinionof both her social position and her brains than José Medina had formed. Berlin needed results, and failing to obtain them, proceeded to hintmore and more definitely that Rosa had better return to her clerk'sstool in Hamburg. Rosa, however, had been intelligent enough to makefriends with one or two powerful Germans in Spain; and they pleaded forher with this much success. She was given another three months withinwhich period she must really do something to justify her salary. So muchMartin Hillyard already knew; he learnt now that José Medina hadprovided the great opportunity. To snatch him with his two hundred motorfeluccas and his eighteen thousand men from the English--here wassomething really worth doing. 

"What beats me, " said Hillyard, "is why they didn't try to get at youbefore. "

"They didn't, " said Medina. 

Rosa, it seemed, used the argument which is generally sound; that theold and simple tricks are the tricks which win. She discovered the hotelat which José Medina stayed in Madrid, and having discovered it she wentto stay there herself. She took pains to become friendly with themanager and his staff, and by professing curiosity and interest in thefamous personage, she made sure not only that she would havefore-warning of his arrival, but that José Medina himself would hear ofa charming young lady to whom he appealed as a hero of romance. She knewJosé to be of a coming-on disposition--and the rest seemed easy. Only, she had not guarded against the workings of Chance. 

The hotel was the Hotel de Napoli, not one of the modern palaces ofcement and steel girders, built close to the Prado, but an old housenear the Puerto del Sol, a place of lath and plaster walls and thindoors; so that you must not raise your voice unless you wish youraffairs to become public property. To this house José Medina came as hehad many times come before, and Chance willed that he should occupy thenext room to that occupied by Rosa Hahn. It was the merest accident. Itwas the merest accident, too, that José Medina whilst he was unpackinghis bag heard his name pronounced in the next room. José Medina, withall his qualities, was of the peasant class with much of the peasantmind. He was inquisitive, and he was suspicious. Let it be said in hisdefence that he had enemies enough ready to pull him down, not only, aswe have seen, amongst his rivals on the coast, but here, amongst theGovernment officials of Madrid. It cost him a pretty penny annually tokeep his balance on the tight-rope, as it was. He stepped noiselesslyover to the door and listened. The voices were speaking in Spanish, onea woman's voice with a guttural accent. 

"Rosa Hahn, " said Hillyard as the story was told to him in the cabin ofthe yacht. 

"The other a man's voice. But again it was a foreign voice, not aSpaniard's. But I could not distinguish the accent. "

"Greek, do you think?" asked Hillyard. "There is a Levantine Greek highup in the councils of the Germans. "

José Medina, however, did not know. 

"Here were two foreigners talking about me, and fortunately in Spanish. I was to arrive immediately; Rosa was to make my acquaintance. What myrelations were with this man, Hillyard--yes, you came into theconversation, my friend, too--I was quickly to be persuaded to tell. Oh--you have a saying--everything in your melon patch was lovely. "

"Not for nothing has the American tourist come to Spain, " Hillyardmurmured. 

"Then their voices dropped a little, and your B45 was mentioned--once ortwice. And a name in connection with B45 once or twice. I did notunderstand what it was all about. "

"But you remember the name!" Fairbairn exclaimed eagerly. 

"Yes, I do. "

"Well, what was it?"

It was again Fairbairn who spoke. Hillyard had not moved, nor did heeven look up. 

"It was Mario Escobar, " said José Medina; and as he spoke he knew thatthe utterance of the name awakened no surprise in Martin Hillyard. Hillyard filled his pipe from the tobacco tin, and lighted it before hespoke. 

"Do you know anything of this Mario Escobar?" he asked, "you who knowevery one?"

José Medina shrugged his shoulders, and threw up his hands. 

"There was some years ago a Mario Escobar at Alicante, " and José Medinasaw Hillyard's eyes open and fix themselves upon him with an unblinkingsteadiness. Just so José Medina imagined might some savage animal in ajungle survey the man who had stumbled upon his lair. 

"That Mario Escobar, a penniless, shameless person, was in business witha German, the German Vice-Consul. He went from Alicante to London. "

"Thank you, " said Hillyard. He rose from his chair and went to thewindow. But he saw nothing of the deck outside, or the sea beyond. Hesaw a man at a supper party in London a year before the war began, betraying himself by foolish insistent questions uttered in fear lesthis close intimacy with Germans in Alicante should be known. 

"I have no doubt that Mario Escobar came definitely to England, longbefore the war, to spy, " said Hillyard gravely. He returned to thetable, and took up again one of the empty glass tubes. 

"I wonder what he was to do with these. "

José Medina had opened the door of the saloon once more. A beam ofsunlight shot through the doorway, and enveloped Hillyard's arm andhand. The tiny slim phial glittered like silver; and to all of them inthe cabin it became a sinister engine of destruction. 

"That, as you say, is your affair. I must go, " said José, and he shookhands with Hillyard and Fairbairn, and went out on to the deck. "_Hastaluego!_"

"_Hasta ahora!_" returned Hillyard; and José Medina walked down thesteps of the ladder to his felucca. The blue sea widened between the twovessels; and in a week, Hillyard descended from a train on to theplatform of the Quai D'Orsay station in Paris. He had the tubes in hisluggage, and one box of them he took that morning to Commandant Marnierat his office on the left bank of the river with the letter which gavewarning of their arrival. 

"You see what the letter says, " Hillyard explained. "These tubes havebeen very successful in France. "

Marnier nodded his head:

"If you will leave them with me, I will show them to our chemists, andperhaps, in a few days, I will have news for you. "

For a week Hillyard took his ease in Paris and was glad of the rest inthe midst of those strenuous days. He received one morning at his hotel, a batch of letters, many of which had been written months before. Buttwo were of recent date. Henry Luttrell wrote to him:

 "_My battalion did splendidly and our debt to old Oakley is great. There is only a handful of us left and we are withdrawn, of course, from the lines. By some miracle I escaped without a hurt. Everybody has been very generous, making it up to us for our bad times. The Corps Commander came and threw bouquets in person, and we hear that D. H. Himself is going out of his way to come and inspect us. I go home on leave in a fortnight and hope to come back in command of the battalion. Perhaps we may meet in London. Let me hear if that is possible. _"

The second letter had been sent from Rackham Park, and in it MillieSplay wrote:

 "_We have not heard from you for years. Will you be in England this August? We are trying to gather again our old Goodwood party. Both Dennis Brown and Harold Jupp will be home on leave. There will be no Goodwood of course, but there is a meeting at Gatwick which is easily reached from here. Do come if you can and bring your friend with you, if he is in London and has nothing better to do. We have all been reading about him in the papers, and Chichester is very proud of belonging to the same mess, and says what a wonderful thing it must be to be able to get into the papers like that, without trying to. _"

Hillyard could see the smile upon Lady Splay's face as she wrote thatsentence. Hillyard laughed as he read it but it was less in amusement asfrom pleasure at the particular information which this sentencecontained. Harry Luttrell had clearly won a special distinction in thehard fighting at Thiepval. There was not a word in Harry's letter tosuggest it. There would not be. All his pride and joy would be engrossedby the great fact that his battalion had increased its good name. 

There was a closing sentence in Millie Splay's letter which broughtanother smile to his lips. 

 "_Linda Spavinsky is, alas, going as strong as ever. She was married last meek, in violet, as you will remember, to the Funeral March of a Marionette and already she is in the throes of domestic unhappiness. Her husband, fleshy, of course, red in the face, and accustomed to sleep after dinner, simply_ WON'T _understand her. _"

Here again Hillyard was able to see the smile on Millicent Splay's face, but it was a smile rather rueful and it ended, no doubt, in a sigh ofannoyance. Hillyard himself was caught away to quite another scene. Hewas once more in the small motor-car on the top of Duncton Hill, andlooked out over the Weald of Sussex to the Blackdown and Hindhead, andthe slopes of Leith Hill, imagined rather than seen, in the summer haze. He saw Joan Whitworth's rapt face, and heard her eager cry. 

"Look out over the Weald of Sussex, so that you can carry it away withyou in your breast. Isn't it worth everything--banishment, suffering--everything? Not the people so much, but the earth itself andthe jolly homes upon it!"

A passage followed which disturbed him:

 "_There are other things too. My magnolia is still in bud. I dread a blight before the flower opens. _"

It was a cry of distress--nothing less than that--uttered in some momentof intense depression. Else it would never have been allowed to escapeat all. 

Hillyard folded up the letter. He would be going home in any case. Therewere those tubes. There was B45. He had enjoyed no leave since he hadleft England. Yes, he would go down to Rackham Park, and take HarryLuttrell with him if he could. 

Two days later the Commandant Marnier came to see him at the Ritz Hotel. They dined together in a corner of the restaurant. 

"We have solved the problem of those tubes, " said Marnier. "They arenothing more nor less than time-fuses. "

"Time-fuses!" Hillyard repeated. "I don't understand. "

"Listen!"

Marnier looked around. There was no one near enough to overhear him, ifhe did not raise his voice; and he was careful to speak in a whisper. 

"Two things. " He ticked them off upon his fingers. "First, hydrofluoricacid when brought into contact with certain forms of explosive willcreate a fire. Second, hydrofluoric acid will bite its way throughglass. The thicker the glass, the longer the time required to set theacid free. Do you follow?"

"Yes, " said Hillyard. 

"Good! Make a glass tube of such thickness that it will takehydrofluoric acid four hours and a half to eat its way through. Thenfill it with acid and seal it up. You have a time-fuse which will actprecisely in four hours and a half. "

"If it comes into contact with the necessary explosive, " Hillyard added. 

"Exactly. Now attend to this! Our workmen in our munition factories workthree hours and a half. Then they go to their luncheon. "

"Munition factories!" said Hillyard with a start. 

"Yes, my friend. Munition factories. We are short of labour as you know. Our men are in the firing line. We must get labour from some othersource. And there is only one source. "

"The neutrals, " Hillyard exclaimed. 

"Yes, the neutrals, and especially the neutrals who are near to us, whocan come without difficulty and without much expense. We have a goodmany Spanish workmen in our munition factories and three of thesefactories have recently been burnt down. We have the proof now, thanksto you, that those little glass tubes so carefully manufactured inBerlin to last four hours and a half and no more, set the fires going. "

"Proof, you say?" Hillyard asked earnestly. "It is not probability ormoral certainty? It is actual bed-rock proof?"

"Yes. For once our chemists had grasped how these tubes could be used, we knew what to look for when the workmen were searched on entering thefactory. Two days ago we caught a man. He had one of these little tubesin his mouth and in the lining of his waistcoat, just a little highexplosive, so little was necessary that it must escape notice unless youknew what to search for. Yes, we caught him and he, the good fellow, thegood honest neutral"--it would be difficult to describe the bitternessand scorn which rang through Marnier's words, "has been kind enough totell me how he earned his German pay as well as his French wages. "

Hillyard leaned forward. 

"Yes, tell me that!"

"On his way to the factory in the morning, he makes a call. "

"Yes. "

"The one on whom he calls fills the tube or has it just filled and givesit to the workman. The time fuse is set for four hours and a half. Theworkman has so arranged it that he will reach the factory half an hourafter the tube is filled. He passes the searcher. At his place he takesoff his waistcoat and hangs it up and in the pocket, just separated fromthe explosive by the lining of the waistcoat, he places, secretly, thetube. The tube has now four hours of life and the workman three and ahalf hours of work. When the whistle goes to knock off for luncheon, theworkman leaves his waist coat still hanging up on the peg and goes outin the stream. But half an hour afterwards, half-way through the hour ofluncheon, the acid reaches the explosive. There is a tiny explosion inthat empty hall, not enough to make a great noise, but quite enough tostart a big fire; and when the workmen return, the building is ablaze. No lives are lost, but the factory is burnt down. "

Hillyard sat for a little while in thought. 

"Perhaps you can tell me, " he said at length. "I hear nothing fromEngland or very little; and naturally. Are we obtaining Spanish workmen, too, for our munition factories?"

"Yes. "

It was clear now why B45 was especially suitable for this work. B45 wasMario Escobar, a Spaniard himself. 

"And filling the tubes! That is simple?"

"A child could do it, " answered Marnier. 

"Thank you, " said Martin Hillyard. 

The next evening he left Paris and travelling all night to Boulogne, reached London in the early afternoon of the following day. Twentymonths had passed since he had set foot there. 

CHAPTER XIX

UNDER GREY SKIES AGAIN

Hillyard landed in England athirst for grey skies. Could he have chosenthe season of the year which should greet him, he would have namedOctober. For the ceaseless bright blue of sea and heaven had set himdreaming through many a month past, of still grey mornings sweet withthe smell of earth and thick hedgerows and the cluck of pheasants. Butthere were at all events the fields wondrously green after the brownhill-sides and rusty grass, the little rich fields in the frames oftheir hedges, and the brown-roofed houses and the woods splashing theiremerald branches in the sunlight. Hillyard travelled up through Kentrejoicing. He reached London in the afternoon, and leaving his luggagein his flat walked down to the house in the quiet street behind theStrand whence Commodore Graham overlooked the Thames. 

But even in this backwater the changes of the war were evident. Thebrass plates had all gone from the door post and girls ran up and downthe staircases in stockings which some Allied fairies had woven onMidsummer morning out of cobwebs of dew. They were, however, as unawareas of old of any Commodore Graham. Was he quite certain that he wantedto see Commodore Graham. And why? And, after all, was there a CommodoreGraham? Gracious damsels looked blandly at one another, with everyapparent desire to assist this sunburnt stranger. It seemed to Hillyardthat they would get for him immediately any one else in the world whomhe chose to name. It was just bitterly disappointing and contrariousthat the one person he wished to see was a Commodore Graham. Oh, couldn't he be reasonable and ask for somebody else?

"Very well, " said Hillyard with a smile. "There was a pretty girl withgrey eyes, and I'll see her. "

"The description is vague, " said the young lady demurely. 

"She is Miss Cheyne. "

"Oh!" said one. 

"Oh!" said another; and

"Will you follow me, please?" said a third, who at once becamebusiness-like and brisk, and led him up the stairs. The door was stillunvarnished. Miss Cheyne opened it, wearing the composed expression ofattention with which she had greeted Hillyard when he had soughtadmission first. But her face broke up into friendliness and smiles, when she recognised him, and she drew him into the room. 

"The Commodore's away for a week, " she said. "He had come to the end: nosleep, nerves all jangled. He is up in Scotland shooting grouse. "

Hillyard nodded. His news could wait a week very well, since it hadwaited already two years. 

"And you?" he asked. 

"Oh, I had a fortnight, " replied Miss Cheyne, her eyes dancing at therecollection. It was her pleasure to sail a boat in Bosham Creek and outtowards the Island. "Not a day of rain during the whole time. "

"I think that I might have a month then, don't you?" said Hillyard, andMiss Cheyne opined that there would be no objection. 

"But you will come back in a week, " she stipulated, "won't you? TheCommodore will be here on Thursday, and there are things accumulatingwhich he must see to. So will you come on Friday?"

"Friday morning, " Hillyard suggested. 

Thursday was the day on which he should have travelled down to RackhamPark, but if he could finish his business on Friday morning, he wouldonly lose one day. 

"Friday morning then, " said Miss Cheyne, and made a note of it. 

Hillyard had thus a week in which to resume his friendships, arrange towrite, at some distant time, a play, revisit his club and his tailor, and revel, as at a pageant, in the fresh beauty, the summer clothes, thewhite skin and clean-limbed boyishness of English girls. He wentthrough, in a word, the first experiences of most men returned from along sojourn in other climes; and they were ordinary enough. But theweek was made notable for him by one small incident. 

It was on the Monday and about five o'clock in the afternoon. He waswalking from the Charing Cross Road towards Leicester Square, when, froma doorway ahead of him, a couple emerged. They did not turn his way butpreceded him, so that he only saw their backs. But he had no doubt whoone of the couple was. The fair hair, the tall, slim, long-limbedfigure, the perverse sloppiness of dress which could not quite obscureher grace of youth, betrayed the disdainful prodigy of Rackham Park. Thecreator of Linda Spavinsky swam ahead of him. Had he doubted heridentity, a glance at the door from which she had emerged would havedispelled the doubt. It was the entrance to a picture gallery, where, cubes and curves having served their turn and gone, the rotundists werehaving an innings. Everybody and everything was in rounds, palaces andgardens and ships and Westminster Bridge, and men and women were all incircles. The circle was the principle of life and art. Joan Whitworthwould be drawn to the exhibition as a filing to a magnet. UndoubtedlyJoan Whitworth was ahead of Hillyard and he began to hurry after her. But he checked himself after a few paces. Or rather the aspect of hercompanion checked him. His appearance was vaguely familiar, but that wasall. It was not certainly Sir Chichester Splay, for the all-sufficientreason that the Private View had long gone by; since the very last weekof the exhibition was announced in the window. Moreover, the man infront of him was younger than Sir Chichester. 

The couple, however, crossed the road to the Square Garden, and Hillyardsaw the man in profile. He stopped so suddenly that a man walking behindhim banged heavily against his back. The man walked on and turned roundafter he had passed to stare at Hillyard. For Hillyard stood stockstill, he was unaware that any one had run into him, in all his body hislips alone moved. 

"Mario, " he whispered. "Mario Escobar!"

The man who had been so far the foremost in his thoughts during the lastweeks that he never thought that he could have failed to recognise him. Mario Escobar! And with Joan Whitworth. Millicent Splay's letter flashedback into his memory. The distress which he had seemed to hear loudbehind the written words--was this its meaning and explanation? JoanWhitworth and Mario Escobar! Certainly Joan knew him! He was sittingnext to her on the night when "The Dark Tower" was produced, sittingnext to her, and talking to her. Sir Charles Hardiman had used somephrase to describe that conversation. Hillyard was strangely anxious torecapture the phrase. Escobar was talking to her with an air of intimacya little excessive in a public place. Yes, that was the sentence. 

Hillyard walked on quickly to his club. 

"Is Sir Charles Hardiman here?" he asked of the hall porter. 

"He is in the card-room, sir. "

Martin Hillyard went up the stairs with a sense of relief. His positionwas becoming a little complicated. Mario Escobar was B45, and a friendof Joan Whitworth, and a friend of the Splays. There was one point uponwhich Martin Hillyard greatly needed information. 

Hardiman, a little heavier and broader and more obese than when Hillyardhad last seen him, was sitting by a bridge table overlooking theplayers. He never played himself, nor did he ever bet upon the game, buthe took a curious pleasure in looking on, and would sit in the card-roomby the hour engrossed in the fall of the cards. The sight of Hillyard, however, plucked him out of his occupation. 

"So you're back!" he cried, heaving himself heavily out of his chair andshaking hands with Martin. 

"For a month. "

"I hear you have done very well, " Sir Charles continued. "Have awhisky-and-soda. "

"Thanks. "

Hardiman touched the bell and led the way over to a sofa. 

"Lucky man! The doctor's read the Riot Act to me! I met Luttrell in theMall this morning, on his way back from Buckingham Palace. He had justbeen given his D. S. O. "

Hardiman began to sit down, but the couch was low, and though he beganthe movement lazily, it went suddenly with a run, so that the springsof the couch jumped and twanged and his feet flew from beneath him. 

"Yes, he has done splendidly, " said Martin. "His battalion too. That'swhat he cares about. "

Sir Charles needed a moment or two after he had set down to recover hisequipoise. He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. 

"Luttrell told me you were both off to Rackham Park this week forGatwick. "

"That's right! But I shan't get down until Friday afternoon, " saidHillyard. 

The waiter put the glass of whisky-and-soda at his side, and he took adrink from it. 

"Perhaps you are going too, " he suggested. 

Hardiman shook his head. 

Hillyard was silent for a minute. Then he asked another question. 

"Do you know who is going to be there beside Luttrell and myself?"

Sir Charles smiled. 

"I don't know, but I fancy that you won't find him amongst the guests. "

Hillyard was a little startled by the answer, but he did not betray theleast sign of surprise. He pursued his questions. 

"You know whom I have in my mind?"

"I drew a bow at a venture, " answered Sir Charles. 

"Shall I name him?" asked Hillyard. 

"I will, " returned Sir Charles. "Mario Escobar. "

Hillyard nodded. He took another pull at his whisky-and-soda. Then helit a cigarette and leaned forward, with his elbows upon his knees; andall the while Sir Charles Hardiman, his body in a majestic repose, contemplated him placidly. Hardiman had this great advantage in anylittle matter of debate; he never wished to move. Place him in a chair, and he remained, singularly immobile. 

"Since you were so quick to guess at once the reason of my question, "continued Hillyard, "I can draw an inference. Mario Escobar has been atRackham Park a good deal?"

Sir Charles Hardiman's smile broadened. 

"Even now you don't express your inference, " he retorted. "You mean thatMario Escobar has been at Rackham Park too much. " He paused whilst hedrew out his cigarette-case and selected a cigarette from it. "And Iagree, " he added. "Mario Escobar is too picturesque a person for theseprimitive days. "

Hillyard was not sure what Sir Charles Hardiman precisely meant. But onthe other hand he was anxious to ask no direct questions concerningEscobar. He sought to enter in by another gate. 

"Primitive?" he said. 

"Yes. We have become rather primitive, especially the women. They havelost a deal of self-consciousness. They exact less. They give more--oh, superbly more! It's the effect of war, of course. They have jumped downoff their little pinnacles. Let me put it coarsely. They are saved fromrape by the fighting man, and they know it. Consequently all men benefitand not least, " Sir Charles lit his cigarette, "that beast ofabomination, the professional manipulator of women, the man who lives bythem and on them, who cajoles them first and blackmails them afterwards, who has the little attentions, the appealing voice, in fact all thetricks of his trade ready at his fingers' ends. However, Millie Splay'sawake to the danger now. "

"Danger!" Hillyard sharply exclaimed. 

"Quite right. It's too strong a word. I take it back, " Hardiman agreedat once. But he was not in the habit of using words wildly. He had saidexactly what he meant to say, and having aroused the attention which hemeant to arouse, he calmly withdrew the word. "I rubbed it intoChichester's thick head that Escobar was overmuch at Rackham Park, andin the end--it percolated. "

Much the same account of Escobar, with this instance of Rackham Parkomitted, was given to Hillyard by Commodore Graham on the Fridaymorning. 

"He is the kind of man whom men loathe and women like. He runs aboutLondon, gets a foot in here and there. You know what London is, even nowin the midst of this war, with its inability to be surprised, and itsindifference to strange things. You might walk down Regent Streetdressed up as a Cherokee Indian, feathers and tomahawk and all, and howmany Cockneys would take the trouble to turn round and look at youtwice? It was pretty easy for Escobar to slip about unnoticed. "

Commodore Graham bent his head over the case of tubes which Hillyard hadbrought with him. 

"We'll have a look-out kept for these things. There have been none ofthem in England up till now. "

Martin Hillyard returned to the personality of Mario Escobar. 

"Did you suspect him before?" he asked. 

Commodore Graham pushed the cigarettes towards Hillyard. 

"Scotland Yard has kept an eye on him. That sort of adventurer is alwaysdangerous. "

He rang the bell, and on Miss Cheyne's appearance called for whatinformation the office had concerning Mario Escobar. Miss Cheynereturned with a book in which Escobar's dossier was included. 

"Here he is, " said Graham, and Hillyard, moving across to the bureau, followed Graham's forefinger across the written page. He was agent forthe Compania de Navigacion del Sur d'España--a German firm on the blacklist, headquarters at Alicante. Escobar severed his connection with thecompany on the outbreak of war. 

Graham raised his head to comment on the action. 

"That, of course, was camouflage. But it checked suspicion for a time. Suspicion was first aroused, " and he resumed reading again, "by hischange of lodging. He lived in a small back bedroom in a boarding-housein Clarence Street, off Westbourne Grove, and concealed his address, having his letters addressed to his club, until February, 1915, uponwhich date he moved into a furnished flat in Maddox Street. Nothingfurther, however, happened to strengthen that suspicion until, in theautumn of that year, a letter signed Mario was intercepted by thecensor. It was sent to a Diego Perez, the Director of a fruit company atMurcia, for Emma Grutsner. "

"You sent me a telegram about her, " exclaimed Hillyard, "in November. "

Commodore Graham's forefinger travelled along the written lines andstopped at the number and distinguishing sign of the telegram, sent andreceived. 

"Yes, " continued Graham. "Here's your answer. 'Emma Grutzner is thegoverness in a Spanish family at Torrevieja, and she goes occasionally, once a month or so, to the house of Diego Perez in Murcia. '"

"Yes, yes! I routed that out, " said Hillyard. "But I hadn't an idea thatMario Escobar was concerned in it. "

"That wasn't mentioned?" asked the Commodore. 

"No. I already knew, you see, of B45. If just a word had been added thatit was Mario who was writing to Emma Grutzner we might have identifiedhim months ago. "

"Yes, " answered Graham soothingly and with a proper compunction. He wasnot unused to other fiery suggestions from his subordinates that if onlythe reasons for his telegrams and the information on which his questionswere based, were sent out with the questions themselves, better resultsin quicker time could be obtained. Telegrams, however, were going outand coming in all day; a whole array of cipherers and decipherers livedin different rookeries in London. Commodore Graham's activities embracedthe high and the narrow seas, great Capitals and little tucked-awaytowns and desolate stretches of coast where the trade-winds blew. Nodoubt full explanations would have led in many cases to moresatisfactory conclusions. But fuller explanations were out of allpossibility. Even with questions fined down to the last succinctsyllable the cables groaned. None of the objections were raised, however, by Commodore Graham. It was his business to keep men likeHillyard who were serving him well to their own considerable cost, in agood humour. Remorse was the line, not argument. 

"What a pity! I _am_ sorry, " protested the Commodore. "It's my fault!There's nothing else to be said. I am to blame about it. "

Martin Hillyard began to feel some compunction that he had eversuggested a fault in the composition of the telegram. But then, it washis business not to betray any such tenderness. 

"If we could have in the future a little more information from London, it would save us a good deal of time, " he said stonily. "Sometimes asurname is hurled at us, and will we find him, please, and cable homeall details?"

"Yes, that is very wrong, " the Commodore agreed. "We will have thatchanged. " Then a bright idea appeared to occur to him. His face lightedup. "After all, in this instance the mistake hasn't done any real harm. For we have got our friend Mario Escobar now, and without these tubesand this letter from Berlin about the use of them and José Medina'saccount of the conversation in the next room we shouldn't have got him. The German governess wasn't enough. He's, after all, a neutral. Besides, there was nothing definite in his letter. But now----"

"Now you can deal with him?" asked Hillyard eagerly. 

"To be sure, " replied the Commodore. "We have no proof here to put himon his trial. But we have reasonable ground for believing him to be incommunication with our enemies for the purpose of damaging us, andthat's quite enough to lock him up until the end of the war. "

He reached out his hand for the telephone and asked for a number. 

"I am ringing up Scotland Yard, " he said to Hillyard over the top of theinstrument; and immediately Hillyard heard a tiny voice speaking as ifsummoned from another planet. 

"Hallo!" cried Graham. "Is that you, A. C. ? You remember Mario Escobar?Good. I have Hillyard here from the Mediterranean with a clear case. I'll come over and see you. "

Mr. "A. C. ", whose real name was Adrian Carruthers, thereupon took up theconversation at the other end of the line. The lines deepened upon theCommodore's forehead as he listened. Then he turned to Hillyard, andswore softly and whole-heartedly. 

"Mario Escobar has vanished. "

"But I saw him myself, " Hillyard exclaimed. "I saw him in London. "

"When?"

"On Monday afternoon. "

Graham lifted the mouthpiece to his lips again. 

"Wait a bit, A. C. Hillyard saw the man in London on Monday afternoon. "

Again A. C. Spoke at the other end from an office in Scotland Yard. Graham put down the instrument with a bang and hung up the receiver. 

"He vanished yesterday. Could he have seen you?"

Hillyard shook his head. 

"I think not. "

"Oh, we'll get him, of course. He can't escape from the country. And wewill get him pretty soon, " Graham declared. He looked out of the windowon to the river. "I wonder what in the world alarmed him, since itwasn't you?" he speculated slowly. 

But both Scotland Yard and Commodore Graham were out of their reckoningfor once. Mario Escobar was not alarmed at all. He had packed his bag, taken the tube to his terminus, bought his ticket and gone off in atrain. Only no one had noticed him go; and that was all there was toit. 

CHAPTER XX

LADY SPLAY'S PREOCCUPATIONS

"It's a good race to leave alone, Miranda, " said Dennis Brown. "But ifyou want to back something, I should put a trifle on Kinky Jane. "

"Thank you, Dennis, " Miranda answered absently. She was standing uponthe lawn at Gatwick with her face towards the line of bookmakers uponthe far side of the railings. These men were shouting at the full frenzyof their voices, in spite of the heat and the dust. The ring wascrowded, and even the enclosure more than usually full. 

"But you won't get any price, " Harold Jupp continued, and he waved anindignant arm towards the bookmakers. "I never saw such a crowd ofpinchers in my life. "

"Thank you, Harold, " Miranda replied politely. She was aware that he wasadvising her, but the nature of the advice did not reach her mind. Shewas staring steadily in front of her. 

Dennis Brown and Harold Jupp looked at one another in alarm. They knewwell that sibylline look on the face of Miranda Brown. She was awaitingthe moment of inspiration. She was all wrapped up in expectation of it. At times she glanced at her race-card, whilst a thoughtful frownpuckered her pretty forehead, as though the name of the winning fillymight leap out in letters of gold. 

Dennis shook his head dolefully. For the one thing sure and certain wasthat the fatal moment of inspiration would come to Miranda in time toallow her to reach the railings before the start. Suddenly a nameuttered by an apoplectic gentleman in a voice breaking with fine passionreached her ears, with the odds attached to it of nine to one. 

Miranda's face cleared of all its troubles. 

"Oh, why didn't I think of that before?" she said in an extremity ofself-reproach. She walked straight to the apoplectic gentleman, followedby the unhappy pair of scientific punters. 

"Callow Girl is nine to one, isn't it?"

The apoplectic gentleman smiled winningly. 

"To you, missie. "

Miranda laughed. 

"I'll have ten pounds on it, " she said, and did not hear the gasp of herhusband behind her. She made a note of the bet in her littlepocket-book. 

"That's ninety pounds, anyway, " she said, turning to her companions. "They will just buy that simple little Callot frock with theembroidery. "

Yes, racing was as easy as that to Miranda Brown. She wanted a simplelittle Callot frock which would cost ninety pounds, and Callow Girl wasobviously marked out to win it for her. 

"Then I shall be a Callot girl, " she said gaily, and as neither of hercompanions enjoyed her witticism she stamped her small foot in vexation. 

"Oh, how dull you both are!" she cried. 

"Well, you see, " Dennis rejoined, "we've had rather a bad day. "

"So have I, " returned Miranda indignantly. "Yet I keep up my spirits. "

A look of blank amazement overspread the face of Dennis Brown. He gazedaround as one who should say, "Did you ever see anything so amazingoutside the Ark?"

Miranda corrected her remark with a laugh. 

"Well, I mean I haven't won as much as I should have if I had backedwinners. " For she had really mastered the science of the race-course. She knew how to go racing. Her husband paid her losses and she kept herwinnings. 

Harold Jupp took her seriously by the arm. 

"You ought to go into a home, Miranda, " he advised. "You really ought. That little head was never meant for all this weighty thought. "

Miranda walked across to the little stone terrace which looks down thecourse. 

"Don't be foolish, Harold, but go and collect Colonel Luttrell if youcan find him, whilst I see my filly win, " she said. "Dennis has alreadygone to find the car and we propose to start immediately this race isover. "

Miranda ascended the grass slope and saw the fillies canter down towardsthe starting post. From the chatter about her she gathered that the oddson Callow Girl had shortened. It was understood that a sum of money hadbeen laid on her at the last moment. She was favourite before the flagwas dropped and won by half a length. Miranda ran joyously down theslope. 

"What did I tell you, Harold? Aren't I wonderful? And have you foundColonel Luttrell? You know Millie told us to look out for him?" shecried all in a breath. 

Luttrell had written to Lady Splay to say that he would try to motor toGatwick in time for the last races; and that he would look out for Juppand Dennis Brown, whom he had already met earlier in the week at adinner party given by Martin Hillyard. 

"There's no sign of him, " Harold Jupp answered. 

There were two more races, but the party from Rackham Park did not waitfor them. They drove over the flat country through Crawley and Horshamand came to the wooded roads between high banks where the foliage metoverhead, and to the old stone bridges over quiet streams. Harold Juppwas home from Egypt, Dennis Brown from Salonika, and as the great downs, with their velvet forests, seen now over a thick hedge, now in anopening of branches like the frame of a locket, the marvel of theEnglish countryside in summer paid them in full for their peril andendurance. 

"I have a fortnight, Miranda, " said Dennis, dropping a hand upon hiswife's. "Think of it!"

"My dear, I have been thinking of nothing else for months, " she saidsoftly. Terrors there had been, nights and days of them, terrors therewould be, but she had a fortnight now, perfect in its season, and in themeeting of old friends upon familiar ground--a miniature complete inbeauty, like the glimpses of the downs seen through the openings amongstthe boughs. 

"Yes, a whole fortnight, " she cried and laughed, and just for a secondturned her head away, since just for a second the tears glistened in hereyes. 

The car turned and twisted through the puzzle of the Petworth streetsand mounted on to the Midhurst road. The three indefatigable race-goersfound Lady Splay sitting with Martin Hillyard in the hall of RackhamPark. 

"You had a good day, I hope, " she said. 

"It was wonderful, " exclaimed Dennis Brown. "We didn't make any moneyexcept Miranda. But that didn't matter. "

"All our horses were down the course, " Harold Jupp explained. "Theyweren't running in their form at all"; and he added cheerfully: "But thewar may be over before the winter, and then we'll go chasing and get itall back. "

Millicent Splay rang for tea, just as Joan Whitworth came into the hall. 

"You didn't see Colonel Luttrell then?" asked Lady Splay. 

"No. "

"He'll come down later then. " She had an eye for Joan Whitworth as shespoke, but Joan was so utterly indifferent as to whether ColonelLuttrell would arrive or not that she could not stifle a sigh. She hadgathered Luttrell into the party with some effort and now it seemed hereffort was to be fruitless. Joan persisted in her mood of austerecontempt for the foibles of the world. She was dressed in a gown of anindeterminate shade between drab and sage-green, which did its best toannul her. She had even come to sandals. There they were now stickingout beneath the abominable gown. 

"She can't ruin her complexion, " thought Millicent Splay. "That's onething. But if she could, she would. Oh, I would love to smack her!"

Joan, quite unaware of Millie Splay's tingling fingers and indignanteyes, sat reading "Ferishtah's Fancies. " Other girls might set theircaps at the soldiers. Joan had got to be different. She had even dalliedwith the pacifists. Martin Hillyard had carried away so close arecollection of her on that afternoon when she had driven him throughthe golden sunset over Duncton Hill and of the brave words she had thenspoken that he had to force himself to realise that this was indeedshe. 

Millicent Splay had three preoccupations that afternoon but none pressedupon her with so heavy a load of anxiety as her preoccupation concerningJoan Whitworth. 

Martin crossed the room to Joan and sat upon the couch beside her. 

"Didn't I see you in London, Miss Whitworth, on Monday afternoon?" heasked. 

Joan met his gaze steadily. 

"Did you? It was possible. I was in London on Monday. Where did youthink you saw me?"

"Coming out of a picture gallery in Green Street. "

Joan did not flinch, nor drop her eyes from his. 

"Yes, you saw me, " she replied. Then with a challenge in her voice sheadded distinctly, so that the words reached, as they were meant toreach, every one in that room. "I was with Mario Escobar. "

The room suddenly grew still. Two years ago, Martin Hillyard reflected, Harold Jupp or Dennis would have chaffed her roundly about her conquest, and she would have retorted with good humour. Now, no one spoke, but alittle sigh, a little movement of uneasiness came from Millie Splay. Joan did not take her eyes from Hillyard's face. But the blood mountedslowly over her throat and cheeks. 

"Well?" she asked, and the note of challenge was a trifle more audiblein her quiet voice. And since he was challenged, Hillyard answered:

"He is a German spy. "

The words smote upon all in the room like a blow. Joan herself grewpale. Then she replied:

"People say that nowadays of every foreigner. "

The moment of embarrassment was prolonged to a full minute--during whichno one spoke. Then to the relief of every one, Sir Chichester Splayentered the hall. He had been sitting all day upon the Bench. He had toattend the Flower Show in Chichester during the next week. Really thelife of a country notable was a dog's life. 

"You are going to make a speech at Chichester, Sir Christopher?" Juppinquired. 

"Oh no, my boy, " replied Sir Chichester. "Make a speech indeed! And inthis weather! Nothing would induce me. Me for the back benches, as ourcousins across the Atlantic would say. "

He spoke pompously, yet with a certain gratification as though HaroldJupp had asked him to dignify the occasion with a speech. 

"Have the evening papers not arrived yet?" he asked, looking withsuspicious eyes on Dennis Brown. 

"No, I am not sitting on them this time, " said Dennis. 

"And Colonel Luttrell?"

After the evening papers, Sir Chichester thought politely of his guests. Millie Splay replied with hesitation. While the others of the companywere shaking off their embarrassment, she was sinking deeper into hers. 

"Colonel Luttrell has not come yet. Nor--nor--the other guest whocompletes our party. "

Her voice trailed off lamentably into a plea for kind treatment andgentleness. Here was Millie Splay's second preoccupation. As it was SirChichester's passion to see his name printed in the papers, so it wasMillie's to gather in the personages of the moment under her roof. Shehad promised that this party should be just a small one of old friendswith Luttrell as the only new-comer. But personages were difficult tocome by at this date, since they were either deep in work or out of thecountry altogether. They had to be brought down by a snap shot, and veryoften the bird brought down turned out to be a remarkably inferiorspecimen of his class. Millie Splay had been tempted and had fallen; andshe was not altogether easy about the quality of her bird, now on itsdescent to her feet. 

"I didn't know any one else was coming, " said Sir Chichester, who reallydidn't care how much Lady Splay gratified her passion, so long as he gotfull satisfaction for his. 

"No, nor any one else, " said Dennis Brown severely. "He is a stranger. "

"To you, " replied Millie Splay, showing fight. 

Harold Jupp advanced and planted himself firmly before her. 

"Do you know him yourself, Lady Splay?" he asked. 

"But of course I do, " the poor lady exclaimed. "How absurd of you, Harold, to ask such a question! I met him at a party when Joan and Iwere in London at the beginning of this week. " She caught again at herfleeting courage. "So I invited him, and he's coming this afternoon. Ishall send the motor to meet him in an hour from now. So there's an endof the matter. "

Harold Jupp shook his head sagely. 

"We must see that the plate is all locked up safely to-night. "

"There! I knew it would be like this, " cried Millie Splay, wringing herhands. She remembered, from a war correspondent's article, that toattack is the only successful defence. She turned on Jupp. 

"I won't be bullied by you, Harold! He's a most charming person, withreally nice manners, " she emphasised her praise of the absent guest, "and if only you will study him whilst he is here--all of you, you willbe greatly improved at the end of your visit. "

Harold Jupp was quite unimpressed by Millie Splay's outburst. Heremained severely in front of her, judge, prosecutor and jury all inone, and all relentlessly against her. 

"And what is his name?"

Lady Splay looked down and looked up. 

"Mr. Albany Todd, " she said. 

"I don't like it, " said Harold Jupp. 

"No, " added Dennis Brown sadly from a corner. "We can't like it, LadySplay. "

Lady Splay turned with her most insinuating smile towards Brown. 

"Oh, Dennis, do be nice and remember this isn't your house, " she cried. "You can be so unpleasant if you find any one here you don't like. Mr. Albany Todd's quite a famous person. "

Harold Jupp, of the inquiring mind, still stood looking down on LadySplay without any softening of his face. 

"What for?" he asked. 

Lady Splay groaned in despair. 

"Oh, I was sure you were going to ask that. You are so unpleasant. " Sheput her hand to her forehead. "But I know quite well. Yes, I do. " Herface suddenly cleared. "He is a conversationalist--that's it--a greatconversationalist. He is the sort of man, " she spoke as one repeating alesson, "who would have been welcome at the breakfast table of Mr. Rogers. "

"Rogers?" Harold Jupp asked sternly. "I don't know him. "

"And probably never will, Harold, I am sorry to say, " said Lady Splaytriumphantly. "Mr. Rogers was in heaven many years ago. " She suddenlychanged her note and began to implore. "Oh, do be pleasant, you andDennis!"

Harold Jupp's mouth began to twitch, but he composed it again, with aneffort, to the stern lines befitting the occasion. 

"I'll tell you what I think, Lady Splay, " said he, pronouncing judgment. "Your new guest's a Plater. "

The dreadful expected word was spoken. Lady Splay broke into appeals, denials, threats. "Oh, he isn't, he isn't!" She turned to her husband. "Chichester, exert your authority! He's not a Plater really. He's notright down the course. And even if he were, they've got to be polite tohim. "

Sir Chichester, however, was the last man who could be lured into theexpression of a definite opinion. 

"My dear, I never interfere in the arrangements of the house. You haveyour realm. I have mine. I am sure those papers are being kept in theservants' hall, " and he left the room hurriedly. 

"Oh, how mean men are!" cried Millie; and they all began to laugh. 

Lady Splay saw a glimpse of hope in their laughter and became much morecheerful. 

"As you are not racing, dear, " she said to Joan, "he will be quite apleasant companion for you. "

Sir Chichester returned with the evening papers. Dennis and Miranda andHarold Jupp rose to go upstairs and change into flannels; and suddenly, a good hour before his time, Harper, the butler, announced:

"Mr. Albany Todd. "

Mr. Albany Todd was a stout, consequential personage, and ovoid inappearance. Thin legs broadened out to very wide hips, and from the hipshe curved in again to a bald and shiny head, which in its turn curvedinwards to a high, narrow crown. Lady Splay casting a look of appealtowards her refractory young guests hurried forward to meet him. 

"This is my husband. " She presented him to the others. "I was going tosend the motor-car to meet the seven o'clock train. "

"Oh, thank you, Lady Splay, " Mr. Albany Todd returned in a boomingvoice. "I have been staying not more than twenty miles from here, with adear old friend, a rare and inestimable being, Lord Bilberry, and he waskind enough to send me in. "

"What, old man Bilberry, " cried Harold Jupp. "Isn't he balmy?"

"Balmy, sir?" Mr. Todd asked in surprise. "He takes the air everymorning, if that is what you mean. " He turned again to Lady Splay. "Hekeeps the most admirable table. You must know him, Lady Splay. I willsee to it. "

"Thank you, " said Millie Splay humbly. 

"Ah, muffins!" said Mr. Albany Todd with glistening eyes. He ate one andtook another. "These are really as good as the muffins I ate at awonderful week-end party a fortnight ago. "

The chatter of the others ceased. The great conversationalist, itseemed, was off. Miranda, Dennis, Harold Jupp, Sir Chichester, even Joanlooked up with expectation. 

"Yes, " said Lady Splay, encouraging him. She looked around at herguests. "Now you shall see, " she seemed to say. 

"How we laughed! What sprightly talk! The fine flavour of that party isquite incommunicable. Just dear old friends, you see, intimate, congenial friends. "

Mr. Albany Todd stopped. It appeared that he needed a question to be putto him. Lady Splay dutifully put it. 

"And where did this party take place, Mr. Albany Todd?"

Mr. Albany Todd smiled and dusted the crumbs from his knees. 

"At the Earl of Wimborough's little place in the north. Do you know theEarl of Wimborough? No? You must, dear lady! I will see to it. "

"Thank you, " said Millie Splay. 

Harold Jupp looked eagerly at the personage, and said, "I hopeWimborough won't go jumping this winter. "

"Jumping!" cried Mr. Albany Todd turning indignantly. "I should thinknot indeed! Jumping! Why, he is seventy-three!"

He was utterly scandalised that any one should attribute the possibilityof such wayward behaviour to the venerable Earl. In his agitation he ateanother muffin. After all, if the nobleman did go jumping in the winterwhy should this young and horsey man presume to criticise him. 

"Harold Jupp was drawing a distinction between flat racing andsteeple-chasing, Mr. Albany Todd, " Sir Chichester suavely explained. 

"Oh, I see. " Mr. Albany Todd was appeased. He turned a condescendingface upon Joan Whitworth. 

"And what are you reading, Miss Whitworth?"

"What ho!" interposed Harold Jupp. 

Joan shot at him a withering glance. 

"It wouldn't interest you. " She smiled on Mr. Albany Todd. "It'sBrowning. "

"Well, that's just where you are wrong, " returned Jupp. "Browning's theonly poet I can stick. There's a ripping thing of his I learnt atschool. "

 "'I sprang to the saddle and Joris and he, I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three. '"

"Oh, " exclaimed Miranda eagerly, "a horse race!"

"Nothing of the sort, Miranda. I am thoroughly ashamed of you, " saidHarold in reproof. "It's 'How they Brought the Good News from Ghent toAix. '"

Here Joan intervened disdainfully. 

"But that's not Browning!"

Lady Splay looked perplexed. 

"Are you sure, Joan?"

Joan tossed her head. 

"Of course, it's Browning all right, " she explained, "but it's notBrowning if you understand me. "

The explanation left that company mystified. Harold Jupp shook his headmournfully at Joan, and tapped his forehead. 

"Excessive study, Joan, has turned that little head. The moment I sawyou in sandals I said to myself, 'Joan couldn't take the hill. '"

Joan wrinkled her nose, and made a grimace at him. What rejoinder shewould have made no one was to know. For Mr. Albany Todd finding himselfunduly neglected burst into the conversation with a completeirrelevance. 

"I am so happy. I shot a stag last autumn. "

Both Dennis Brown and Harold Jupp turned to the great conversationalistwith real interest. 

"How many stone?" asked Dennis. 

"I used a rifle, " replied Mr. Albany Todd coldly. He did not like to bemade fun of; and suddenly a ripple of clear laughter broke deliciouslyfrom Joan. 

Lady Splay looked agitatedly around for succour. Oh, what a mistake shehad made in bringing Mr. Albany Todd into the midst of these ribaldyoung people. And after all--she had to admit it ruefully, he was a bitof a Plater. Dennis Brown, however, hurried to the rescue. He cameacross the room to Joan, and sat down at her side. 

"I haven't had a word with you, Joan. "

"No, " she answered. 

"And how's the little book going on? Do tell me! I won't laugh, upon myword. "

Joan herself tried not to. "Oh, pig, pig!" she exclaimed, but she got nofurther in her anathema for Miranda drew up a stool, and sat inadmiration before her. 

"Yes, do tell us, " she pleaded. "It's all so wonderful. "

Miranda, however, was never to hear. Mr. Albany Todd leaned forward withan upraised forefinger, and a smile of keen discernment. 

"You are writing a book, Miss Whitworth, " he said, as if he haddiscovered the truth by his own intuition, and expected her to deny theimpeachment. "Ah, but you are! And I see that you _can_ write one. "

"Now, how?" asked Harold Jupp. 

Mr. Albany Todd waved the question aside. "The moment I entered thehall, and saw Miss Whitworth, I said to myself, 'There's a book there!'Yes, I said that. I knew it! I know women. "

Mr. Albany Todd closed his eyelids, and peeped out through the narrowestpossible slits in the cunningest fashion. "Some experience you know. Iam the last man to boast of it. A certain almost femininesensibility--and there you have my secret. I read the character of womenin their eyebrows. A woman's eyebrows. Oh, how loud they speak! I lookedat Miss Whitworth's eyebrows, and I exclaimed, 'There is a bookthere--and I will read it!'"

Joan flamed into life. She clasped her hands together. 

"Oh, will you?" The question was half wonder, half prayer. 

No man could have shown a more charming condescension than did Mr. Albany Todd at this moment. 

"Indeed, I will. I read one book a year--never more. A few sentences inbed in the morning, and a few sentences in bed at night. Yours shall bemy book for 1923. " He took a little notebook and a pencil from hispocket. "Now what title will it have?"

"'A Woman's Heart, and Who Broke It, '" replied Joan, blushing from hertemples to her throat. 

Miranda repeated the title in an ecstasy of admiration, and asked theworld at large: "Isn't it all wonderful?"

"'And Who Broke It, '" quoted Mr. Albany Todd as he wrote the title down. He put his pocket-book away. 

"The volume I am reading now----"

"Yes?" said Joan eagerly. With what master was she to find herself incompany? She was not to know. 

"----was given to me exquisitely bound by a very dear friend of mine, now alas! in precarious health!--the Marquis of Bridlington, " said Mr. Albany Todd--an audible groan from Harold Jupp; an imploring glance fromMillie Splay, and to her immense relief the butler ushered in HarryLuttrell. He was welcomed by Millie Splay, presented to Sir Chichester, and surrounded by his friends. He was a trifle leaner than of old, andthere were lines now where before there had been none. His eyes, too, had the queer, worn and sunken look which was becoming familiar in theeyes of the young men on leave. Joan Whitworth watched him as heentered, carelessly--for perhaps a second. Then her book dropped fromher hand upon the carpet--that book which she had so jealously read afew minutes back. Now it lay where it had fallen. She leaned forward, asthough above all she wished to hear the sound of his voice. And when sheheard it, she drew in a little breath. He was speaking and laughing withSir Chichester, and the theme was nothing more important than SirChichester's Honorary Membership of the Senga Mess. 

"Lucky fellow!" cried Sir Chichester. "No trouble for you to get intothe papers, eh! Publicity waits on you like a valet. "

"But that's just the kind of valet I can't afford in my profession, "said Harry. 

The conversation was all trivial and customary. But Joan Whitworthleaned forward with a light upon her face that had never yet burntthere. Colonel Luttrell was presented to Mr. Albany Todd, who was mostkind and condescending. Joan looked suddenly down at her bilious frock, and the horror of her sandals was something she could hardly bear. Theywould turn to her next. Yes, they would turn to her! She lookeddesperately towards the great staircase with its broad, shallow stepswhich ran up round two sides of the hall. Millie Splay was actuallybeginning to turn to her, when Dennis Brown came unconsciously to herrescue. 

"We looked out for you at Gatwick, " he said. 

"I only just reached the race course in time for the last race, " saidHarry Luttrell. "Luckily for me. "

"Why luckily?" asked Harold Jupp in surprise. 

"Because I backed the winner, " replied Luttrell. 

The indefatigable race-goers gathered about him a little closer; andJoan Whitworth rose noiselessly from her chair. 

"Which horse won?" asked Harold Jupp. 

"Loman!" Harold Jupp stared at Dennis Brown. Incredulity held them as inbonds. 

"But he couldn't win!" they both cried in a breath. 

"He did, you know, and at a long price. "

"What on earth made you back him?" asked Dennis Brown. 

"Well, " Luttrell answered, "he was the only white horse in the race. "

Miranda uttered a cry of pleasure. She recognised a brother. "That's anawfully good reason, " she cried. But science fell with a crash. DennisBrown took his "Form at a Glance" from his pocket, and sadly began totear the pages across. Harold Jupp looked on at that act of sacrilege. 

"It doesn't matter, " he said, and offered his invariable consolation. "Flat racing's no use. We'll go jumping in the winter. "

But Harold Jupp was never again to go jumping in the winter. Long beforesteeple chasing began that year, he was lying out on the flat landbeyond the Somme, with a bullet through his heart. 

Dennis Brown returned "Form at a Glance" to his pocket; and Millie Splaydrew Harry Luttrell away from the group. 

"I want to introduce you to Joan Whitworth, " she said, and she turned tothe chair in which Joan had been sitting a few moments ago. 

It was empty. 

"Why, where in the world has Joan gone to?" she exclaimed. 

"She has fled, " explained Jupp. "Joan saw his 'Form at a Glance, 'without any book. She saw that he was incapable of the higher Life, andshe has gone. "

"Nonsense, Harold, " cried Millicent Splay in vexation. She turnedtowards the stairs, and she gave a little gasp. A woman was standing onthe second step from the floor. But it was not Joan, it was StellaCroyle. 

"I thought you had such a bad headache, " said Lady Splay, after aperceptible pause. 

"It's better now, thank you, " said Stella, and coming down the remainingsteps, she advanced towards Harry. 

"How do you do, Colonel Luttrell?" she asked. 

For a moment he was taken aback. Then with the blood mounting in hisface, he took a step forwards and shook hands with her easily. 

"So you know one another!" said Lady Splay. 

"We have known each other for a long while, " returned Stella Croyle. 

So that was why Stella Croyle had proposed herself for the week! LadySplay had been a little surprised; so persistently had Stella avoidedanything in the shape of a party. But this time Stella had definitelywished to come, and Millie Splay in her loyalty had not hesitated towelcome her. But she had been a little curious. Stella's visit, indeed, was the third, though the least, of her preoccupations. The Ball on theThursday of next week at the Willoughby's! Well, Stella was neverlacking in tact. That would arrange itself. But as Millie Splay lookedat her, recognised her beauty, her eager advance to Harry Luttrell, andHarry Luttrell's embarrassment, she said to herself, for quite otherreasons:

"If I had guessed why she wanted to come, nothing would have persuadedme to have her. "

Millie Splay had more reason to repeat the words before the week wasout. 

CHAPTER XXI

THE MAGNOLIA FLOWERS

"I hadn't an idea that we should find her here, " said Hillyard. "LadySplay told me so very clearly that Mrs. Croyle always timed her visitsto avoid a party. "

Hillyard was a little troubled lest he should be thought by his friendto have concurred in a plot to bring about this meeting. 

"I suppose that Hardiman told her you were coming to Rackham Park. Ihaven't seen her until this moment, since I returned. "

"That's all right, Martin, " Luttrell answered. 

The two men were alone in the hall. The tennis players had changed, andwere out upon the court. Millie Splay had dragged Stella Croyle awaywith her to play croquet. Luttrell moved to a writing-table. 

"You are going to join the tennis players, " he said. Hillyard wasalready dressed for the game, and carried a racket in his hand. "I mustwrite a letter, then I will come out and watch you. "

"Right, " said Martin, and he left his friend to his letter. 

The hall was very still. A bee came buzzing in at the open window, madea tour of the flower-vases, and flew out again into the sunshine. Fromthe lawn the cries of the tennis players, the calls of thrush andblackbird and dishwasher, were wafted in on waves of perfume from theroses. It was very pleasant and restful to Harry Luttrell after thesweat and labour of France. He sighed as he folded his letter andaddressed it to a friend in the War Office. 

A letter-box stood upon a table close to the staircase. He was carryinghis letter over to it, when a girl came running lightly down the stairsand halted suddenly a step or two from the bottom. She stood very stillwhere Stella Croyle had stood a few minutes ago, and like Stella, shelooked over the balustrade at Harry Luttrell. Harry Luttrell had reachedthe letter-box when he caught sight of her, but he quite forgot to drophis letter through the slit. He stood transfixed with wonder andperplexity; wonder at her beauty; perplexity as to who she was. 

Martin Hillyard had spoken to him of Joan Whitworth. By the deliciousoval of her face, the deep blue of her eyes, the wealth of ripplingbright hair, the soft bloom of colour on her cheeks, and her slim, boyish figure--the girl should rightly be she. But it couldn't be! No, it couldn't! This girl's lips were parted in a whimsical friendly smile;her eyes danced; she was buoyant with joy singing at her heart. Besides--besides----! Luttrell looked at her clothes. She wore a littlewhite frock of chiffon and lace, as simple as could be, but even to aman's eyes it was that simplicity which is the last word of a gooddressmaker. A huge rose of blue and silver at her waist was its onlytouch of colour. With it she wore a white, broad-brimmed hat of strawwith a great blue bow and a few narrow streamers of blue ribbon floatingjauntily, white stockings and shoes, cross-gartered round her slenderankles with shining ribbons. Was it she? Was it not? Was Martin Hillyardcrazy or the whole world upside down?

"You must be Colonel Luttrell, " his gracious vision exclaimed, withevery appearance of surprise. 

"I am, " replied Luttrell. He was playing with his letter, half slippingit in, and then drawing it back from the box, and quite unaware of whathe was doing. 

"We had better introduce ourselves, I think. I am Joan Whitworth. "

She held out her hand to him over the balustrade. He had but to reach upand take it. It was a cool hand, and a cordial one. 

"Martin Hillyard has talked to me about you, " he said. 

"I like him, " she replied. "He's a dear. "

"He told me enough to make me frightened at the prospect of meetingyou. "

Joan leaned over the banister. 

"But now that we have met, you aren't really frightened, are you?" sheasked in so wistful a voice, and with a look so deeply pleading in herbig blue eyes that no young man could have withstood her. 

Harry Luttrell laughed. 

"I am not. I am not a bit frightened. In fact I am almost bold enough toask you a question. "

"Yes, Colonel Luttrell?"

The invitation was clear enough. But the Colonel was suddenly aware ofhis audacity and faltered. 

"Oh, do ask me, Colonel Luttrell!" she pleaded. The old-fashioned wouldhave condemned Joan Whitworth as a minx at this moment, but would havesoftened the condemnation with a smile forced from them by her winninggrace. 

"Well, I will, " replied Luttrell, and with great solemnity he asked, "How is Linda Spavinsky?"

Joan ran down the remaining steps, and dropped into a chair. A peal oflaughter, silvery and clear, and joyous rang out from her mouth. 

"Oh, she's not at all well to-day. I believe she's going. Her health wasnever very stable. "

Then her mood changed altogether. The laughter died away, the very lookof it faded from her face. She stood up and faced Harry Luttrell. In thedepths of her eyes there appeared a sudden gravity, a certainwistfulness, almost a regret. 

She spoke simply:

 "Iram indeed is gone with all his rose, And Jamshyd's seven-ringed cup--where, no one knows! But still a ruby kindles in the vine, And many a garden by the water blows. "

She had the air of one saying good-bye to many pleasant follies whichfor long had borne her company--and saying good-bye with a sort of doubtwhether that which was in store for her would bring a greater happiness. 

Harry Luttrell had no answer, and no very distinct comprehension of hermood. But he was stirred by it. For a little while they looked at oneanother without any words. The air about them in that still hallvibrated with the emotions of violins. Joan Whitworth was the first tobreak the dangerous silence. 

"I am afraid that up till now, what I have liked, I have likedtremendously, but I have not always liked it for very long. You willremember that in pity, won't you?" she said lightly. 

Harry Luttrell was quick to catch her tone. 

"I shall remember it with considerable apprehension if I am fortunateenough ever to get into your good books. " His little speech ended with agasp. The letter which he was holding carelessly in his fingers hadalmost slipped from them into the locked letter box. 

Joan crossed to where he stood. 

"That's all right, " she said. "You can post your letter there. The boxis cleared regularly. "

"No doubt, " Harry Luttrell returned. "But I am no longer sure that I amgoing to post it. "

The letter to his friend at the War Office contained an earnest prayerthat a peremptory telegram should be sent to him at Rackham Park, at anearly hour on the next morning, commanding his return to London. 

He looked up at Joan. 

"You despise racing, don't you?"

"I am going to Gatwick to-morrow. "

"You are!" he cried eagerly. 

"Of course. "

He stood poising the letter in the palm of his open hand. The thought ofStella Croyle bade him post it. The presence of Joan Whitworth, and hewas so conscious of her, paralysed his arm. Some vague sense of thetumult within him passed out from him to her. An intuition seized uponher that that letter was in some way vital to her, in some way a menaceto her. Any moment he might post it! Once posted he might let it go. Shedrew a little sharp breath. He was standing there, so still, so quietand slow in his decision. It became necessary to her that words shouldbe spoken. She spoke the first which rose to her lips. 

"You are going to stay for the Willoughbys' ball, aren't you?"

Harry Luttrell smiled. 

"But you despise dancing. "

"I? I adore it!"

She smiled as she spoke, but she spoke with a queer shyness which tookhim off his feet. He slowly tore the letter across and again across andthen into little pieces and carried them to the waste-paper basket. 

The action brought home to her with a shock that there was a letterwhich she, in her turn, must write, must write and post in that glassletter-box, oh, without any hesitation or error, this very evening. Shethought upon it with repugnance, but it had to be written and done with. It was the consequence of her own folly, her own vanity. Harry Luttrellreturned to her but he did not remark the trouble in her face. 

"When I left England, " he said slowly, "people were dancing the tango. That is--one couple which knew the dance, was dancing it in theball-room, and all the others were practising in the passage. That'sdone with, I suppose?"

"Quite, " said Joan. 

Harry Luttrell heaved a sigh. 

"I should have liked to have practised with you in the passage, " he saidruefully. 

"Still, there are other dances, " Joan Whitworth suggested. "Theone-step?"

"That's going for a walk, " said Harry Luttrell. 

"In an unusual attitude, " Joan added demurely. "Do you know thefox-trot?"

"A little. "

"The twinkle step?"

"Not at all. "

"I might teach you that, " Joan suggested. 

"Oh, do! Teach it me now! Then we'll dance it in the passage. "

"But every one will be dancing it in the ball-room, " Joan objected. 

"That's why, " said Harry Luttrell, and they both laughed. 

Joan looked towards the gramophone in the corner of the room. She wastempted, but she must have that letter written first. She would dancewith Harry Luttrell with an uneasy mind unless that letter were writtenand posted first. 

"Will you put a record ready on the gramophone, whilst I write a note, "she suggested. "Then I'll teach you. It's quite a short note. "

Joan sat in her turn at the writing table. She wrote the first lineseasily and quickly enough. But she came to explanations, and ofexplanations she had none to offer. She sat and framed a sentence and itwould not do. Meanwhile the gramophone was open and ready, the recordfitted on to the disc of green baize and her cavalier in impatientattendance. She must be quick. But the quicker she wanted to be, themore slowly her thoughts moved amongst awkward sentences which she mustwrite. She dashed off in the end the standard phrase for suchemergencies. "I will write to you to-morrow, " addressed and stamped herletter and dropped it into the letter box. The letter fell in the glassbox with the address uppermost. But Joan did not trouble about that, didnot even notice it; a weight was off her mind. 

"I am ready, " she said, and a few seconds later the music of "The LongTrail" was wafted to the astonished ears of the tennis players in thegarden. They paused in their game and then Dennis Brown crept to thewindow of the hall and looked cautiously in. He stood transfixed; thenturned and beckoned furiously. The lawn-tennis players forsook theirrackets, Lady Splay and Stella Croyle their croquet mallets. DennisBrown led them by a back way up to the head of the broad stairs. Here agallery ran along one side of the hall. Voices rose up to them from thefloor above the music of the gramophone. 

Joan's: "That's the twinkle. "

Luttrell's: "It's pretty difficult. "

"Try it again, " said Joan. "Oh, that's ever so much better. "

"I shall never dare to dance it with any one else, " said Luttrell. 

"I really don't mind very much about that, " Joan responded dryly. 

Millie Splay could hardly believe her ears. Cautiously she and her partyadvanced on tiptoe to the balustrade and looked down. Yes, there thepair of them were, now laughing, now in desperate earnest, practisingthe fox-trot to the music of the gramophone. 

"Do I hold you right?" asked Harry. 

"Well--I shan't break, you know, " Joan answered demurely, and then witha little sigh, "That's better. "

Under her breath Stella Croyle murmured passionately, "Oh, you minx!"

As the record ran out a storm of applause burst from the gallery. 

"Oh, Joan, Joan, " cried Harold Jupp, shaking his head reproachfully. "There's the poet kicked right across the room. "

"Where?" asked Harry Luttrell, looking round for the book. 

"Oh, it doesn't matter, " said Joan impatiently. "It's only an old volumeof Browning. "

Cries of "Shame" broke indignantly from the race-goers, and Joanreceived them with imperturbable indifference. Harry Luttrell, however, went on his knees and discovering the book beneath a distant sofa, carefully dusted it. 

"Did you ever read 'How they Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix'?"he asked. 

The audience in the gallery waited in dead silence for Joan Whitworth'sanswer. It came unhesitatingly clear and in a voice of high enthusiasm. 

"Isn't it the most wonderful poem he ever wrote?"

The gallery broke into screams, catcalls, hisses and protests againstJoan's shameless recantation. 

"It's Browning, of course, but it's not Browning at all, if youunderstand me, " Dennis Brown exclaimed with every show of indignation;and the whole party trooped away again to their tennis and theircroquet. 

Harry Luttrell placed the book upon a table and turned to Joan. 

"Now what would you like to do?" he asked. 

Joan shrugged her shoulders. 

"We might cut into the next tennis set, " she said doubtfully. 

"You could hardly play in those shoes, " said Harry Luttrell. 

Joan contemplated a heel of formidable height. Oh, where were thesandals of the higher Life?

"No, I suppose not. Of course, there's a--but it wouldn't probablyinterest you. "

"Wouldn't it?" cried Harry Luttrell. 

"Well, it's a maze. Millie Splay is rather proud of it. The hedges arecenturies old. " She turned innocent eyes on Harry Luttrell. "I don'tknow whether you are interested in old hedges. "

It is to be feared that "minx" was the only right word for JoanWhitworth on this afternoon. Harry Luttrell expressed an intenseenthusiasm for great box hedges. 

"But they aren't box, they are yew, " said Joan, stopping at once. 

Harry Luttrell's enthusiasm for yew hedges, however, was even greaterand more engrossing than his enthusiasm for box ones. A pagoda perchedupon a bank overlooked the maze and a narrow steep path led down into itbetween the hedges. Joan left it to her soldier to find the way. Therewas a stone pedestal with a small lead figure perched upon the top of itin the small clear space in the middle. But Harry Luttrell took a dealof time in reaching it. If, however, their progress was slow, with manyfalse turnings and sudden stops against solid walls of hedge, it was notso with their acquaintanceship; each turn in the path brought them on bya new stage. They wandered in the dawn of the world. 

"Suppose that I had never come to Rackham Park!" said Harry Luttrell, suddenly turning at the end of a blind alley. "I almost didn't come. Imight have altogether missed knowing you. "

The terrible thought smote them both. What risks people ran to be sure. They might never have met. They might have never known what it was tomeet. They might have lived benighted, not knowing what lovely spirithad passed them by. They looked at one another with despairing eyes. Then a happy thought occurred to Joan. 

"But, after all, you did come, " she exclaimed. 

Harry Luttrell drew a breath. He was relieved of a great oppression. 

"Why, yes, " he answered in wonderment. "So I did!"

They retraced their steps. As the sun drew towards its late setting, byan innocent suggestion from Joan here, a little question there, HarryLuttrell was manoeuvred towards the centre of the maze. Suddenly hestopped with a finger on the lips. A voice reached to them from theinnermost recess--a voice which intoned, a voice which was oracular. 

"What's that?" he asked in a whisper. 

Joan shook her head. 

"I haven't an idea. "

As yet they could hear no words. Words were flung from wall to wall ofthe centre space and kept imprisoned there. It seemed that the presidinggenius of the maze was uttering his invocation as the sun went down. Joan and Harry Luttrell crept stealthily nearer, Harry now openly guidedby a light touch upon his arm as the paths twisted. Words--amazingwords--became distinctly audible; and a familiar voice. They came to thelast screen of hedge and peered through at a spot where the twigs werethin. In the very middle of the clear space stood Sir Chichester Splay, one hand leaning upon the pedestal, the other hidden in his bosom, inthe very attitude of the orator; and to the silent spaces of the mazethus he made his address:

"Ladies and gentlemen! When I entered the tent this afternoon and tookmy seat upon the platform, nothing was further from my thoughts thanthat I should hear myself proposing a vote of thanks to ourindefatigable chairman!"

Sir Chichester was getting ready for the Chichester Flower Show, atwhich, certainly, he was not going to make a speech. Oh dear, no! Heknew better than that. 

"In this marvellous collection of flowers, ladies and gentlemen, we canread, if so we will, a singular instance of co-ordination andorganisation--the Empire's great needs to-day----"

Harry Luttrell and Joan stifled their laughter and stole away out ofhearing. 

"We won't breathe a word of it, " said Joan. 

"No, " said Harry. 

They had a little secret now between them--that wonderful link--a littlesecret; and to be sure they made the most of it. They could look acrossthe dinner-table at one another with a smile in which no one else couldhave a share. If Sir Chichester spoke, it would be just to kindle thatswift glance in lovers' eyes from which the heart takes fire. Love-making went at a gallop in nineteen hundred and sixteen; it jumpedthe barriers; it danced to a lively and violent tune. Maidens, as SirCharles Hardiman had pronounced, had become more primeval. Insecurityhad dropped them down upon the bed-rock elemental truths. Men were forwomen, women for men, especially for those men who went out with acheery song in their mouths to save them from the hideous destiny ofwomen in ravaged lands. The soldier was here to-day on leave, and Godalone knew where he would be to-morrow, and whether alive, or perhaps acrippled thing like a child!

Joan Whitworth and Harry Luttrell had been touched by the swift magic ofthose days; he, when he had first seen her in the shining armour of heryouth upon the steps of the stairs; she, when Harry had first enteredthe hall and spoken his few commonplace words of greeting. This was thehour for them, the hour at the well with the desert behind them and thedesert in front, the hour within the measure of which was to be forcedthe essence of many days. When they returned to the hall they found mostof the small party gathered there before going up to dress for dinner;and there was that in the faces of the pair which betrayed them. Hillyard looked quickly round the hall, as a qualm of pity for StellaCroyle seized him. But he could not see her. "Thank Heaven she hasalready gone up to dress, " he said to himself. A marriage between JoanWhitworth and the Harry Luttrell of to-day, the man freed now from thegreat obsession of his life and trained now to the traditional paths, was a fitting thing, a thing to be welcomed. Hillyard readilyacknowledged it. But he had more insight into the troubled soul ofStella Croyle than any one else in that company. 

"No one's bothering about her, " he reflected. "She came here to set upher last fight to win back Harry. She is now putting on her armour forit. And she hasn't a chance--no, not one!"

For Harry's sake he was glad. But he was a creator of plays; and histraining led him to seek to understand, and to understand with thesympathy of his emotions, the points of view of others who might standin a contrast or a relation. He walked up the stairs with a heart fullof pity when Millicent Splay caught him up. 

"What did I tell you?" she said, brimful with delight. "Just look atJoan! Is there a girl anywhere who can match her?"

Martin looked down over the balustrade at Joan in the hall below. 

"No, " he said slowly. "Not one whom I have ever seen. "

The little note of melancholy in his voice moved Millie Splay. She wasall kindness in that moment of her triumph. She turned to MartinHillyard in commiseration. "Oh, don't tell me that you are in love withher too! I should be so sorry. "

"No, I am not, " Martin Hillyard hastened to reassure her, "not one bit. "

The commiseration died on the instant in Millicent Splay. 

"Well, really I don't see why you shouldn't be, " she said coldly. "Youwill go a long way before you find any one to equal her. "

Her whole attitude demanded of him an explanation of how he dared not tobe in love with her darling. 

"A very long way, " Martin Hillyard agreed humbly. "All the wayprobably. "

Lady Splay was mollified, and went on to her room. Down in the hall, Harry Luttrell turned to Joan. 

"This is going to be a wonderful week for me. "

"I am very glad, " answered Joan, and they went up the stairs side byside. 

CHAPTER XXII

JENNY PRASK

"I have put out the blue dress with the silver underskirt, madam, " saidJenny Prask, knowing well that nothing in Stella Croyle's wardrobe setoff so well her dark and fragile beauty. 

"Very well, Jenny. "

Stella Croyle answered listlessly. She was discouraged by her experienceof that afternoon. She had come to Rackham Park, certain of one factorupon her side, but very certain of that. She would find no competitor, and lo! the invincible competitor, youth, had put on armour against her!Stella looked in the mirror. She was thirty, and in the circle withinwhich she moved, thirty meant climbing reluctantly on to the shelf. 

"Don't you think, Jenny, the blue frock makes me look old?"

Jenny Prask laughed scornfully. 

"Old, madam! You! Just fancy!"

Stella Croyle, living much alone, had made a companion of her maid. There was nothing of Mrs. Croyle's history which Jenny Prask did notknow, and very few of her hopes and sorrows were hidden from her. 

"My gracious me, madam! There will be nobody to hold a candle to youhere!" she said, with a sniff, as she helped Stella to undress. 

Stella looked in the glass. Certainly there was not a line upon thesmoothness of her cheeks; her dark hair had lost none of its gloss. Shetook her features one by one, and found no trace of change. Nor, indeed, scrutinised in that way did Stella show any change. It was when you sawher across a room that you recognised that girlhood had gone, and thatthere was a woman in the full ripeness of her beauty. 

"Yes, " she said, and her listlessness began to disappear. She turnedaway from the mirror. "Come, Jenny!" she cried, with a hopeful smile. She was saying to herself, "I have still a chance. "

Jenny rattled on while she assisted her mistress. Stella's face changedwith her mood, more than most faces. Disappointment and fatigue aged herbeyond due measure. Jenny Prask was determined that she could go down todinner to-night looking her youngest and best. 

"I went for a walk this evening with Mr. Marvin. He's Colonel Luttrell'ssoldier-servant, and quite enthusiastic, he was, madam. "

"Was he, Jenny?"

"Quite! The men in his company loved him--a captain he was then. Healways looked after their dinner. A bit strict, too, but they don't mindthat. "

Jenny was busy with Stella Croyle's hair; and the result satisfied her. 

"There won't be anybody else to-night, madam, " she said. 

"Won't there, Jenny?" said Mrs. Croyle, incredulously. "There'll be MissWhitworth. "

Jenny Prask sniffed disdainfully. 

"Miss Whitworth! A fair sight I call her, madam, if I may say so. Inever did see such clothes! And how she keeps a maid for more than aweek beats me altogether. What I say, madam, is those who button infront when they should hook behind are a fair washout. "

Stella laughed. 

"I'm afraid that you'll find, Jenny, that Miss Whitworth will hookbehind to-night. "

Jenny went on unaffected by the rejoinder. She had her little item ofnews to contribute to the contentment of her mistress. 

"Besides, Miss Whitworth is in love with the foreign gentleman. Oh, madam, if you turn as sharp as that, I can't but pull your hair. "

"Which foreigner?"

"That Mario Escobar. " Jenny looked over Stella's head and into thereflection of her eyes upon the mirror. "I don't hold with foreignersmyself, madam. A little ridiculous they always seem to me, with theirchatter and what not. "

"And you believe Miss Whitworth's in love with him. "

"Outrageous, Mr. Harper says. Quite the talk of the servants' hall, itis. Why, even this afternoon she wrote him a letter. Mr. Harper showedit me after he took it out of the letter-box to post it. 'That's her'and, ' says he--and there it was, Mario Escobar, Esquire, the Golden SunHotel, Midhurst----"

"Midhurst?" cried Stella with a start. She looked eagerly at thereflection of Jenny Prask. "Mr. Escobar is staying in an hotel atMidhurst?"

"Yes, madam. "

"And Miss Whitworth wrote to him there this afternoon?"

"It's gospel truth, madam. May it be my last dying word, if it isn't!"said Jenny Prask. 

The blood mounted into Stella Croyle's face. Since that was true--andshe did not doubt Jenny Prask for a moment--Jenny would have givenanything she had to save her mistress trouble, and Stella knew it. Sinceit was true, then, that Mario Escobar was staying hidden away in acountry hotel five miles off, and that Joan was writing to him, why, after all, she had no rival. 

Her spirits rose with a bound. She had a week, a whole week, in thecompany of Harry Luttrell; and what might she not do in a week if sheused her wits and used her beauty! Stella Croyle ran down the stairslike a girl. 

Jenny Prask shut the door, and, opening a wardrobe, took from a highshelf Mrs. Croyle's dressing-bag. She opened it, and from one of thefittings she lifted out a bottle. The bottle was quite full of a white, colourless liquid. Jenny Prask nodded to herself and carefully put thebottle back. There was very little she did not know about theproceedings of her mistress. Then she went out of the room into thegallery, and peeped down to watch the other guests assemble. She sawMiranda Brown, Stella, Sir Chichester Splay, Dennis and Harry Luttrellcome from their different rooms and gather in the hall below. From apassage behind her, a girl, butterfly-bright, flashed out and dancedjoyously down the stairs. A new-comer, thought Jenny, with a pang ofalarm for her mistress! But she heard the new-comer speak, and heard herspoken to. It was Joan Whitworth. 

"Oh!" Jenny Prask gasped. 

Undoubtedly Joan "hooked behind" to-night. What had come over her? Jennyasked. Her quick mind realised that Mario Escobar was not answerable forthe change since Mario Escobar was miles away at Midhurst. Besides, according to Mr. Harper, this flirtation with Escobar had been going ona year and more. 

Jenny Prask looked from Joan to Harry Luttrell. She saw them drawn toone another across the hall and move into the dining-room side by side. She turned back with a little moan of disappointment into StellaCroyle's bedroom; and whilst she tidied it, more than once she stoppedto wring her hands. 

Stella Croyle, however, kept her good spirits through the evening. Forafter dinner Harry Luttrell, of his own will, came straight to her inthe drawing-room. 

"Oh, Wub, " she said in a whisper as she drew her skirt aside to makeroom for him upon the couch. "Oh, Wub, what years it is since I haveseen you. "

When the old nickname fell upon Harry's ears, he looked quickly abouthim to see where Joan Whitworth sat. But she was at the other end of theroom. 

"Yes, it is a long time. "

"Stockholm!" said Stella, dwelling upon the name. She lowered her voice. "Wub, I suffered terribly after you went away. Oh, it wasn't a goodtime. No, it wasn't!"

"Stella, I am very sorry, " he said gently. He knew himself this day theglories and the pangs of love. He was sunk ocean-deep one moment in thesense of his unworthiness, the next he knocked his head against thestars on the soaring billow of his pride. He could not but feel forStella, who had passed through the same furnace. He could not but grievethat the wondrous book of which he was racing through the first pageshad been closed for her by him. Might she not open it again, some time, with another at her side?

"Wub, tell me what you have been doing all these years, " she said. 

He began the tale of them in the short, reluctant, colloquial phraseswhich the English use to strip their achievements of any romanticsemblance until Millicent Splay sailed across the room and claimed himfor a table of bridge. 

"He will be safer there, " she said to herself. 

"Yes, but she had to take him away, " Stella's thoughts responded. Shewas dangerous then in Millie Splay's judgment. The sweet flattery setStella smiling. She went up to her room rejoicing that she had chosenthat week to visit Rackham Park. She was playing a losing game, but shedid not know it. 

Thus the very spirit of summer seemed to inform the gathering. Saturdaybrought up no clouds to darken the clear sky. Harold Jupp and DennisBrown actually scored four nice wins at Gatwick on horses which, tocelebrate the week, miraculously ran to form. Miranda under theseconditions would have inevitably lost, but by another stroke of fortuneno horse running had any special blemish, name, colour or trickcalculated to inspire her. Sir Chichester was happy too, for he saw alady reporter write down his name in her notebook. So was Mr. AlbanyTodd. For he met the Earl of Eltringham, with whom he had a passingacquaintance; and his lordship, being complimented upon his gardens, ofwhich _Country Life_ had published an account, was moved to say in thefriendliest manner: "You must propose yourself for a week-end, Mr. Todd, and see them. "

As for Joan and Harry Luttrell, it mattered little where they were, sothat they were together. They walked in their own magical garden. 

It fell to Martin Hillyard to look after Stella Croyle, and the task wasnot difficult. She kept her eyes blindfold to what she did not wish tosee. She had a chance, she said to herself, recollecting her talk withHarry last night, and the news of Joan which Jenny Prask had given toher. She had a chance, if she walked delicately. 

"Old associations--give them opportunity, and they renew theirstrength, " she thought. "Harry is afraid of them--that's all. "

On the Monday evening Jenny Prask brought a fresh piece of gossip whichstrengthened her hopes. 

"Miss Whitworth had a letter from him this morning, " said Jenny. "Shewouldn't open it at the breakfast-table, Mr. Harper says. Quite upsetshe was, he says. She took it upstairs to her room just as it was. "

"It might have been from some one else, " answered Stella. 

"Oh, no, madam, " replied Jenny. "It had the Midhurst postmark, and Mr. Harper knows his handwriting besides. Mr. Harper's very observant. "

"He seems to be, " said Stella. 

"Miss Whitworth answered the letter at once, and took it out to thevillage and posted it with her own hands, " Jenny continued. 

"Are you sure?" cried Mrs. Croyle. 

"I saw her go with my own eyes, I did. She went in her own littlerunabout, and was back in a jiffy, with a sort of 'There-I've-done-it!'look about her. Oh, there's something going on there, madam--take myword for it! She's a deep one, Miss Whitworth is, and no mistake. Willyou wear the smoke-grey to-night, madam? I am keeping the pink for theball on Thursday. "

Stella allowed a moment or two to pass before she answered. 

"I shan't go to the Willoughbys' ball, Jenny. "

Jenny Prask stared in dismay. 

"You won't, madam!"

"No, Jenny. But I want you to be careful not to mention it to any one. Ishall dress as if I was going, but at the last moment I shall plead aheadache and stay behind. "

"Very well, madam, " said Jenny. But it seemed to her that Stella wasthrowing down her arms. Stella, however, had understood, upon hearing ofthe invitation for Lady Splay's party, that she could do nothing else. The Willoughbys were strict folk. Mrs. Croyle could hardly hope to gowithout some rumour of her history coming afterwards to the ears of thatfamily; and the family would hold her presence as a reproach againstMillie Splay. Stella had herself proposed her plan to Millie, and shenoted the relief with which it was received. 

"You will be careful not to mention it to a soul, Jenny, " Stellainsisted. 

"My goodness me, madam, I never talk, " replied Jenny. "I keep my earsopen and let the others do that. "

"I know, Jenny, " said Stella, with a smile. "I can't imagine what Ishould do without you. "

"And you never will, madam, unless it's your own wish and doin', " saidJenny heartily. "I have talked it over with Brown"--Brown was Mrs. Croyle's chauffeur--"and he's quite willin' that I should go on with youafter we are married. "

"Then, that's all right, " said Stella. 

Many a one looking backwards upon some terrible and unexpected tragedywill have noticed with what care the great dramaturgist so wove his playthat every little unheeded event in the days before helped directly tocreate the final catastrophe. It happened on this evening that Stellawent downstairs earlier than the other guests, and in going into thelibrary in search of an evening paper, found Sir Chichester standing bythe telephone instrument. 

"Am I in your way?" she asked. 

"Not a bit, Stella, " he answered. "In fact, you might help me by lookingup the number I want. " He raised the instrument, and playing with thereceiver as he stood erect, remarked, "Although I am happy to think thatI shall not be called upon to deliver any observations on the occasionof the Chichester flower show next Thursday, I may as well ask one ofthe newspapers if their local correspondent would give the ceremony somelittle attention. "

Stella Croyle took up the telephone book. 

"Which newspaper is it to be, Sir Chichester?"

"The _Harpoon_, I think. Yes, I am sure. The _Harpoon_. "

Stella Croyle looked up the number and read out:

"Gerrard, one, six, two, double three. "

Sir Chichester accordingly called upon the trunk line and gave thenumber. 

"You will ring me up? Thank you, " he said, and replacing the receiver, stood in anxious expectancy. 

"I thought that your favourite paper was the _Daily Flashlight_?" Stellaobserved. 

"That's quite true, Stella. It was, " Sir Chichester explained naïvely. "But I have noticed lately a regrettable tendency to indifference on thepart of the _Flashlight_. The management is usually too occupied toconverse with me when I ring it up. On the other hand, I am new to the_Harpoon_. Hallo! Hallo! This is Sir Christopher Splay speaking, " and hedelivered his message. "Thank you very much, " said Sir Chichester as hehung up the receiver. "Really most courteous people. Yes, mostcourteous. What is their number, Stella? I must remember it. "

Stella read it out again. 

"Gerrard, one, six, two, double three, " and thus she, too, committed thenumber to memory. 

CHAPTER XXIII

PLANS FOR THE EVENING

The library at Rackham Park was a small, oblong room, with a big windowupon the garden. It opened into the hall on the one side and into thedining-room on the other, and in one corner the telephone was installed. At half-past eight on the night of the dance at Harrel, this room wasempty and in darkness. But a second afterwards the door from the hallwas opened, and Joan stood in the doorway, the light shimmering upon hersatin cloak and the silver embroidery of her frock. She cast an anxiouslook behind her and up the staircase. It seemed as if some movement atthe angle made by the stairs and the gallery caught her eye, for shestepped back for a clearer view, and listened with a peculiarintentness. She saw nothing, however, and heard nothing. She entered thelibrary swiftly and closed the door behind her, so that the room fellonce more upon darkness save for a thread of gold at the bottom of theother door behind which the men of the party were still sitting overtheir wine. She crossed the room towards the window, stepping cautiouslyto avoid the furniture. She was quite invisible. But for a tiny rustleof the lace flounces on her dress one would have sworn the room wasempty. But when she was half-way across a sudden burst of laughter fromthe dining-room brought her to a stop with her hand upon her heart and alittle sob not altogether stifled in her throat. It meant so much to herthat the desperate adventure of this night should be carried through! Ifall went well, as it must--oh, as it surely must!--by midnight she wouldbe free of her terrors and distress. 

The laughter in the dining room died down. Joan stole forward again. Shedrew away the heavy curtains from the long window, and the moonlight, clear and bright like silver, poured into the room and clothed her inits soft radiance. She drew back the bolts at the top and bottom of theglass door and turned the key in the lock. She touched the glass and thedoor swung open upon the garden, easily, noiselessly. She drew it closeagain and leaving it so, raised her hands to the curtains at the side. As she began carefully to draw them together, so that the rings shouldnot rattle on the pole, the door from the hall was softly and quicklyopened, and the switch of the electric lights by the side of the doorpressed down. The room leapt into light. 

Joan swung round, her face grown white, her eyes burning with fire. Shesaw only Jenny Prask. 

"I hope I don't intrude, miss, " said Jenny respectfully. "I came to finda book. "

The blood flowed back into Joan's cheeks. 

"Certainly, Jenny, take what you like, " said Joan, and she draped thecurtains across the window. 

"Thank you, miss. "

Jenny chose a book from the case upon the table and without a glance atJoan or at the window, went out of the room again. Joan watched her go. After all, what had Jenny seen? A girl whose home was there, drawing thecurtains close. That was all. Joan shook her anxiety off. Jenny had leftthe door of the library open and some one came running down the stairswhistling as she ran. Miranda Brown dashed into the room struggling witha pair of gloves. 

"Oh, how I hate gloves in this weather!" she cried. "Well, here I am, Joan. You wanted to speak to me before the others had finished powderingtheir noses. What is it?"

"I want you to help me. "

"Of course I will, " Miranda answered cheerily. "How?"

Joan closed the door and returned to Miranda, who, having drawn thegloves over her arm, was now struggling with the buttons. 

"I want you, when we reach Harrel----"

"Yes. "

"To lend me your motor-car for an hour. "

Miranda turned in amazement towards her friend. But one glance at herface showed that the prayer was made in desperate earnest. Miranda Browncaught her friend by the arm. 

"Joan!"

"Yes, " Joan Whitworth answered, nodding her head miserably. "That's thehelp I want and I want it dreadfully. Just for an hour--no more. "

"Joan, my dear--what's the matter?" asked Miranda gazing into JoanWhitworth's troubled face. 

"I don't want you to ask me, " the girl answered. "I want you to help mestraight off without any questions. Otherwise----" and Joan's voiceshook and broke, "otherwise--oh, I don't know what will happen to me!"

Miranda put her arm round Joan Whitworth's waist. "Joan! You are in realtrouble!"

"For the first time!" said Joan. 

"Can't I----?"

"No, " Joan interrupted. "There's only the one way, Miranda. "

She sat down upon a couch at Miranda's side and feverishly caught herhand. "Do help me! You can't tell what it means to me!... And I shouldhate telling you! Oh, I have been such a fool!"

Joan's face was quivering, and so deep a compunction was audible in hervoice, so earnest a prayer was to be read in her troubled eyes, thatMiranda's doubt and anxiety were doubled. 

"I don't know what I shall do, if you don't help me, " Joan saidmiserably as she let go of Miranda. Her hands fluttered helplessly inthe air. "No, I don't know!"

Miranda was thoroughly disturbed. The contrast between the Joan she hadknown until this week, good-humoured, a little aloof, contented withherself and her ambitions, placid, self-contained, and this lovely girl, troubled to the heart's core, with her beseeching eyes and tremblinglips touched her poignantly, meltingly. 

"Oh, Joan, I don't like it!" she whispered. "What mad thing have youdone?"

"Nothing that can't be put right! Nothing! Nothing!" Joan caught eagerlyat the argument. "Oh, I was a fool! But if you'll only help meto-night, I am sure everything will be arranged. "

The words were bold enough, but the girl's voice trailed off into a low, unsteady whisper, as terror at the rash plan which she had made and mustnow carry through caught at her heart. "Oh, Miranda, do be kind!"

"When do you want the car?" asked Miranda. 

"Immediately after we get to Harrel. "

"Joan!"

Miranda herself was growing frightened. She stood torn with indecision. Joan's distress pleaded on the one side, dread of some tragic mysteryupon the other. For the first time in her life Joan was in somedesperate crisis of destiny. Her feet and hands twitched as though shewere bound fast in the coils of a net she could not break. What wisdomof experience could she bring to help her to escape? On what wild andhopeless venture might she not be set?

"Yes, yes, " Joan urged eagerly. "I have thought it all out. I want youto tell your chauffeur privately to return along the avenue after he hasset you down. There's a road on the right a few yards down. If he willturn into that and wait behind the big clump of rhododendrons I willjoin him immediately. "

"But it will be noticed that you have gone. People will ask for you, "Miranda objected. 

"No, I shall be back again within the hour. There will be a crowd ofpeople. And lots won't imagine that I should ever come to the dance atall. " Even at that moment a little smile played about the lips. "And ifthe ball had been a week ago, I shouldn't have gone, should I? I shouldstill be wearing sandals, " she explained, as she looked down at thebuckles of her trim satin slippers, "and haughtily wishing you all goodnight in the hall here. No, it will be easy enough. I shall just shakehands with Mrs. Willoughby, pass on with the rest of our party into theball-room and then slip out by the corridor at the side of the park. "

"It's dangerous, Joan!" said Miranda. 

"Oh, I know, but----" Joan rose suddenly with her eyes upon the door. "The others are coming. Miranda, will you help me? I would have drivenover to Harrel in my own little car. But it's open and I should have gotblown about until everybody would have begun asking why in the world Iused it. Oh, Miranda, quick!"

Her ears had heard the voices already in the hall. Miranda heard themtoo. In a moment the door would be thrown open. She must make up hermind now. 

"Very well. The first turning to the right down the avenue and behindthe rhododendrons. I'll tell the chauffeur. "

"And no one else! Not even Dennis!"

"Joan!"

"No, not even Dennis! Promise me!"

Millie Splay was heard to be inquiring for them both. 

"Very well. I promise!"

"Oh, thank you! Thank you. "

The door from the hall was opened upon that cry of gratitude and MillieSplay looked in. 

"Oh, there you are. " A movement of chairs became audible in thedining-room. "And those men are still sitting over their miserablecigars. "

"They are coming, " said Joan, and the next moment the dining-room doorwas thrown open and Sir Chichester with his guests trooped out from it. 

"Now then, you girls, we ought to be off, " he cried as if he had beenwaiting with his coat on for half an hour. "This is none of your Londondances. We are in the country. You won't any of you get any partners ifyou don't hurry. "

"Well, I like that!" returned Millie Splay. "Here we all are, absolutelywaiting for you!"

Mr. Albany Todd approached Joan. 

"You will keep a dance for me?"

"Of course. The third before supper, " answered Joan. 

Already Sir Chichester was putting on his coat in the hall. 

"Come on! Come on!" he cried impatiently, and then in quite anothertone, "Oh!"

The evening papers had arrived late that evening. They now lay neatlyfolded on the hall table. Sir Chichester pounced upon them. Thethrobbing motor-cars at the door, the gay figures of his guests wereall forgotten. He plumped down upon a couch. 

"There!" cried Millie Splay in despair. "Now we can all sit down forhalf an hour. "

"Nonsense, my dear, nonsense! I just want to see whether there is anyreport of my little speech at the Flower Show yesterday. " He turned overthe leaves. "Not a word apparently, here! And yet it was an occasion ofsome importance. I can't understand these fellows. "

He tossed the paper aside and took up another. "Just a second, dear!"

Millie Splay looked around at her guests with much the same expressionof helpless wonderment which was so often to be seen on the face ofDennis Brown, when Miranda went racing. 

"It's the limit!" she declared. 

There were two, however, of the party, who were not at all distressed bySir Chichester's procrastination. When the others streamed into thehall, Joan lingered behind, sedulously buttoning her gloves which werebuttoned before; and Harry Luttrell returned to assist her. The door wasthree-quarters closed. From the hall no one could see them. 

"You are going to dance with me in the passage, " he said. 

Joan smiled at him and nodded. Now that Miranda had given way, Joan'sspirits had revived. The colour was bright in her cheeks, her eyes weretender. 

"Yes, but not at once. "

"Why?"

"I'll finish my duty dances first, " said Joan in a low voice. She didnot take her eyes from his face. She let him read, she meant him toread, in her eyes what lay so close at her heart. Harry Luttrell readwithout an error, the print was so large, the type so clear. He took astep nearer to her. 

"Joan!" he whispered; and at this, his first use of her Christian name, her face flowered like a rose. 

"Thank you!" she said softly. "Oh, thank you!"

Harry Luttrell looked over his shoulder. They had the room tothemselves, so long as they did not raise their voices. 

"Joan, " he began with a little falter in his voice. Could he havepleaded better in a thousand fine speeches, he who had seen his menwither about him on the Somme, than by that little timorous quaver inhis voice? "Joan, I have something to ask of you to-night. I meant toask it during a dance, when you couldn't run away. But I am going to askit now. "

Joan drew back sharply. 

"No! Please wait!" and as she saw his face cloud, she hurried on. "Oh, don't be hurt! You misunderstand. How you misunderstand! Take me in tosupper to-night, will you? And then you shall talk to me, and I'lllisten. " Her voice rose like clear sweet music in a lilt of joy. "I'lllisten with all my heart, my hands openly in yours if you will, so thatall may see and know my pride!"

"Joan!" he whispered. 

"But not now! Not till then!"

Harry Luttrell did not consider what scruple in the girl's conscienceheld him off. The delay did not trouble him at all. She stood beforehim, radiant in her beauty, her happiness like an aura about her. 

"Joan, " he whispered again, and--how it happened who shall say?--in asecond she was within his arms, her heart throbbing against his; herhands stole about his shoulders; their lips were pressed together. 

"Harry! Oh, Harry!" she murmured. Then very gently she pushed him fromher. She shook her head with a wistful little smile. 

"I didn't mean you to do that, " she said in self-reproach, "until aftersupper. "

In the hall Sir Chichester threw down the last of the newspapers in arage. "Not a word! Not one single miserable little word! I don't askmuch, goodness knows, but----" and his voice went up in an angryincredulity. "Not one word! And I thought the _Harpoon_ was such a goodpaper too!"

Sir Chichester sprang to his feet. He glanced at his guests. He turnedupon his wife. 

"God bless my soul, Millie, what _are_ we waiting for? I'll tell yougirls what it is. Unless we get off at once, we had better not go atall. Where's Joan? Where's Luttrell?"

"Here we are!" cried Luttrell from the library, and in a lower tone toJoan, he observed, "What a bore people are to be sure, aren't they?"

The guilty couple emerged into the hall. Sir Chichester surveyed themwith severity. 

"I don't know whether you have heard about it, Luttrell, but there's aball to-night at Harrel, and we all rather thought of going to it, " heremarked with crushing sarcasm. 

"I am quite ready, sir, " replied Harry humbly. Sir Chichester wasmollified. 

"Very well then. We'll go. "

"But Mrs. Croyle isn't down yet, " said Miranda. 

"Stella isn't going, dear, " answered Millie Splay; and a cry of dismayburst from Joan. 

"Not going!"

The consternation in the girl's voice was so pronounced that every eyein that hall turned to her in astonishment. There was consternation, too, most legible in her widely-opened eyes. Her cheeks had lost theircolour. She stood for a fleeting moment before them all, an image ofterror. Then she caught at an excuse. 

"Stella's ill then--since she's not going. "

"It's not as bad as all that, dear, " Lady Splay hastened to reassureher. "She complained of a racking headache at dinner. She has gone tobed. "

The blood flowed back into Joan's cheeks. 

"Oh, I see!" she observed slowly. "That is why her maid came to thelibrary for a book!"

But she was very silent throughout the quarter of an hour, which it tookthem to drive to Harrel. There was somebody left behind at Rackham Parkthat night. Joan had overlooked one possibility in contriving her plan, and that possibility, now developed into fact, threatened to ruin all. One guest remained behind in the house, and that one Joan's rival. 

CHAPTER XXIV

JENNY PRASK IS INTERESTED

Rackham was a red Georgian mansion with great windows in flat rows, andlofty rooms made beautiful by the delicate tracery of the ceilings. Ithas neither wings nor embellishments but stood squarely in its gardens, looking southwards to the Downs. The dining-room was upon the east side, between that room and the hall was the library, of which the windowfaced the north. Mrs. Croyle's bedroom, however, was in the south-westcorner and from its windows one could see the smoke of the train as itclimbed from Midhurst to the Cocking tunnel, and the gap where the roadruns through to Singleton. 

"You won't be going to bed yet, madam, I suppose, " said Jenny. 

She had not troubled to bring upstairs into the room the book which shehad picked out at random from the stand that was lying on the halltable. 

"No, Jenny. I will ring for you when I want you, " said Stella. 

Stella was dispirited. Her week was nearly at an end. To-morrow would bethe last day and she had gained nothing, it seemed, by all her care. Harry was kind--oh, ever so much kinder than in the old days when theyhad been together--more considerate, more thoughtful. But the skies ofpassion are stormily red, and so effulgent that one walks in gold. Consideration, thoughtfulness--what were these pale things worth againstone spurt of fire? Besides, there was the ball to-night. He would dancewith _her_, would seek the dim open spaces of the lawns, the darkshadows of the great elms, with her--with Joan. 

"I'll ring for you, Jenny, " she repeated, as her maid stood doubtfullyby the door. "I am quite right. "

"Very well, madam. "

Stella Croyle's eyes were drawn when she was left alone to that cupboardin which her dressing-bag was stowed away. But she arrested them andcovered them with her hands. 

"This is my last chance, " she said to herself aloud in the anguish ofher spirit. If it failed, there was nothing in front of her but aloneliness which each year must augment. Youth and high spirits or theassumption of high spirits--these she must have if she were to keep herplace in her poor little circle--and both were slipping from her fast. "This is my last chance. " She stood in front of her mirror in herdancing frock, her dark hair exquisitely dressed, her face hauntinglywistful. After all, she was beautiful. Why shouldn't she win? Jennythought that she could. 

At that moment Jenny was slipping noiselessly along a corridor to thenorthern side of the house. The lights were all off; a pencil ofmoonlight here and there from an interstice in the curtains alonetouched her as she passed. At one window she stopped, and softly liftedthe blind. She looked out and was satisfied. 

"Thought so!" she murmured, with a little vindictive smile. Just beneathher was that long window of the library which Joan had been at suchpains to arrange. 

Jenny stationed herself by the window. The night was very still. Shecould hear the voices of the servants in the dining-room round the angleof the house, and see the light from its windows lying in frames uponthe grass. Then the light went out, and silence fell. 

From time to time the hum of a motor-car swelled and diminished to itslast faint vibrations on the distant road; and as each car passed Jennystiffened at her post. She looked at her watch, turning the dial to themoonlight. It was ten minutes past nine now. The cars had left RackhamPark well before nine. She would not have long to wait now! As sheslipped her watch again into her waistband she drew back with aninstinctive movement, although the window at which she stood had beenthis last half-hour in shadow. For under a great copper beech on thegrass in front of her a man was standing. The sight of him was a shockto her. 

She wondered how he had come, how long he had been there--and why? Someexplanation flashed upon her. 

"My goodness me!" she whispered. "You could knock me down with ahairpin. So you could!"

Whilst she watched that solitary figure beneath the tree, another motorwhizzed along the road. The noise of its engine grew louder--surelylouder than any which, standing at this window, she had heard before. Had it turned into the park? off the main road. Was it coming to thehouse? Before Jenny could answer these questions in her mind, the noiseceased altogether. Jenny held her breath; and round the angle of thehouse a girl came running swiftly, her skirt sparkling like silver inthe moonlight, and a white cloak drawn about her shoulders. She drewopen the window of the library and passed in. A few seconds passed. Jenny imagined her stealthily opening the door into the hall, andlistening to make sure that the servants were in their own quarters andthis part of the house deserted. Then the girl reappeared at the windowand made a sign. From beneath the tree the man ran across the grass. Hisface was turned towards Jenny, and the moonlight revealed it. The manwas Mario Escobar. 

Jenny drew a little sharp breath. She heard the window ever so gentlylatched. Suddenly the light blazed out from the room and then, strip bystrip, vanished, as if the curtains had been cautiously drawn. Thegarden, the house resumed its aspect of quiet; all was as it had beenwhen Jenny Prask first lifted the window of the corridor. Jenny Praskcrept cautiously away. 

"Fancy that!" she said to herself, with a little chuckle of triumph. 

In the room below Mario Escobar and Joan Whitworth were talking. 

CHAPTER XXV

IN A LIBRARY

"You insisted that I should see you. You have something to say to me, "said Joan. She was breathing more quickly than usual and the bloodfluttered in her cheeks, but she faced Mario Escobar with level eyes, and spoke without a tremor in her voice. So far everything had happenedjust as she had planned. There were these few difficult minutes now tobe grappled with, and afterwards the ordeal would be ended, that foolishchapter in her life altogether closed. "Will you please be quick?" shepleaded. 

But Mario Escobar was in no hurry to answer. He had never imagined thatJoan Whitworth could look so beautiful. He had never dreamed that shewould take so much trouble. Mario Escobar understood women's clothes, and his eyes ran with a sensation of pleasure over her delicate frockwith its shining bands, its embroidery of silver and flounces of finelace, down to her slim brocaded shoes. He had not, indeed, thought verymuch of her in the days when Linda Spavinsky was queen. She had been asort of challenge to him, because of her aloofness, her indifference. Women were his profession, and here was a queer outlandish one whom itwould be amusing to parade as his. So he had set to work; he had a senseof art, he could talk with ingenuity on artistic matters, and he hadflattered Joan by doing so; but always with a certain definite laughterand contempt for her. Now her beauty rather swept him off his feet. Helooked at her in amazement. Why this change? And--the second questionfor ever in his mind--how could he profit by it?

"I don't understand, " he said slowly, feeling his way. "We were goodfriends--very good friends. " Joan neither denied nor agreed. "We hadcertain things in common, a love of art, of the finer things of life. Imade enemies, of course, in consequence. Your racing friends----" Hepaused. "Milly Splay, who would have matched you with some dull, tiresome squire accustomed to sleep over his port after dinner, the sortof man you are drawing so brilliantly in your wonderful book. " Amovement of impatience on Joan's part perplexed him. Authors! You cangenerally lay your praise on with a trowel. What in the world was thematter with Joan? He hurried on. "I understood that I was makingenemies. I understood, too, why I was no longer invited to Rackham Park. I was a foreigner. I would as soon visit a picture gallery as shoot apheasant. I would as soon appreciate your old gates and houses in thecountry as gallop after a poor little fox on the downs. Oh, yes, Iwasn't popular. That I understand. But you!" and his voice softened to agentle reproach. "You were different! And you had the courage of yourdifference! Since I was not invited to Rackham Park, I was to come downto the inn at Midhurst. I was to drive over--publicly, mostpublicly--and ask for you. We would show them that there were finerthings in the world than horse-racing and lawn tennis. Oh, yes. Wearranged it all at that wonderful exhibition of the New School in GreenStreet. "

Joan writhed a little at her recollection of the pictures of therotundists and of the fatuous aphorisms to which she had givenutterance. 

"I come to Midhurst accordingly, and what happens? You scribble me out acurt little letter. I am not to come to Rackham Park. I am not to try tosee you. And you are writing to-morrow. But to-morrow comes, and youdon't write--no, not one line!"

"It was so difficult, " Joan answered. She spoke diffidently. Some of hercourage had gone from her; she was confronted with so direct, sounanswerable an accusation. "I thought that you would understand that Idid not wish to see you again. I thought that you would accept my wish. "

Mario Escobar laughed unpleasantly. 

"Why should I?"

"Because most men have that chivalry, " said Joan. 

Mario Escobar only smiled this time. He smiled with narrowed eves and agleam of white teeth behind his black moustache. He was amused, like aman who receives ridiculous answers from a child. 

"It is easy to see that you have read the poets--Joan, " he replieddeliberately. 

Joan's face flamed. Never had she been addressed with so much insolence. Chaff she was accustomed to, but it was always chaff mitigated by atenderness of real affection. Insolence and disdain were quite new toher, and they hurt intolerably. Joan, however, was learning her lessonsfairly quickly. She had to get this meeting over as swiftly and quietlyas she could, and high words would not help. 

"It's true, " she admitted meekly. "I know very little. "

Joan looked very lovely as she stood nervously drumming with her glovedfingers on a little table which stood between them, all her assurancegone. 

Mario Escobar lived always on the whirling edge of passion. The leastextra leap of the water caught him and drew him in. He gazed at Joan, and the computing look which cast up her charms made her suddenly hotfrom head to foot. The good-looking, pretentious fool whom it had beenamusing to exhibit amidst the black frowns of her circle had suddenlybecome exquisitely desirable for herself as a prize, with her beauty, her dainty care to tend it, and her delicious clothes. She would now bea real credit! Escobar took a step towards her. 

"After all, " he said, "we were such good friends. We had little privateinterests which we did not share with other people. Surely it wasnatural that I should wish to see you again. "

Mario was speaking smoothly enough now. His voice, his eyes actuallycaressed her. She was at pains to repress a shiver of physicalrepulsion. But she remembered his letter very clearly. It had expressedno mere wish to see her. It had claimed a right with a vague threat ofmaking trouble if the right were not conceded. She had recognised theright, not out of the fear of the threat so much--although that weighedwith her, as out of a longing to have done with him for good and all. Instinct had told her that this was the last type of man to find favourin Harry Luttrell's eyes, that she herself would be lowered from herhigh pedestal in his heart, if he knew of the false friendship. 

"Well, I agreed to see you, " she replied. "But I have to go back to theball. Will you please to be quick?"

"The time and the place were of your own choice. "

"My choice!" Joan answered. "I had no choice. A girl amongst visitors ina country house--when is she free? When is she alone? She can keep toher room--yes! But that's all her liberty. Let her go out, there will besome one at her side. "

"If she is like you--no doubt, " said Escobar, and again he smiled at hercovetously. Joan shook the compliment off her with a hitch of hershoulders. 

"We could have met in a hundred places, " Mario continued. 

"I could have come to call on you as we arranged. "

"No!" cried Joan with more vigour than wisdom in her voice. She had apicture of him, of the embarrassment of the Splays and her friends, ofthe disapproval of Harry Luttrell. 

Escobar was quick when he dealt with women, quick and sensitive. Thepassionate denial did not escape him. He began to divine the true causeof this swift upheaval and revolution in her. 

"You could have sent me a card for the Willoughbys' dance. It would havebeen easy enough for us to meet there. "

Again she replied, "No!" A note of obstinacy was audible. 

"Why?"

Joan did not answer at all. 

"I'll tell you, " Escobar flashed out at her angrily. "You wouldn't beseen with me any more! Suddenly, you would not be seen with me--no, notfor the world! That's the truth, isn't it? That's why you come secretlyback and bid me meet you in an empty house. "

"Hush!" pleaded Joan. 

Mario Escobar's voice had risen as his own words flogged him to a keenerindignation. 

"Why should I care if all the world hears me?" he replied roughly. "Whyshould I consider you, who turn me down the moment it suits you, without a reason? It's fairly galling to me, I assure you. "

Joan nodded her head. Mario Escobar had some right upon his side, shewas ready to acknowledge. 

"I beg your pardon, " she said simply. "Won't you please be content withthat and leave things as they are?"

"When you are a little older you will know that you can never leavethings as they are, " answered Mario. "I was looking forward to a week ofhappiness. I have had a week of torment. For lesser insults than yours, men kill in my country. "

There were other differences, too, between her country and his. Joan didnot cry out, or burst into tears or flinch in any way. She was alone inthis room; there was no one, as far as she knew, within the reach of hervoice. She had chosen this meeting-place, not altogether because thehouse would be empty, but because in this first serious difficulty ofher life she would be amongst familiar things and draw from themconfidence and strength, and a sense of security. With Mario Escobar infront of her, his face ablaze with passion, the security vanishedaltogether. Yet all the more she was raised to the top of her courage. 

"Then I shall tell you the truth, " she answered gently. "You speak to meof our friendship. It was never anything serious to me. It was ataunt--a foolish taunt to other people. "

Mario Escobar flinched, as if she had struck him in the face. 

"Yes, I hurt you, " she went on in the same gentle voice, which was notthe least element in Escobar's humiliation. "I am very sorry. I triednot to hurt you. I am very ignorant, as you have told me, but I wouldn'tbelieve it till a week ago. I made it my pride to be different fromanybody else. I believed that I was different. I was a fool. I wouldn'tlisten. Even during the war. I have shut myself up away from it, tryingnot to share in the effort, not to feel the pride and the sorrow, pretending that it was just a horrible, sordid business altogetherbeneath lofty minds! That's one of the reasons why I chose you for myfriend! I was flinging my glove in the face of the little world I knew. I had _got_ to be different. It's all very shameful to tell, and I amsorry. Oh, how I am sorry!"

Her sorrow was most evident. She had sunk down upon a couch, her fairhead drooping and the tears now running down her cheeks in thebitterness of her shame. But Mario Escobar was untouched by any pity. Ifany thought occurred to him outside his burning humiliation, it wasprompted by the economy of the Spaniard. 

"She'll spoil that frock if she goes on crying, " he said to himself, "and it was very expensive. "

"I have nothing but remorse to offer in atonement, " she went on. "Butthat remorse is very sincere----"

Mario Escobar swept her plea aside with a furious gesture. 

"So that's it!" he cried. "You were just making a fool of me!" That she, this pretty pink and white girl, should have been making a show of him, parading him before her friends, exhibiting him, using him as achallenge--just as in fact he had been using her, and with more success!Only to think of it hurt him like a knife. "Your remorse!" he criedscornfully. "There's some one else, of course!"

Joan sat up straight and stiff. Escobar might have laid a lash acrossher delicate shoulders. 

"Yes, " she said defiantly. 

"Some one who was not here a week ago?"

"Yes. "

To Escobar's humiliation was now added a sudden fire of jealousy. Forthe first time to-night, as woman, as flesh and blood, she was adorable, and she owed this transformation, not to him, no, not in the tiniestfraction of a degree to him, but to some one else, some dull boorwithout niceties or deftness, who had stormed into her life within theweek. Who was it? He had got to know. But Joan was hardly thinking ofEscobar. Her eyes were turned from him. 

"He has set me free from many vanities and follies. If I am grieved andashamed now, I owe it thankfully to him. If my remorse is bitter, it isbecause through him I have a gleam of light which helps me tounderstand. "

"And you have told him what you have told me?"

"No, but I shall to-night when all this is over, when I go back toHarrel. "

Mario Escobar moved closer to her. 

"Are you so sure that you are going back to Harrel to-night?" he askedin a low voice. 

"Yes, " she replied, and only after she had spoken did the menace of hisvoice force itself into her mind as something which she must take intoaccount. She looked up at him startled, and as she looked her wondermentturned into stark fear. The cry that in his country men killed had lefther unmoved. But she was afraid now, desperately afraid, all the moreafraid because she thought of the man searching for her through thereception-rooms at Harrel. 

"We are alone here in an empty quarter of the house. So you arrangedit, " he continued. "Good! Women do not amuse themselves at my expensewithout being paid for it. "

Joan started up in a panic, but Escobar seized her shoulders and forcedher down again. 

"Sit still, " he cried savagely. Then his face changed. For the firsttime for many minutes his lips parted in a smile of pleasure. 

"You are very lovely, Joan. I love to see you likethat--afraid--trembling. It is the beginning of recompense. "

Joan had tumbled into a deeper pit than any she had dreamed of. Indesperation she cast about for means to climb out of it. The secrecy ofthis meeting--that must go. But, even so, was there escape? The bell?Before she could be half-way across the room, he would be holding her inhis arms. A cry? Before it was half uttered, he would have stifled hermouth. No, she must sit very still and provoke no movement by him. 

Mario Escobar was a creature of unhealthy refinements. He wanted toknow, first, who was the man who had touched this indifferent maideninto warm life. The knowledge would be an extra spice to his pleasure. 

"Who are staying in the house?" he asked. It would be amusing to makehis selection, and discover if he were right. 

"Dennis Brown, Harold Jupp"--Joan began, puzzled by his question, yetwelcoming it as so much delay. 

"I don't want to hear about them, " Mario Escobar replied. "Tell me ofthe new-comers!"

"Martin Hillyard----" Joan began again, and was aware that Mario Escobarmade a quick startled movement and gasped. Martin Hillyard's name was apail of cold water for Escobar. 

"Does Hillyard know that I am at Midhurst?" he asked sharply. 

"No, " Joan answered. 

There was something which Hillyard had told her about Mario Escobar, something which she had rejected and dismissed altogether from herthoughts. Then she remembered. Escobar was an enemy working in Englandagainst England. She had given the statement no weight whatever. It wasthe sort of thing people said of unconventional people they disliked inorder to send them to Coventry. But Escobar's start and Escobar'squestion put a different value upon it. Joan caught at it. Of what usecould it be to her? Of some use, surely, if only she had the wit todivine it. But she was in such a disorder of fear and doubt that everyidea went whirling about and about in her mind. She raised her hand toher forehead, keeping her eyes upon Escobar. She felt as helpless as achild. Almost she regretted the love which had so violently masteredher. It had made clear to her her ignorance and so stripped her of allassurance and left her defenceless. 

But even in the tumult of her thoughts, she began to recognise a change. The air was less charged with terror. There was less of passion andanger in Mario Escobar, and more of speculation. He watched her in agloomy silence, and each moment she took fresh heart. With a swiftmovement he seated himself on the couch beside her. 

Joan sprang up with a little cry, and her heart thumping in her breast. 

"Hush!" said Escobar. Yes, it was now he who pleaded for secrecy and aquiet voice. 

There was a stronger passion in Mario than the love of women, and thatwas the love of money. Women were to him mainly the means to money. Theywere easier to get, too, if you were not over particular. Money was arare, shy thing, except to an amazing few who accumulated it by someobscure, magnetic attraction; and opportunities of acquisition were notto be missed. 

"Hush!" he said. "You treated me badly, Joan. It was right that I shouldteach you a lesson--frighten you a little, eh?"

He smiled at her with eyes half closed and eyelids cunningly blinking. Now that her fears were weakening Joan found his impertinence almostinsufferable. But she held her tongue and waited. 

"But you owe me a return, don't you?"

Joan did not move. 

"A little return--which will cost you nothing at all. You know that Irepresent a line of ships. You can help me. We have rivals, with activeagents. You shall find out for me exactly what Martin Hillyard is doingin the Mediterranean, and why he visits in a yacht the ports of Spain. You will find this out for me, so that I may know whether he is actingfor my rivals. Yes. "

"He is not, " answered Joan. 

"You will find this out for me, so that I may know, " Escobar repeatedsmoothly. "Exactly what he is doing in the Mediterranean, what specialplans, and why he visits in a yacht the ports of Spain. You promise methat knowledge, and you can go straight back to your dancing. "

"I have no knowledge, " said Joan quietly. 

"But you can obtain it, " Escobar insisted. "He is a friend of yours. Exactly what he is doing--is it not so?"

So Martin's accusation was true. Joan nodded her head, and Escobar, witha smile of relief, took the gesture as a consent to his proposal. 

"Good!" he said, rising from the couch. "Then all is forgiven! You willmake some notes----"

"I will do nothing of the kind, " said Joan quietly, but she was white tothe edge of her lips, and she trembled from head to foot. But there wasno room any more for fear in her. She was in a heat of anger which shehad never known. "Oh, that you should dare!" and her words choked her. 

Mario Escobar stared at her. 

"You refuse?"

"With all my soul. "

Escobar took a step towards her, but she did not move. 

"You are alone with me, when you should be dancing at the ball. You madethe appointment, chose the hour, the place ... Even if you scream, therewill be a scandal, a disgrace. "

"I don't care. "

"And the man you are in love with, eh? That makes a difference, " hesaid, as he saw the girl falter. "Do we think of him?"

"No, " said Joan. "We incur the disgrace. "

She saw his eyes open wide with terror. He drew a step away from her. "Oh!" he exclaimed, in a long-drawn whisper; and he looked at Joan withincredulity and hatred. "You----" he used some Spanish word which Joandid not catch. It would have told her little if she had caught it. Itwas "Cabron, " a harmless, inoffensive word which has become in Spain theultimate low word of abuse. "You have laid a trap for me. "

Joan answered him in a bewilderment. "I have laid no trap for you, " andthere was so much scorn and contempt in her voice that Escobar couldhardly disbelieve her. 

But he was shaken. He was in a panic. He was in a haste to go. Money--yes. But you must live in order to enjoy it. 

"I will give you a day to think over my proposal, " he said, stammeringthe words in his haste. And then, "Don't write to me! I will find ameans, " and, almost before she was aware of his movements, he hadsnatched up his cap, and the room was empty. The curtain was torn aside;the glass door stood open; beyond it the garden lay white in the lightof the moon. 

"A trap?" Joan repeated his accusation in a perplexity. She turned andshe saw the door, the door behind her, which Escobar had faced, the doorinto the hall, slowly open. There had been no turning of the handle, itwas unlatched before. Yet Joan had seen to it that it was shut beforeever she beckoned Mario Escobar into the room. Some one, then, had beenlistening. Mario Escobar had seen the handle move, the door drawn ajar. Joan saw it open now to its full width, and in the entrance StellaCroyle. 

CHAPTER XXVI

A FATAL KINDNESS

Joan picked up her cloak and arranged it upon her shoulders. She did notgive one thought to Stella, or even hear the words which Stella begannervously to speak. Her secret appointment would come to light now inany case. It would very likely cost her--oh, all the gold and glamour ofthe world. It would be bandied about in gossip over the tea-tables, inthe street, at the Clubs, in the Press. Sir Chichester ought to behappy, at all events. The thought struck her with a wry humour, andbrought a smile to her lips. He would accomplish his dream. Withouteffort, without a letter or a telephone call, or a rebuff, he would havesuch publicity as he could hardly have hoped for. "Who is that?" Joanmade up a little scene. "That? Oh, don't you know? That's Sir ChichesterSplay. You must have heard of Sir Chichester! Why, it was in his housethat the Whitworth girl, rather pretty but an awful fool, carried onwith the spy-man. "

Joan was a little overstrung. All the while she was powdering her nosein front of a mirror and removing as best she could the traces of tears, and all the while Mrs. Croyle was stammering words and words and wordsbehind her. Joan regretted that Stella was not going to the Willoughbys'ball. If she had been, she would probably be carrying some rouge in herlittle hand-bag, and Joan might have borrowed some. 

"Well, since you haven't got any with you, I must go, " said Joan, bursting suddenly into Stella's monologue. But she had caught a namespoken just before Stella stopped in her perplexity at Joan's outbreak. 

"Harry Luttrell!" Joan repeated. What in the world had Stella Croyle gotto say to her about Harry Luttrell? But Stella resumed her falteringdiscourse and the sense of her words penetrated at last to Joan's brainand amazed her. 

Joan was to leave Harry Luttrell alone. 

"You are quite young, " said Stella, "only twenty. What does he matter toyou? You have everything in front of you. With your looks and yourtwenty years you can choose where you will. You have lovers already----"

"I?" Joan interrupted. 

"Mario Escobar. "

Joan repeated the name with such a violence of scorn that for a momentStella Croyle was silenced. 

"Mario Escobar!"

"He was here with you a moment ago. "

Joan answered quietly and quite distinctly:

"I wish he were dead!"

Stella Croyle fell back upon her first declaration. 

"You must leave my Wub alone. "

Joan laughed aloud, harshly and without any merriment. She checkedherself with an effort lest she should go on laughing, and her laughterturn uncontrollably into hysteria and tears. Here was Mrs. Croyle, agrown woman, standing in front of her like a mutinous obstinate child, looking like one too, talking like one and bidding Joan leave her Wubalone. Whence did she get that ridiculous name? It was all degrading andgrotesque. 

"Your Wub! Your Wub!" she cried in a heat. "Yes, I am only twenty, andprobably I am quite wrong and stupid. But it seems to me horrible thatwe two women should be wrangling over a man neither of us had met a weekago. I'll have no more of it. "

She flung towards the window, but Stella Croyle cried out, "A week ago!"and the cry brought her to a stop. Joan turned and looked doubtfully atMrs. Croyle. After all, that ridiculous label had not been pasted on toHarry Luttrell as a result of a week's acquaintance. Harry Luttrell hadcertainly talked to Stella through the greater part of an evening, hisfirst evening in the house, but they had hardly been together at allsince then. Joan came back slowly into the room. 

"So you knew Colonel Luttrell before this week?"

"We were great friends a few years ago. "

It was disturbing to Joan that Harry Luttrell had never spoken to her ofthis friendship. Was it possible that Stella had a claim upon him ofwhich she herself knew nothing? She sat down at a table in front of Mrs. Croyle. 

"Tell me, " she said. 

Once, long ago, upon the deck of the _Dragonfly_ at Stockholm, Stellahad cried out to Harry Luttrell, "Oh, what a cruel mistake you made whenyou went out of your way to be kind!" Joan was now to hear how that cryhad come to be uttered by a woman in the nethermost distress. She knew, of course, that Stella was married at the age of seventeen and had beendivorced, but little more than that. 

"There was a little girl, " said Stella, "my baby. I lost her. "

She spoke very simply. She had come to the end of efforts and schemes, and was very tired. Joan's anger died away altogether in her heart. 

"Oh, I am very sorry, " she replied. "I didn't know that you had a littlegirl. "

"Yes. Look, here is her portrait. " Stella Croyle drew out from her bosoma locket which hung night and day against her heart, and showed it toJoan across the table. "But I don't know whether she is little any more. She is thirteen now. "

Joan gazed at the painted miniature of a lovely child with the eyes andthe hair of Stella Croyle. 

"And you lost her altogether?" she asked with a rising pity. 

"Not at first, " answered Stella. "I was allowed by the Court to have herwith me for one month in every year. And I lived the other eleven monthsfor the one, the wonderful one. "

Stella's face softened indescribably. The memory of her child did forher what all her passion for Harry Luttrell could not do. It restoredher youth. Her eyes grew tender, her mouth quivered, the look ofconflict vanished altogether. 

"We had good times together, my baby and I. I took her to the sea. Itsounds foolish, but we were more like a couple of children together thanmother and daughter"; and Joan, looking at the delicate, porcelain-likefigure in front of her, smiled in response. 

"Yes, I can understand that. "

"She was with me every minute, " Stella Croyle resumed. "I watched herso, I gave her so much of me that when I had seen her off at the stationwith her nurse at the end of the month, I was left behind, as weak andlimp as an invalid. I lived for her, Joan, believe that at all events inmy favour! There was no one else. "

"I do believe it. "

"Then one year in the winter she did not come to me. "

"They kept her back!" cried Joan. "But you had the right to her. "

"Yes. And I went down to Exeter to her father's house, to fetch heraway. "

It was curious that Stella Croyle, who was speaking of her owndistressful life, told her story with a quiet simplicity of tone, as ifshe had bent her neck in submission to the hammer strokes of herdestiny; whereas Joan, who was but listening to griefs of another, wasstirred to a compassion which kindled her face and made her voice shake. 

"Oh, they hadn't sent her away! She was waiting for you, " she criedeagerly. 

"She was waiting for me. Yes! But it was no longer my baby who waswaiting. They had worked on her, Robert, my husband--and his sisters. They had told her--oh, more than they need! That I was bad. "

"Oh!" breathed Joan. 

"Yes, they were a little cruel. They had changed baby altogether. Shewas just eight at that time. " Stella stopped for a moment or two. Hervoice did not falter but her eyes suddenly swam with tears. "She used toadore me--she really and truly did. Now her little face and her eyeswere like flint. And what do you think she said to me? Just this!'Mummy, I don't want to go with you. If you take me with you, you'llspoil my holidays!'"

Joan shot back in her chair. 

"But they had taught her to say that?"

Stella Croyle shook her head. 

"They had taught her to dislike me. My little girl has character. Shewouldn't have repeated the words, because she had been taught them. No, she meant them. "

"But a day or two with you and she would have forgotten them. Oh, she_did_ forget them!"

In her great longing to comfort the woman, whose deep anguish shedivined beneath the quiet desolation of her voice, Joan overleapt herown knowledge. She was still young enough to will that past events hadnot occurred, and that things true were false. 

"I didn't take her, " replied Stella Croyle. "I wouldn't take her. I knewbaby--besides she had struck me too hard. "

"You came away alone!" whispered Joan. 

"In the cab which I had kept waiting at the door to take us both away. "

"That's terrible!" said Joan. The child with her lovely face set likeflint in the room, the mother creeping out of the house and stumblingalone into the fly at the door--the picture was vivid before her eyes. Joan wrung her hands with a little helpless gesture, and a moan upon herlips. Almost it seemed that these sad things were actually happening to_her_; so poignantly she felt them. 

"Oh, and you had all that long journey back to London, the journey youhad dreamt of for eleven months with your baby at your side--you had nowto take it alone. "

Stella Croyle shook her head. 

"No! There was just one and only one of my friends--and not at all agreat friend--who had the imagination to understand, as you understandtoo, Joan, just what that journey would have meant to me, if anythinghad gone wrong, and the kindness to put himself out to make itsendurance a little easier. "

Joan drew back quickly. 

"Harry Luttrell, " she whispered. 

"Yes. He had once been stationed at Exeter. He knew Robert Croyle andthe sisters. He guessed what might happen to me. Perhaps he knew that itwas going to happen. "

So, when Stella, having pulled down her veil that none might see herface, was stumbling along the platform in search of an empty carriage, a hand was very gently laid upon her and Harry Luttrell was at her side. He had come all the way from London to befriend her, should she need it. If he had seen her with her little girl, he would have kept out of sightand himself have returned to London by a later train. 

"That was fine, " cried Joan. 

"Fine, yes!" answered Stella. "You realise that, Joan, and you havenever been in real trouble, or known what men are when kindnessinterferes with their comfort. I am not blaming people, but women do getthe worst of it, if they are fools enough--wicked enough if you like, todo as I did. I knew men--lots of them. I was bound to. I was fair game, you see. "

Joan's forehead wrinkled. The doors of knowledge had been opening veryrapidly for her during the last few minutes. But she was still often ata loss. 

"Fair game. Why? I don't understand. "

"I had been divorced. Therefore I wasn't dangerous. Complicationscouldn't follow from a little affair with me. " Stella explainedbitterly. "I had men on my doorstep always. But not one of these men whoprotested and made love to me, would have put themselves out to do whatHarry Luttrell did. It was fine--yes. But for three years I have beenwondering whether Harry Luttrell would not really have been kinder if hehad thought of his own comfort too, and had never travelled to Exeter tobefriend me. "

"Why?" asked Joan. 

"I should have thrown myself out of the carriage and saved myself--oh, so much sorrow afterwards, " Stella Croyle answered in so simple andnatural a voice that Joan could not disbelieve her. 

Joan clasped her hands before her eyes and then gazed again at Stellasitting in front of her, with pity and wonder. It was so hard for her tounderstand that this pretty woman, who made it her business to be gay, whom she had met from time to time in this house and had chatted withand forgotten, had passed through so dreadful an ordeal of suffering andhumiliation. She was to look closer still into the mysteries which werebeing revealed to her. 

Harry Luttrell had held Stella in his arms just as if she had been achild herself whilst the train rushed through the bleak winter country. Stella had behaved like a child, now sobbing in a passion of grief, nowmutinous in a passion of rage, now silent and despairing under theweights that nothing, neither sympathy, nor grief, nor revolt, can lift. 

"He took me home. He stayed with me. Oh, it wasn't love, " cried Stella. "He was afraid. "

"Afraid!" asked Joan. She wished to know every least detail of the storynow. 

"Afraid lest I should take--something ... As I wished to do ... Asduring the trouble of the divorce I learned to do. "

She related little ridiculous incidents which Joan listened to with abreaking heart. Stella could not sleep at all after her return. Shelived in a little house with a big garden on the northern edge ofLondon, and all night she lay awake, listening to the patter of rain onmelancholy trees, and thinking and thinking. Harry Luttrell kept herfrom the drugs in her dressing-case. She had no anodyne for hersorrows--but one. 

"You will laugh, " said Stella with a little wry smile of her own, "whenI tell you what it was. It was a gramophone. I got Harry to set itgoing, whilst I lay in bed--to set it playing rag-time. While it wasplaying, I stopped thinking. For I had to keep time in my brain with thebeat of the tune. And so, at last, since I couldn't think, or remember, I fell asleep. The gramophone saved me"; and again Joan was smitten bythe incongruity of Stella with her life. She had eaten of all thatnature allots to women--love, marriage, the birth of children, the lossof them--and there she was, to this day half-child, and quiteincompatible with what she had suffered and endured. 

"After a fortnight I got quieter of course, " said Stella. "And suddenlya change sadder than anything I have told you took place in me. Isuppose that I had gone through too much on baby's account for me. Ilost something more than my baby, I lost my want to have her with me. "

She remained silent for a little while reviewing the story which she hadtold. 

"There, that's all, " she said, rising suddenly. "It's no claim at all, of course. I know that very well. Harry left me at Stockholm four yearsago;" and suddenly Joan's face flushed scarlet. She had been absorbed inStella's sorrows, she had admired that kind action of Harry Luttrell'swhich had brought so much trouble in its train. It needed that reminderthat Harry had only left Stella Croyle at Stockholm to bring home thewhole part which Harry had taken in the affair. Now she understood; aflame of sudden jealousy confused her; and with it came a young girl'sdistaste as though some ugly reptile had raised its head amongstflowers. 

"I never saw Harry again until this week, except for a minute outside ashop one morning in Piccadilly. But he hasn't married during those fouryears, so I always kept a hope that we should be somewhere togetheragain for a few days, and that afterwards he would come back to me. "

"That's why you chose this week to come to Rackham Park?"

"Yes, " answered Stella Croyle; and she laughed harshly. "But I hadn'tconsidered you. "

Joan looked helplessly at her companion. Stella had not one small chanceof the fulfilment of her hope--no, not one--even if she herself stood amillion miles away. Of that Joan was sure. But how was she to say so toone who was blind and deaf to all but her hope, who would not listen, who would not see? Mario Escobar had left his gloves behind him on acouch. Joan saw them, and remembered to whom they belonged, and herthoughts took another complexion. Harry Luttrell! What share had she nowin his life? She rose abruptly and pushed back her chair. 

"Oh, I'll stand aside, " she said, "never fear! We are to talk thingsover to-night. I shall say 'No. '"

She had turned again to the window, but a startled question from StellaCroyle stayed her feet. 

"Harry has asked you to marry him?"

"He was going to, " Joan faltered. The sense of her own loss returnedupon her, she felt utterly alone, all the more alone because of thewondrous week which had come to so desolate an end to-night. "Here inthis little room, not two hours ago. But I asked him to wait untilsupper time to-night. Here--it was here we stood!"

Joan looked down. Yes, she had been standing in this very spot, thetable here upon her left, that chair upon her right, that trifolium inthe pattern of the carpet under her feet, when Harry Luttrell had takenher in his arms. What foolish thing was Stella Croyle saying now?

"I take back all that I have said to you. If Harry has spoken to youalready I have lost--that's all. I didn't know, " she said. Her cheekswere white, her eyes suddenly grown large with a horror in them whichJoan could not understand. 

"Yes, it's all over. I have lost, " she kept repeating in a dreadfulwhisper, moistening her dry lips with her tongue between her sentences. 

"Oh, don't think that I am standing aside out of pity, " Joan answeredher. "To-morrow I shall be impossible as a wife for Harry Luttrell. " Thewords fell upon ears which did not hear. It would not have mattered ifStella had heard. Since Harry Luttrell was that night asking Joan tomarry him, the hopes upon which she had so long been building, whichJenny Prask had done so much to nurse and encourage, withered andcrumbled in an instant. 

"I must go back and dance, " said Joan with a shiver. 

She left Stella Croyle standing in the room like one possessed withvisions of terrible things. Her tragic face and moving lips were tohaunt Joan for many a month afterwards. She went out by the window andran down the drive to the spot where she had left Miranda's car half-waybetween the lodge and the house. The gates had been set open that nightagainst the return of the party from Harrel. Joan drove back again underthe great over-arching trees of the road. It was just ten o'clock whenshe slipped into the ball-room and was claimed by a neighbour for adance. 

CHAPTER XXVII

THE RANK AND FILE

Martin Hillyard crammed a year's enjoyment into the early hours of thatnight. He danced a great deal and had supper a good many times; and eventhe girl who had passed the season of 1914 in London and said languidly, "Tell me more, " before he had opened his mouth, failed to ruffle hisenjoyment. 

"If I did, you would scream for your mother, " he replied, "and I shouldbe turned out of the house and Sir Chichester would lose his position inthe county. No, I'll tell you less. That means we'll go and have somesupper. "

He led a subdued maiden into the supper-room and from that moment hisenjoyment began to wane. For, at a little table near to hand, sat JoanWhitworth and Harry Luttrell, and it was clear to him from the distressupon their faces that their smooth courtship had encountered itsobstacles. A spot of anger, indeed, seemed to burn in Joan's cheeks. They hardly spoke at all. 

Half an hour later, he came face to face with Joan in a corridor. 

"I have been looking for you for a long while, " she cried in a quick, agitated voice. "Are you free for this dance?"

"Yes. "

Martin Hillyard lied without compunction. 

"Then will you take me into the garden?"

He found a couple of chairs in a corner of the terrace out of thehearing of the rest. 

"We shall be quiet here, " he said. He hoped that she would disclose thedifficulty which had risen between herself and Harry, and seek hiscounsel as Harry's friend. It might be one of the little triflingdiscords which love magnifies until they blot out the skies and drapethe earth in temporary mourning. But Joan began at once nervously upona different topic. 

"You made a charge against Mario Escobar the other day. I did notbelieve it. But you spoke the truth. I know that now. "

She stopped and gazed woefully in front of her. Then she hurried on. 

"I can prove it. He demands news of your movements in the Mediterranean. If it is necessary I must come forward publicly and prove it. It will behorrible, but of course I will. "

Martin looked at her quickly. She kept her eyes averted from him. Herfingers plucked nervously at her dress. There was an aspect of shame inher attitude. 

"It will not be necessary, Joan, " he answered. "I have quite enoughevidence already to put him away until the end of the war. "

Joan turned to him with quivering lips. 

"You are sure. It means so much to me to escape--what I have no right toescape, I can hardly believe it. "

"I am quite sure, " replied Martin Hillyard. 

Joan breathed a long, fluttering sigh of relief. She sat up as though aweight had been loosed from her shoulders. The trouble lifted from herface. 

"You need not call upon me at all?"

"No. "

"I don't want to shirk--any more, " she insisted. "I should nothesitate. "

"I know that, Joan, " he said with a smile. She looked out over thegardens to the great line of hills, dim and pleasant as fairyland in thesilver haze of the moonlight. Her eyes travelled eastwards along theridge and stopped at the clump of Bishop's Ring which marks the crest ofDuncton Hill, and the dark fold below where the trees flow down toGraffham. 

"You ask me no questions, " she said in a low, warm voice. "I am verygrateful. "

"I ask you one. Where is Mario Escobar to-night?"

"At Midhurst, " and she gave him the name of the hotel. 

Martin Hillyard laughed. Whilst the police were inquiring here andsearching there and watching the ports for him, he was lying almostwithin reach of his hand, snugly and peacefully at Midhurst. 

"But I expect that he will go from Midhurst now, " Joan added, remembering his snarl of fear when the door had opened behind her, andthe haste with which he had fled. 

Hillyard looked at his watch. It was one o'clock in the morning. 

"You are in a hurry?" she asked. 

"I ought to send a message. " He turned to Joan. "You know this house, ofcourse. Is there a telephone in a quiet room, where I shall not beinterrupted or be drowned out, voice and ears by the music?"

"Yes, Mrs. Willoughby's sitting-room upstairs. Shall I ask her if youmay use it?"

"If you please. "

Joan left Martin standing in one of the corridors and rejoined him aftera few minutes. "Come, " she said, and led the way upstairs to the room. Martin called up the trunk line and gave a number. 

"I shall have to wait a few minutes, " he said. 

"You want me to go, " answered Joan, and she moved towards the doorreluctantly. 

"No. But you will be missing your dances. "

Joan shook her head. She did not turn back to him, but stood facing thedoor as she replied; so that he could not see her face. 

"I had kept all the dances after supper free. If I am not in the way Iwould rather wait with you. "

"Of course. "

He was careful to use the most commonplace tone with the thought that itwould steady her. The trouble which this telephone message would finallydispel was clearly not all which distressed her. She neededcompanionship; her voice broke, as though her heart were breaking too. He saw her raise a wisp of handkerchief to her eyes; and then thetelephone bell rang at his side. He was calling at a venture upon thenumber which Commodore Graham had rung up in the office above the oldwaterway of the Thames. 

"Is that Scotland Yard?" he asked, and he gave the address at whichMario Escobar was to be found. "But he may be gone to-morrow, " he added, and hearing a short "That's all right, " he rang off. 

"Now, if you will get your cloak, we might go back into the garden. "

They found their corner of the terrace unoccupied and sat for a while insilence. Hillyard recognised that neither questions nor any conversationat all were required from him, but simply the sympathy of hiscompanionship. He smoked a cigarette while Joan sat by his side. 

She stretched out her hand towards the Bishop's Ring, small as a buttonupon the great shoulder of the Down. 

"Do you remember the afternoon when I drove you back from Goodwood?"

"Yes. "

"You said to me, 'If the great trial is coming, I want to fall back intothe rank and file. ' And I cried out, 'Oh, I understand that!'"

"I remember. "

"What a fool I was!" said Joan. "I didn't understand at all. I thoughtthat it sounded fine, and that was why I applauded. I am only beginningto understand now. Even after I had agreed with you, my one ambition wasto be different. "

Her voice died remorsefully away. From the window further down theterrace the yellow light poured from the windows and fought with themoonlight. The music of a waltz floated out upon the yearning of manyviolins. There was a ripple of distant voices. 

"All this week, " Joan began again, "I have found myself standingunexpectedly in a strong light before a mirror and utterly scared by therevelation of what I was ... By the memory of the foolish things which Ihad done. From one of the worst of them, you have saved me to-night. Youare very kind to me, Martin. "

It was the first time he had ever heard her use his Christian name. 

"I should like to be kinder, if you'll let me, " he said. "I am notblind. I was in the supper-room when you and Harry were there. It wasfor him that you had kept all the last dances free. And you are here, breaking your heart. Why?"

Joan shook her head. A little sob broke from her against her will. Butthis matter was between her and Harry Luttrell. She sought no counselfrom any other. 

"Then I am very grieved for both of you, " said Hillyard. Joan made amovement as if she were about to rise. "Will you wait just a moment?"Martin asked. 

He guessed that some hint of Stella Croyle's story had reached thegirl's ears. He understood that she would be hurt, and affronted; thatshe would feel herself suddenly steeped in vulgarities; and that shewould visit her resentment sharply upon her lover, and upon herself atthe same time. And all this was true. But Martin was not sure of it. Hemeant to tread warily, lest if he stumbled, the harm should be the morecomplete. 

"I have known Harry Luttrell a long while, " he said. "No woman everreached his heart until he came home from France this summer. No woman Ibelieve, could have reached it--not even you, Joan, I believe, if youhad met him a year ago. He was possessed by one great shame and onegreat longing--shame that the regiment with which he and his father werebound up, had once disgraced itself--longing for the day to come when itwould recover its prestige. Those two emotions burnt in him like whiteflames. I believe no other could have lived beside them. "

Joan would not speak, but she concentrated all her senses to listen. Aphrase which Stella Croyle had used--Harry had feared to become "theslovenly soldier"--began to take on its meaning. 

"On the Somme the shame was wiped out. Led by such men as Harry--well, you know what happened. Harry Luttrell came home freed at last from anoverwhelming obsession. He looked about him with different eyes, andthere you were! It seems to me a thing perfectly ordained, as so fewthings are. I brought him down here just for a pleasant week in thecountry--without another thought beyond that. All this week I have beencoming to think of myself as an unconscious agent, who just at the righttime is made to do the right thing. Here was the first possible momentfor Harry Luttrell--and there you were in the path--just as if youwithout knowing it, had been set there to wait until he came over thefields to you. "

He turned to her and took her hand in his. He had his sympathies forStella Croyle, but her hopes held no positive promise of happiness foreither her or Harry Luttrell--a mere flash and splutter of passion atthe best, with all sorts of sordid disadvantages to follow, quarrels, the scorn of his equals, the loss of position, the check to advancementin his profession. Here, on the other hand, was the fitting match. 

"It would be a great pity, " he said gently, "if anything were now tointerfere. "

He stood up and after a moment Joan rose to her feet. There was a tendersmile upon her lips and her eyes were shining. She laid a hand upon hisarm. 

"I shall have to get you a wife, Martin, " she said, midway betweenlaughter and tears. "It wouldn't be fair on us if you were to escape. "

This was her way of thanking him. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE LONG SLEEP

The amazing incident which cut so sharply into these tangled livesoccurred the next morning at Rackham Park. Some of the house partystraggled down to a late breakfast, others did not descend at all. HarryLuttrell joined Millie Splay upon the stairs and stopped her before sheentered the breakfast-room. 

"I should like to slip away this morning, Lady Splay, " he said. "Myservant is packing now. "

Millie Splay looked at him in dismay. 

"Oh, I am so sorry, " she said. "I was hoping that this morning you andJoan would have something to say to me. "

"I did too, " replied Harry with a wry smile. "But Joan turned me downwith a bang last night. "

Lady Splay plumped herself down on a chair in the hall. 

"Oh, she is the most exasperating girl!" she cried. "Are you sure thatyou didn't misunderstand her?"

"Quite. "

Lady Splay sat for a little while with her cheek propped upon her handand her brows drawn together in a perplexity. 

"It's very strange, " she said at length. "For Joan meant you to ask herto marry you. She has been deliberately showing you that you weren'tindifferent to her. Joan would never have done that if she hadn't meantyou to ask her; or if she hadn't meant to accept you. " She rose with agesture of despair. 

"I give it up. But oh, how I'd love to smack her!" and with thatunrealisable desire burning furiously in her breast, Lady Splay marchedinto the breakfast-room. Dennis Brown and Jupp were already in theirwhite flannels at the table. Miranda ran down into the room a momentafterwards. 

"Joan's the lazy one, " she said, looking round the table. She had gotto bed at half-past four and looked as fresh as if she had slept theclock round. "What are you going to eat, Colonel Luttrell?"

Luttrell was standing by her at the side table, and as they inspectedthe dishes they were joined by Mr. Albany Todd. 

"You were going it last night, " Jupp called to him, with a note ofrespect in his voice. "For a top-weight you're the hottest thing I haveseen in years. Stay another week in our academic company, and we shalldiscover so many excellent qualities in you that we shall be calling youToddles. "

"And then in the winter, I suppose, we'll go jumping together, " said Mr. Albany Todd. 

Like many another round and heavy man, Mr. Albany Todd was anexceptionally smooth dancer. His first dance on the night before he hadowed to the consideration of his hostess. Sheer merit had filled therest of his programme; and he sat down to breakfast now in a high goodhumour. Sir Chichester stumped into the room when the serious part ofthe meal was over, and all the newspapers already taken. He sat down infront of his kidney and bacon and grunted. 

"Any news in _The Times_, Mr. Albany Todd?"

"No! No!" replied Mr. Albany Todd in an abstracted voice, with his headburied between the pages. "Would you like it, Sir Chichester?"

He showed no intention of handing it over; and Sir Chichester repliedwith as much indifference as he could assume, "Oh, there's no hurry. "

"No, we have all the morning, haven't we?" said Mr. Albany Toddpleasantly. 

Sir Chichester ate some breakfast and drank some tea. "No news in yourpaper is there, Dennis, my boy?" he asked carelessly. 

"Oh, isn't there just?" cried Dennis Brown. "Oppifex and HampsteadDarling are both running in the two-thirty at Windsor. "

Sir Chichester grunted again. 

"Racing! It's wonderful, Mr. Albany Todd, that you haven't got thedisease during the week. There's a racing microbe at Rackham. "

"But I am not so sure that I have escaped, " returned Mr. Albany Todd. "Iam tempted to go jumping in the winter. "

"You must keep your old Lords out if you do, " Harold Jupp urgedearnestly. "Bring in your Dukes and your Marquises, and we poor men areall up the spout. "

Thus they rattled on about the breakfast table; cigarettes were lighted, Miranda pushed back her chair; in a minute the room would be deserted. But Millie Splay uttered a little cry of horror, so sharp and startlingthat it froze each person into a sudden immobility. She dropped thenewspaper upon her knees. Her hands flew to her face and covered it. 

"What's the matter, Millie?" cried Sir Chichester, starting up in alarm. He hurried round the table. Some stab of physical pain had causedMillie's cry--he shared that conviction with every one else in the room. But Millie lifted her head quickly. 

"Oh, it's intolerable!" she exclaimed. "Chichester, look at this!" Shethrust the paper feverishly into his hands. Sir Chichester smoothed itscrumpled leaves as he stood beside her. 

"Ah, the _Harpoon_, " he said, his fear quite allayed. He knew his wifeto have a somewhat thinner skin than himself. "You are exaggerating nodoubt, my dear. The _Harpoon_ is a good paper and quite friendly. "

But Millie Splay broke in upon his protestations in a voice as shrill asa scream. 

"Oh, stop, Chichester, and look! There, in the third column! Just underyour eyes!"

And Sir Chichester Splay read. As he read his face changed. 

"Yes, that won't do, " he said, very quietly. He carried the newspaperback with him to his chair and sat down again. He had the air of a manstruck clean out of his wits. "That won't do, " he repeated, and again, with a rush of angry blood into his face, "No, that won't do. " It seemedthat Sir Chichester's harmless little foible had suddenly received morethan its due punishment. 

The newspaper slipped from his fingers on to the floor, whilst he satstaring at the white tablecloth in front of him. But no sooner didHarold Jupp at his side make a movement to pick the paper up than SirChichester swooped down upon it in a flash. 

"No!" he said. "No!" and he began to fold it up very carefully. "It's asMillie says, a rather intolerable invention which has crept into thesocial news. I must consider what steps we should take. "

There was another at that table who was as disturbed as Sir Chichesterand Lady Splay. Martin Hillyard knew nothing of the paragraph which hadcaused this consternation in his hosts; and he had asked no questionslast night. But he remembered every word that Joan had said. She hadseen Mario Escobar somewhere since leaving Rackham Park--that wascertain; and Mario Escobar had demanded information. "Demanded" was theword which Joan had used. Mario Escobar was of the blackmailing type. Martin's heart was in his mouth. 

"An invention about us here?" he asked. 

"About one of us, " answered Sir Chichester; and Martin dared ask nomore. 

Harry Luttrell, however, had none of Martin's knowledge to restrain him. 

"In that case, sir, wouldn't it be wiser to read it now, aloud?" hesuggested. "It can't be suppressed now. Sooner or later every one willhear of it. "

Every one agreed except Hillyard. To him Harry Luttrell seemed wilfullyto be rushing towards catastrophe. 

"Yes ... Yes, " said Sir Chichester slowly. He unfolded his newspaperagain and read; and of all those who listened no one was more amazedthan Hillyard himself. Mario Escobar had no hand in this abominablework. For this is what Sir Chichester read:

"'A mysterious and tragic event has occurred at Rackham Park, where SirChichester Splay, the well-known Baronet----'" He broke off to observe, "Really, it's put quite civilly, Millie. It's a dreadful mistake, but sofar as the wording of the Editor is concerned it's put really moreconsiderately than I noticed at first. "

"Oh, please go on, " cried Millie. 

"Very well, my dear, " and he resumed--"where Sir Chichester Splay, thewell-known Baronet is entertaining a small party. At an early hour thismorning Mrs. Croyle, one of Sir Chichester's guests, died under strangecircumstances. "

Miranda uttered a little scream. 

"Died!" she exclaimed. 

"Yes, listen to this, " said Sir Chichester. "Mrs. Croyle was discoveredlying upon her side with her face bent above a glass of chloroform. Theglass was supported between her pillows and Mrs. Croyle's fingers werestill grasping it when she was discovered. "

A gasp of indignation and horror ran round that breakfast table when SirChichester had finished. 

"It's so atrociously circumstantial, " said Mr. Albany Todd. 

"Yes. " Sir Chichester seized upon the point. "That's the really damnablepoint about it. That's real malice. This report will linger and livelong after the denial and apology are published. "

Lady Splay raised her head. 

"I can't imagine who can have sent in such a cowardly lie. Enemies ofus? Or enemies of Stella?"

"We can think that out afterwards, Lady Splay, " said Harold Jupp. He wasof a practical matter-of-fact mind and every one turned to listen to hissuggestion. "The first thing to do is to get the report contradicted inthe evening papers. "

"Of course. "

There was something to be done. All grasped at the doing of it in sheerrelief--except one. For as the men rose, saying; one "I'll look afterit"; and another "No, you'd better leave it to me, " Luttrell's voicebroke in upon them all, with a sort of dreadful fatality in the quietsound of it. 

"Where is Mrs. Croyle now?" he asked, and he was as white as thetablecloth in front of him. 

There was no further movement towards the door. Slowly the men resumedtheir seats. A silence followed in which person after person looked atStella's empty place as though an intensity of gaze would materialiseher there. Miranda was the first bravely to break through it. 

"She hasn't come down yet, " she said, and Millie Splay seized upon thewords. 

"No, she never comes down for breakfast--never has all this week. "

"Yes, that's true, " returned Dennis Brown with an attempt atcheerfulness. 

"Besides--what makes--the idea--impossible, " said Sir Chichester, "isthe publication this morning. There wouldn't have been time.... It'sclearly an atrocious piece of malice. " He was speaking with an obviouseffort to convince himself that the monstrous thing was false. But hecollapsed suddenly and once more discomfort and silence reigned in theroom. 

"Stella's not well, " Millie Splay took up the tale. "That's why she isseldom seen before twelve. Those headaches of hers----" and suddenly shein her turn broke off. She leaned forward and pressed the electric bellupon the tablecloth beside her. That small trivial action brought itsrelief, lightened the vague cloud of misgiving which since Luttrell hadspoken, had settled upon all. 

"You rang, my lady, " said Harper in the doorway. 

"Yes, Harper. We were making some plans for a picnic to-day and weshould like to know if Mrs. Croyle will join us. Can you find out fromher maid whether she is awake?"

It was superbly done. There was not a quaver in Lady Splay's voice, nota sign of agitation in her manner. 

"I'll inquire, my lady, " replied Harper, and he left the room upon hiserrand. 

"One thing is certain, " Mr. Albany Todd broke in. "I was watching Harperover your shoulder, Lady Splay. He hasn't seen the paragraph. There'snothing known of it in the servants' hall. "

Sir Chichester nodded, and Millie Splay observed:

"Harper's so imperturbable that he always inspires me with confidence. Ifeel that nothing out of the way could really happen whilst he was inthe house. " And her attitude of tension did greatly relax as shethought, illogically enough, of that stolid butler. A suggestion made byMartin Hillyard set them to work whilst they waited. 

"Let us see if the report is in any of the other papers, " and allimmediately were busy with that examination--except one again. And thatone again, Harry Luttrell. He sat in his place motionless, his eyestransfixed upon some vision of horror--as if he _knew_, Martin said tohimself, yes, as if all these questions were futile, as if he _knew_. 

But no other newspaper had printed the paragraph. They had hardlyassured themselves of this fact, when Harper once more stood in thedoorway. 

"Mrs. Croyle gave orders last night to her maid that she was not to bedisturbed until she rang, my lady, " he said. 

"And she has not rung?" Millie asked. 

"No, my lady. "

Miranda suddenly laughed in an odd fashion and swayed in her chair. 

"Miranda!" Millie Splay brought her back to her self-control with asharp cry of rebuke. Then she resumed to Harper. 

"I will take the responsibility of waking Mrs. Croyle. Will you please, ask her maid to rouse Mrs. Croyle, and inquire whether she will join usthis morning. We shall start at twelve. "

"Very well, my lady. "

There was no longer any pretence of ease amongst the people seated roundthe table. A queer panic passed from one to the other. They were awed bythe imminence of dreadful uncomprehended things. They waited in silence, like people under a spell, and from somewhere in the house above theirheads, there sounded a loud rapping upon a door. They held their breath, straining to hear the grate of a key in a lock, and the opening of thatdoor. They heard only the knocking repeated and repeated again. It wasfollowed by a sound of hurrying feet. 

Jenny Prask ran down the great main staircase, and burst into thebreakfast room, her face mottled with terror, her hand spread above herheart to still its wild beating. 

"My lady! My lady! The door's locked. I can get no answer. I am afraid. "

Sir Chichester rose abruptly from his chair. But Jenny Prask had more tosay. 

"The key had been removed. My lady, I looked through the keyhole. Thelights are still burning in the room. "

"Oh!"

Martin Hillyard had started to his feet. He remembered another time whenthe lights had been burning in Stella Croyle's room in the full blaze ofa summer morning. She was sitting at the writing-table then. She hadbeen sitting there all through the night making meaningless signs andfigures upon the paper and the blotting-pad in front of her. The fullsignificance of that flight of the unhappy Stella to the little hotelbelow the Hog's Back was now revealed to him. But between that morningand this, there was an enormous difference. She had opened her door thenin answer to the knocking. 

"We must get through that door, Lady Splay, " he said. Sir Chichester wasalready up and about in a busy agitation. 

"Yes, to be sure. It's just an ordinary lock. We shall easily find a keyto fit it. I'll take Harper with me, and perhaps, Millie, you willcome. "

"Yes, I'll come, " said Millie quietly. After her first shock of horrorand surprise when she had first chanced upon the paragraph in the_Harpoon_, she had been completely, wonderfully, mistress of herself. 

"The rest of you will please stay downstairs, " said Sir Chichester, ashe removed the key from the door of the room. Jenny Prask was not thusto be disposed of. 

"Oh, my lady, I must go up too!" she cried, twisting her hands together. "Mrs. Croyle was always very kind to me, poor lady. I must come!"

"She won't keep her head, " Sir Chichester objected, who was fast losinghis. But Milly Splay laid her hand upon the girl's arm. 

"Yes, you shall come with us, Jenny, " she said gently, and the four ofthem moved out of the room. 

The others followed them as far as the hall, and stood grouped at thefoot of the staircase. 

"Miranda, would you like to go out into the air?" Dennis Brown askedwith solicitude of his wife. 

"No, dear, I am all right. I--oh, poor woman!" and with a sob shedropped her face in her hands. 

"Hush!" Luttrell called sharply for silence, and a moment afterwards, aloud shrill scream rent the air like lightning. 

Miranda cowered from it. 

"Jenny Prask!" said Hillyard. 

"Then--then--the news is true, " faltered Miranda, and she would havefallen but for the arm of her husband about her waist. 

They waited until Sir Chichester came down the stairs to them. He wasshaken and trembling. He, the spectator of dramas, was now a characterin one most tragically enacted under his own roof. 

"The report is true to the letter, " he said in a low voice. "Dennis, will you go for McKerrel, the doctor. You know his house in Midhurst. Will you take your car, and bring him back. There is nothing more thatwe can do until he comes. " He stood for a little while by the table inthe hall, staring down at it, and taking particular note of its grain. 

"A curious thing, " he said. "The key of her room is missing altogether. "

To no one did it come at this moment that the disappearance of the keywas to prove a point of vast importance. No one made any comment, andSir Chichester fell to silence again. "She looked like a childsleeping, " he said at length, "a child without a care. "

Then he sat down and took the newspaper from his pocket. Mr. Albany Toddsuddenly advanced to Harry Luttrell. He had been no less observant thanMartin Hillyard. 

"You alone, Colonel Luttrell, " he said, "were not surprised. "

"I was not, " answered Harry frankly. "I was shocked, but not surprised. For I knew Mrs. Croyle at a time when she was so tormented that shecould not sleep at all. During that time she learnt to take drugs, andespecially that drug in precisely that way that the newspaperdescribed. "

The men drifted out of the hall on to the lawn, leaving Sir Chichesterbrooding above the outspread sheets of the _Harpoon_. Here was theinsoluble sinister question to which somehow he had to find an answer. Stella Croyle died late last night, in the country, at Rackham Park; andyet in this very morning's issue of the newspaper, her death with everycircumstance and detail was truthfully recorded, hours before it waseven known by anybody in the house itself. 

"How can that be?" Sir Chichester exclaimed in despair. "How can itbe?"

CHAPTER XXIX

JENNY PUTS UP HER FIGHT

Stella, the undisciplined! She had flung out of the rank and file, aslong ago Sir Charles Hardiman had put it, and to this end she had come, waywardness exacting its inexorable price. Harry Luttrell, however, wasnot able to lull his conscience with any such easy reflections. Hewalked with Martin Hillyard apart in the garden. 

"I am to blame, " he cried. "I took on a responsibility for Stella when Iwent out of my way to do one kind, foolish thing.... Yet, she would havekilled herself if I hadn't--as she has done five years afterwards!... Icouldn't leave her when I had brought her home ... She was in suchmisery!... And it couldn't have gone on.... Old Hardiman was right aboutthat.... It would have ended in a quarrel when unforgivable words wouldhave been used.... Yet, perhaps, if that had happened she wouldn't havekilled herself.... Oh, I don't know!"

Martin Hillyard had never seen Harry Luttrell so moved or sunk in suchremorse. He did not argue, lest he should but add fuel to this highflame of self-reproach. Life had become so much easier as a problem withhim, so much inner probing and speculation and worry about smallvanities had been smoothed away since he had been engaged day after dayin a definite service which was building up by a law deduced here, aninspired formula there, a tradition for its servants. The service, thetradition, would dissolve and blow to nothing, when peace came again. Meanwhile there was the worth of traditional service made clear to him, in an indifference to the little enmities which before would have hurtand rankled, in a freedom from doubt when decision was needed, above allin a sort of underlying calm which strengthened as his life became moreturbulently active. 

"It's a clear principle of life which make the difference, " he said, hesitating, because to say even so much made him feel a prig. "Stellajust drifted from unhappiness to unhappiness----"

But Harry Luttrell had no attention to give to him. 

"I simply couldn't have gone on, " he cried. "It wasn't a question of myruin or not.... It was simply beyond me to go on.... There were otherthings more powerful.... You know! I once told you on the river aboveKennington Island.... Oh, my God, I am in such a tangle of argument--andthere she is up there--only thirty, and beautiful--such a queer, waywardkid--'like a child sleeping. '"

He quoted Sir Chichester's phrase, and hurried away from his friend. 

"I shall be back in a little while, " he muttered. His bad hour was uponhim, and he must wrestle with it alone. 

Martin Hillyard returned to the hall, and found Sir Chichester with thedoctor, a short, rugged Scotsman. Dr. McKerrel was saying:

"There's nothing whatever for me to do, Sir Chichester, " he said. "Thepoor creature must have died somewhere about one o'clock of themorning. " He saw Sir Chichester with a start fall once more to readingthe paragraph in the _Harpoon_, and continued with a warmth ofadmiration, "Eh, but those newspaper fellows are quick! I saw the_Harpoon_ this morning, and it was lucky I did. For I'd ha' been on myrounds otherwise when that young fellow called for me. "

"It was good of you to come so quickly, " said Sir Chichester. 

"I shall charge for it, " replied Dr. McKerrel. "I'll just step round tothe Peace Officer at once, and I'll be obliged if you'll not have thatglass with the chloroform touched again. I have put it aside. "

Martin Hillyard was disturbed. 

"There will have to be an inquest then?" he asked. 

"Aye, but there wull. "

"In a case of this kind, " Sir Chichester suggested, "it would be betterif it could be avoided. "

"But it can't, " answered Dr. McKerrel bluntly. "And for my part, I tellyou frankly, Sir Chichester, I have no great pity for poor neuroticbodies like the young lady upstairs. If she had had a little of my workto do, she would have been too tired in the evening to think about herworries. " He looked at the disconsolate Baronet with a sudden twinkle inhis eye. "Eh, man, but you'll get all the publicity you want over thiscase. "

Sir Chichester had no rejoinder to the quip; and his unwonted meeknesscaused McKerrel to relent. He stopped at the door, and said:

"I'll give you a hint. The coroner can cut the inquest down to thebarest necessary limits, if he has got all the facts clear beforehand. If he has got to explore in the dark, he'll ask questions here andquestions there, and you never know, nor does he, what he's going todrag out to light in the end. But let him have it all clear and straightfirst! There's only one character I know of, more free from regulationsand limitations and red-tape than a coroner, and that's thepolice-sergeant who runs the coroner. Goodday to you. "

A telegram was brought to Martin Hillyard whilst McKerrel was yetspeaking; and Hillyard read it with relief. Mario Escobar had been takenthat morning as he was leaving the hotel for the morning train toLondon. He was now on his way to an internment camp. So thatcomplication was smoothed out at all events. He agreed with SirChichester Splay that it would be prudent to carry out McKerrel'ssuggestion at once. 

"I will make the document out, " said Sir Chichester importantly. Givehim a little work which set him in the limelight as the leader of theChorus, and nothing could keep down his spirits. He took a sheet offoolscap, a blotting pad, a heavy inkstand, and a quill pen--SirChichester never used anything but a quill pen--to the big table in themiddle of the hall, and wrote in a fair, round hand:

"The case of Mrs. Croyle. "

and looked at his work and thought it good. 

"It looks quite like a _cause célèbre_, doesn't it?" he said buoyantly. But he caught Martin Hillyard's eye, and recovered his more becomingdespondency. Harry Luttrell came in as the baronet settled once more tohis task. He laid a shining key upon the table and said:

"I found this upon the lawn. It looked as if it might be the key of Mrs. Croyle's room. "

It was undoubtedly the key of a door. "We'll find out, " said thebaronet. Harper was sent for and commissioned to inquire. He returned ina few minutes. 

"Yes, sir, it is the key of Mrs. Croyle's room. " He laid it upon thetable and went out of the room. 

"I suppose it is then, " said Harry Luttrell. "But I am a littlepuzzled. "

"Oh?"

"It wasn't lying beneath Mrs. Croyle's window as one might haveexpected. But at the east side of the house, below the corridor, andalmost in front of the glass door of the library. "

Both of his hearers were disturbed. Sir Chichester took up the key, andtwisted it this way and that, till it flashed like a point of fire inthe sunlight; as though under such giddy work it would yield up itssecret for the sake of peace. He flung it on the table again, where itrattled and lay still. 

"I can't make head or tail of it, " Sir Chichester cried. Martin Hillyardopened his mouth to speak and thought better of it. He could not falterin his belief that Stella had destroyed herself. The picture of her thatmorning in Surrey, with the lamps burning in her room and the beduntouched, was too vivid in his memory. What she had tried to do twoyears ago, she had found the courage to do to-day. 

That was sure. But it was not all. There was some one in the shadows whomeant harm, more harm than was already accomplished. There wasmalevolence at work. The discovery of the key in that position far fromStella's window assured him of it. The aspect of the key itself as itlay upon the table made the assurance still more sure. But whom was thismalevolence to hurt? And how? At what moment would the hand behind thecurtain strike? And whose hand would it be? These were questions whichlocked his lips tight. It was for him to watch and discover, for healone overlooked the battle-field, and if he failed, God help hisfriends at Rackham Park. Mario Escobar? Mario Escobar could at allevents do no harm now. 

Sir Chichester explained to Harry Luttrell Dr. McKerrel's suggestion. 

"Just a clear, succinct statement of the facts. The witnesses, and whateach one knows and is ready to depose. I shall put the statement beforethe coroner, who is a very good fellow, and we shall escape with aslittle scandal as possible. Now, let me see----" Sir Chichester put onhis glasses. "The most important witness, of course, will be Stella'smaid. "

Sir Chichester rang the bell, and in answer to his summons Jenny camedown the stairs. Her eyes were red with weeping and she was very pale. But she bore herself steadily. 

"You wanted me, sir?" she asked. Her eyes travelled from one to theother of the three men in the hall. They rested for a little momentlonger upon Harry Luttrell than upon the rest; and it seemed to Hillyardthat as they rested there they glittered strangely, and that the ghostof a smile flickered about her mouth. 

"Yes, " said Sir Chichester, pompously. "You understand that there willhave to be an inquiry into the cause of Mrs. Croyle's death; and onewants for the sake of everybody, your dead mistress more than any one, that there should be as little talk as possible. "

Jenny's voice cut in like ice. 

"Mrs. Croyle had no reason that I know of to fear the fullest inquiry. "

"Quite so! Quite so!" returned Sir Chichester, shifting his ground. "Butit will save time if we get the facts concisely together. "

Jenny stepped forward, and stood at the end of the table opposite to thebaronet. 

"I am quite willing, sir, " she said respectfully, "to answer anyquestion now or at any time"; and throughout the little interrogatorywhich followed she never once changed from her attitude of respect. 

"Your name first. "

"Jenny Prask, " and Sir Chichester wrote it down. 

"You have been Mrs. Croyle's maid for some time. "

"For three and a half years, sir. "

"Good!" said Sir Chichester, with the air of one who by an artfulquestion has elicited a most important piece of evidence. 

"Now!" But now he fumbled. He had come to the real examination, and wasat a loss how to begin. "Yes, now then, Jenny!" and again he came to ahalt. 

Whilst Jenny waited, her eyes once glittered strangely under theirhalf-dropped lids; and Martin Hillyard followed the direction of theirgaze to the door-key lying upon the table beside Sir Chichester's hand. 

"Jenny, " said Sir Chichester, who had at last formulated a question. "You informed us that Mrs. Croyle instructed you last night not to callher until she rang. That, no doubt, was an unusual order for her togive. "

"No, sir. "

Sir Chichester leaned back in his chair. 

"Oh, it wasn't?"

"No, sir. "

Sir Chichester looked a little blank. He cast about for another line ofexamination. 

"You are aware, of course, Jenny, that your mistress was in the habit oftaking drugs--chloroform especially. "

"Never, sir, " answered Jenny. 

"You weren't aware of it?" exclaimed Sir Chichester. 

"She never took them. "

Harry Luttrell made a little movement. He stared in perplexity at JennyPrask, who did not once remove her calm and respectful eyes from SirChichester Splay. She waited in absolute composure for the nextquestion. But the question took a long time to formulate. Sir Chichesterhad framed no interrogatory in a sequence; whereas Jenny's answers werepat, as though, sitting by the bed whereon her dead mistress lay, shehad thought out the questions which might be asked of her and got heranswers ready. Sir Chichester began to get flurried. At every conjecturewhich he expressed, Jenny Prask slammed a door in his face. 

"But you told me----" he cried, turning to Harry Luttrell and so brokeoff. "Are you speaking the truth, Jenny?"

Suddenly Jenny's composure broke up. The blood rushed into her face. Sheshouted violently:

"I swear it! If it was my last dying word, I do! Chloroform indeed!" Shebecame sarcastic. "What an idea! Just fancy!"

Sir Chichester threw down his pen. He was aghast before the conclusionto which his examination was leading him. 

"But, if Stella didn't put that glass of chloroform between herpillows--herself--of her own accord--why then, whilst she wasasleep----" He would not utter the inevitable induction. But it wasclear enough, hideous enough to all of them. Why then, whilst she wasasleep, some one entered the room, placed the chloroform where itsdeadly fumes would do their work, locked her door upon her and tossedthe key out on to the lawn. A charge of murder--nothing less. 

"Don't you see what you are suggesting, Jenny, " Sir Chichesterspluttered helplessly. 

"I am suggesting nothing, sir, " the maid answered stolidly. "I amanswering questions. "

She was lying, of course! Hillyard had not a doubt of it. Jenny Praskwas the malevolent force of which he was in search. So much had, at allevents, sprung clear from Sir Chichester's blunderings. And some hint, too, of the plan which malevolence had formed--not more than a hint!That Jenny Prask intended to sustain a charge of murder Martin did notbelieve. She was of too strong a brain for that folly. But she had someclear purpose to harm somebody; and Martin's heart sank as heconjectured who that some one might, nay must, be. Meanwhile, hethought, let Sir Chichester pursue his questioning. He got glimpsesthrough that clouded medium into Jenny Prask's mind. 

"You must realise, Jenny, the unfortunate position into which youranswers are leading you, " said Sir Chichester with a trace of bluster. 

Hillyard could have laughed. As if she didn't realise exactly the driftand meaning of every word which she uttered. Jenny was not at allperturbed by Sir Chichester's manner. Her face took on a puzzled look. 

"I don't understand, sir. "

"No? Let me make it clear! If your mistress never took drugs, if she didnot place the glass of chloroform in the particular position which wouldensure her death, then, since you, her maid, were alone in this part ofthe house with her and were the last person to see her alive----"

"No, sir, " Jenny Prask interrupted. 

Sir Chichester stared. He was more and more out of his depth, and thesewere waters in which expert swimming was required. 

"I don't understand. Do you say that somebody saw Mrs. Croyle after shehad dismissed you for the night?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Will you please explain?"

The explanation was as simple as possible. Jenny had first fetched abook for her mistress from the library, before the house-party left forthe ball. She then had supper and went to Mrs. Croyle's room. It wasthen about half-past nine, so far as she could conjecture. Her mistress, however, was not ready for bed, and dismissed Jenny, saying that shewould look after herself. Jenny thereupon retired to her own bedroom andwrote a letter. After writing it, she remembered that she had not putout the distilled water which Mrs. Croyle was in the habit of using forher toilet. She accordingly returned to Mrs. Croyle's bedroom, and toher surprise found it empty. She waited for a quarter of an hour, andthen becoming uneasy, went downstairs into the hall. She heard hermistress and some one else talking in the library. Their voices wereraised a little as though they were quarrelling. 

"Quarrelling!" Sir Chichester Splay cried out the word in dismay. Hishand flapped feebly on the table. "I am afraid to go on.... What do youthink, Hillyard? I am afraid to go on.... "

"We must go on, " said Luttrell quietly. He was very white. Did he guesswhat was coming, Hillyard wondered? At all events he did not falter. Hetook the business of putting questions altogether out of his host'shands. 

"Was the somebody a man or a woman?"

"A woman, sir. "

"Did you recognise her voice?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Who was it?"

"Miss Whitworth. "

Harry Luttrell nodded his head as if he had, during these last minutes, come to expect that answer and no other. But Sir Chichester rose up inwrath and, leaning forward over the table, shook his fingerthreateningly at the girl. 

"Now you know you are not speaking the truth. Miss Whitworth was atHarrel last night with the rest of us. "

"Yes, sir, but she came back to Rackham Park almost at once, " saidJenny; and Harry Luttrell's face showed a sign of anxiety. After all, hehadn't seen Joan himself in the ball-room until well after ten o'clock. "I should have known that it was Miss Whitworth even if I had not heardher voice, " and Jenny described how, on fetching Mrs. Croyle's book, shehad seen Joan unlatch the glass door of the library. 

Sir Chichester was shaken, but he pushed his blotting-paper here and hispen there, and pished and tushed like a refractory child. 

"And how did she get back? I suppose she ran all the way in her satinshoes and back again, eh?"

"No, sir, she came back in Mrs. Brown's motor-car. I saw it from mybedroom window waiting in the drive. "

"Ah! Now that we can put to the test, Jenny, " cried Sir Chichestertriumphantly. "And we will----" He caught Hillyard's eye as he movedtowards the door in order to summon Miranda from the garden. Hillyardwarned him with an almost imperceptible shake of the head. "Yes, wewill, in our own time, " he concluded lamely. His anger burst out again. "Joan, indeed! We won't have her mixed up in this sordid business, it'sbad enough as it is. But Joan, no! To suggest that Joan came straightback from the Willoughbys' dance in order to quarrel with a woman whomshe was seeing every day here, and, having quarrelled with her, afterwards----No, I won't speak the word. It's preposterous!"

"But I don't suggest, sir, that Miss Whitworth came back in order toquarrel with my mistress, " Jenny Prask returned, as soon as SirChichester's spate of words ran down. "I only give you the facts I know. I am quite sure that Miss Whitworth can quite easily explain why shecame back to Rackham Park last night. There can't be any difficultyabout that!"

Jenny Prask had kept every intonation of her voice under her control. There was no hint of irony or triumph. She was a respectful lady's maid, frankly answering questions about her dead mistress. But she did not sosuccessfully keep sentinel over her looks. She could not but glance fromtime to time at Harry Luttrell savouring his trouble and anxiety; andwhen she expressed her conviction that Joan could so easily clear upthese mysteries, such a flame of hatred burnt suddenly in her eyes thatit lit Martin Hillyard straight to the heart of her purpose. 

"So that's it, " he thought, and was terrified as he grasped its reach. An accusation of murder! Oh, nothing so crude. But just enoughsuggestion of the possibility of murder to make it absolutely necessarythat Joan Whitworth should go into the witness box at the coroner'sinquest and acknowledge before the world that she had hurried secretlyback from Harrel to meet Mario Escobar in an empty house. Mario Escobartoo! Of all people, Mario Escobar! Jenny Prask had builded better thanshe knew. That telegram which Martin had welcomed with so much reliefbut an hour ago taunted him now. The scandal would have been bad enoughif Mario Escobar were nothing more than the shady hunter of women he wassupposed to be. It would be ten times louder now that Mario Escobar hadbeen interned as a traitor within twelve hours of the secret meeting!

Some escape must be discovered from the peril. Else the mud of it wouldcling to Joan all her life. She would be spoilt. Harry Luttrell, too! Ifhe married her, if he did not. But Martin could not think of a way out. The whole plan was an artful, devilish piece of hard-headed cunning. Martin fell to wondering where was Jenny Prask's weak joint. Shecertainly looked, with her quiet strength, as if she had not one at all. 

To make matters worse, Miranda Brown chose this moment to re-enter thehall. Sir Chichester, warned already by Martin, threw the warning to thewinds. 

"Miranda, you are the very person to help us, " he cried. "Now listen tome, my dear, and don't get flurried. Think carefully, for your answermay have illimitable consequences! After your arrival at Harrel lastnight, did Joan return here immediately in your car?"

Sir Chichester had never been so impressive. Miranda was frightened andchanged colour. But she had given her promise and she kept it pluckily. 

"No, " she answered. 

Jenny Prask permitted herself to smile her disbelief. Sir Chichester wastriumphant. 

"Well, there's an end of your pretty story, my girl, " he said. "Youwanted to do a little mischief, did you? Well, you haven't! And here, bya stroke of luck, is Joan herself to settle the matter. "

He sat down and once more he drew his sheet of foolscap in front of him. He could write his clear succinct statement now, write it in "nervousprose. " He was not quite sure what nervous prose actually was, but heknew it to be the correct medium to use on these occasions. 

Meanwhile Joan ran down the stairs. 

"I am afraid I have been very lazy this morning, " she cried. She sawHarry Luttrell, she coloured to the eyes, she smiled doubtfully and saidin a little whimsical voice, "We didn't after all, practise in thepassage. "

Then, and only then, did she realise that something was amiss. MillieSplay in her desire to spare her darling the sudden shock of learningwhat calamity had befallen the house that night had bidden Joan's maidkeep silence. She herself would break the news. But Millie Splay wasbusy with telegrams to Robert Croyle and Stella's own friends, and allthe sad little duties which wait on death; and Joan ran down into themidst of the debate without a warning. 

Martin Hillyard would have given it to her, but Sir Chichester was hotupon his report. 

"Joan, my dear, " he said confidently. "There's a little point--not indispute really--but--well there's a little point. It has been said thatyou came straight back here last night from Harrel?"

Joan's face turned slowly white. She stood with her great eyes fixedupon Sir Chichester, still as an image, and she did not answer a word. Harry Luttrell drew in a quick breath like a man in pain. Sir Chichesterwas selecting a new pen and noticed nothing. 

"It's ridiculous, of course, my dear, but I must put to you the formalquestion. Did you?"

"Yes, " answered Joan, and the pen fell from Sir Chichester's hand. 

"But--but--how did you come back?"

"I borrowed Miranda's car. "

Miranda's legs gave under her and she sank down with a moan in a chair. 

"But Miranda denies that she lent it, " said Sir Chichester inexasperation. 

"I asked her to deny it. "

"Why?"

Joan's eyes for one swift instant swept round to Harry Luttrell. Sheswayed. Then she answered:

"I can't tell you. "

Sir Chichester rose to his feet and tore his sheet of foolscap across. 

"God bless my soul!" he said to himself rather than to any of thatcompany. "God bless my soul!" He moved away from the table. "I thinkI'll go and see Millie. Yes! I'll consult with Millie, " and he ascendedthe stairs heavily, a very downcast and bewildered man. It seemed asthough old age had suddenly found him out, and bowed his shoulders andtaken the spring from his limbs. Something of this he felt himself, forhe was heard to mutter as he passed along the landing to his wife'ssitting-room:

"I am not the man I was. I feel difficulties more"; and so he passedfrom sight. 

Harry Luttrell turned then to Joan. 

"Miss Whitworth, " he began and got no further. For the blood rushed upinto the girl's face and she exclaimed in a trembling voice:

"Colonel Luttrell, I trust that you are not going to ask me anyquestions. "

"Why?" he asked, taken aback by the little touch of violence in hermanner. 

"Because, at twelve o'clock last night, I refused you the right to askthem. "

The words were not very generous. They were meant to hurt and they did. They were meant to put a sharp, quick end to any questioning; and inthat, too, they succeeded. Harry Luttrell bowed his head in assent andwent out into the garden. For a moment afterwards Martin Hillyard, Joanand Jenny Prask stood in silence; and in that silence once more Martin'seyes fell upon the key of Stella's room. The earth had moved since theinterrogatory had begun and the sunlight now played upon the key andtransmuted it into a bright jewel. Martin Hillyard stepped forward andlifted it up. A faint, a very faint light, as from the far end of a longtunnel began to glimmer in his mind. 

"I must think it out, " he whispered to himself; and at once the keyfilled all his thoughts. He turned to Joan:

"Will you watch, please?" He opened the drawer in the table and laid thekey inside it. Then he closed the drawer and locked it and took the keyof the drawer out of the lock. 

"You see, Joan, what I have done? That key is locked in this drawer, andI hold the key of the drawer. It may be important. "

Joan nodded. 

"I see what you have done. And now, will you please leave me with JennyPrask?"

The smile was very easy to read now in Jenny's face. She could asknothing better than to be left alone with Joan. 

Martin hesitated. 

"I think, Joan, that you ought to see Lady Splay before you talk to anyone, " he counselled gently. 

"Is everybody going to give me orders in this house?" Joan retorted witha quiet, dangerous calm. 

Martin Hillyard turned and ran swiftly up the stairs. There was but onething to do. Lady Splay must be fetched down. But hurry as he might, hewas not in time. For a few seconds Joan and Jenny Prask were alone inthe hall, and all Jenny's composure left her on the instant. She steppedquickly over to Joan, and in a voice vibrating with hatred and passion, she hissed:

"But you'll have to say why you came back. You'll have to say who youcame back to see. You'll have to say it publicly too--right there incourt. It'll be in all the papers. Won't you like it, Miss Whitworth?Just fancy!"

Joan was staggered by the attack. The sheer hatred of Jenny bewilderedher. 

"In court?" she faltered. "What do you mean?"

"That Mrs. Croyle died of poison last night in her room, " answeredJenny. 

Joan stared at her. "Last night, after we had talked--she killedherself--oh!" The truth reached her brain and laid a chill hand upon herheart. She rocked backwards and forwards as she stood, and with agasping moan fell headlong to the ground. She had fainted. For a littlewhile Jenny surveyed her handiwork with triumph. She bent down with alaugh. 

"Yes, it's your turn, you pretty doll. You've got to go through it! Youwon't look so young and pretty when they have done with you in thewitness-box. Bah!"

Jenny Prask was a strenuous hater. She drew back her foot to kick theunconscious girl as she lay at her feet upon the floor. But that insultMillie Splay was in time to prevent. 

"Jenny, " she cried sharply from the balustrade of the landing. 

Jenny was once more the quiet, respectful maid. 

"Yes, my lady. You want me? I am afraid that Miss Whitworth hasfainted. "

CHAPTER XXX

A REVOLUTION IN SIR CHICHESTER

Upon that house which had yesterday rung with joyous life now fell gloomand sorrow and grave disquiet. Millie Splay drew Miranda, Dennis Brownand Harold Jupp aside. 

"You three had better go, " she said. "You have such a little time forholidays now; and I can always telegraph for you if you should bewanted. "

Miranda bubbled into little sympathetic explosions. 

"Oh, Millie, I'll stay, of course. These boys can go. But Joan will wantsome one. "

Millie, however, would not hear of it. 

"You're a brick, Miranda. But I have ordered the car for you allimmediately after luncheon. Joan's in bed, and wants to see no one. Sheseems heartbroken. She will say nothing. I can't understand her. "

There was only one at Rackham Park who did, and to him Millie Splayturned instinctively. 

"I should like you to stay, if you will put up with us. I thinkChichester feels at a loss, and he likes you very much. "

"Of course I'll stay, " replied Hillyard. 

Mr. Albany Todd drifted away to the more congenial atmosphere of adowager duchess's dower-house in the Highlands, where it is to be hopedthat his conversational qualities were more brilliantly displayed thanin the irreverent gaiety of Rackham. Millie Splay meant to keep HarryLuttrell too. She hoped against hope. This was the man for her Joan, andwhether he was wasting his leave miserably in that melancholy housetroubled her not one jot. 

"It would be so welcome to me if you would put off your departure, " shesaid. "I am sure there is some dreadful misunderstanding. "

Luttrell consented willingly to stay, and they went into the library, where Sir Chichester was brooding over the catastrophe with his head inhis hands and the copy of the _Harpoon_ on the floor beside him. 

"No, I can't make head or tail of it, " he said, and Harper the butlercame softly into the room, closing the door from the hall. 

"There's a reporter from the _West Sussex Advertiser_, sir, asking tosee you, " he said, and Sir Chichester raised his head, like an oldhunter which hears a pack of hounds giving tongue in the distance. 

"Where is he?"

"In the hall, sir. "

The baronet's head sank again between his shoulders. 

"Tell him that I can't see him, " he said in a dull voice. 

The butler was the only man in the room who could hear thatpronouncement with an unmoved face, and he owed his imperturbabilitymerely to professional pride. Indeed, it was almost unthinkable that acouple of hours could produce so vast a revolution in a man. Here was areporter who had come, without being asked, to interview Sir ChichesterSplay, and the baronet would not see him! The incongruity struck SirChichester himself. 

"Perhaps it will seem rather impolite, eh, Luttrell? Rather hardtreatment on a man who has come so far? What do you think, Hillyard? Isuppose I ought to see him for a moment--yes. " Sir Chichester raised hisvoice in a sharp cry which contrasted vividly with the deliberativesentences preceding it. "Harper! Harper!" and Harper reappeared. "I havebeen thinking about it, Harper. The unfortunate man may lose his wholemorning if I don't see him. We all agree that to send him away would beunkind. "

"He has gone, sir. "

"Gone?" exclaimed Sir Chichester testily. "God bless my soul! Did heseem disappointed, Harper?"

"Not so much disappointed, sir, as, if I may utilise a vulgarism, struckof all a heap, sir. "

"That will do, Harper, " said Millie Splay, and Harper again retired. 

"Struck all of a heap!" said Sir Chichester sadly. "Well he might be!"He looked up and caught Harry's eye. "They say, Luttrell, that breakinga habit is only distressing during the first few days. With each refusalof the mind to yield, the temptation diminishes in strength. I believethat to be so, Luttrell. "

"It is very likely, sir, " Harry replied. 

Harper seemed to be perpetually in and out of the library that morning. For he appeared with a little oblong parcel in his hand. Sir Chichesterdid not notice the parcel. He sprang up, and with a distinct note ofeager pleasure in his voice, he cried:

"He has come back! Then I really think----"

"No, sir, " Harper interrupted. "These are cigarettes. "

"Oh, yes, " Hillyard stepped forward and took the parcel from the table. "I had run out, so I sent to Midhurst for a box. "

"Oh, cigarettes!" Sir Chichester's voice sagged again. He contemplatedthe little parcel swinging by a loop of string from Martin's finger. Hisface became a little stern. "That's a bad habit, Hillyard, " he observed, shaking his head. "It will grow on you--nicotine poisoning may superveneat any moment. You had better begin to break yourself of it at once. Ithink so. "

"Chichester!" cried Millie Splay. "What in the world are you doing?"

Sir Chichester was gently but firmly removing the parcel from Martin'shands, whilst Martin himself looked on, paralysed by the aggression. 

"A little strength of character, Hillyard.... You saw me a minuteago.... The first few days, I believe, are trying. "

Martin sought to retrieve his cigarettes, but Sir Chichester laid themaside upon a high mantelpiece, as if Hillyard were a child and could notreach them. 

"No, don't disappoint me, Hillyard! I am sure that you, too, can riseabove a temptation. Why should I be the only one?"

But Hillyard did not answer. Sir Chichester's desire that he should havea companion in sacrifice set a train of thought working in his mind. Inthe hurry and horror of that morning something had beenforgotten--something of importance, something which perhaps, togetherwith the key locked away in the hall table, might set free Joan's feetfrom the net in which they were entangled. He looked at his watch. 

"Will you lend me your car, Harry, for a few hours?" he asked suddenly. 

"Yes. "

"Then I'll go, " said Martin. "I will be back this afternoon or evening, Lady Splay. " He went to the door, but was delayed by a box of Coronacigars upon a small table. "I'll take one of your cigars, SirChichester, " he said drily. 

"Anything in the house, of course, my boy, " began the baronethospitably, and pulled himself up. "A very bad habit, Hillyard. Youdisappoint me. "

A trick of secrecy grows quickly upon men doing the work to which MartinHillyard had been assigned during the last two years. Nothing is easierthan to reach a frame of mind which drives you about with your finger toyour lips, whispering "Hush! hush!" over the veriest trifles. Hillyardhad not reached that point, but, like many other persons of his service, he was on the way to it. He gave no information now to any one of hispurpose or destination, not even to Millie Splay, who came out with himalone into the hall, yearning for some crumb of hope. All that he saidto her was:

"It is possible that I may be later than I think; but I shall certainlybe back to-night. " And he drove off in Luttrell's powerful small car. 

It was, in fact, ten o'clock when Hillyard returned to Rackham Park. There was that in his manner which encouraged the inmates to hope someway out had been discovered. Questions were poured upon him, and someinformation given. The date of the inquest had been fixed for the nextMonday, and meanwhile no statement of any kind had been put before thecoroner. Jenny had not yielded by an inch. She would certainly tell herstory with all the convincing force behind it of her respectful quietmanner and her love for her mistress. 

"I have something to tell you, " said Martin. "But I have had no dinner, and am starving. I will tell you whilst I eat. "

"Shall I fetch Joan down?" Millie Splay asked eagerly. 

"Better to wait, " said Martin. He imagined in what a fever of anxietyJoan would be. It would be time enough to lift her to hope when it wascertain that the hope would not crumble away to dust. 

Joan was at that moment lying on her bed in the darkness of her room, her face towards the moonlit garden, and such a terror of the ordeal tobe faced the next Monday in her thoughts as turned her cold and sent herheart fluttering into her throat. Mario Escobar had been taken away thatmorning. The news had reached Rackham, as it had reached every otherhouse in the country-side. Joan knew of it, and she felt soiled andhumiliated beyond endurance as she thought upon her association with thespy. 

The picture of the room crowded with witnesses, and people whom sheknew, and strangers, whilst she gave the evidence which would turn theirliking for her into contempt and suspicion would fade away from beforeher eyes, and the summer afternoon on Duncton Hill glow in its place. She had bidden Hillyard look at the Weald of Sussex, that he might carrythe smell of its soil, the aspect of its blooms and dark woodlands andbrown cottages away with him as a treasure to which he could secretlyturn like a miser to his gold; and she herself, with them ever beforeher eyes, had forgotten them altogether. To sink back into the rank andfile--how fine she had thought it, and how little she had heeded it! Nowshe had got to pay for her heedlessness, and she buried her face in herpillows and lay shivering. 

Meanwhile, in the dining-room downstairs, Millie Splay, Sir Chichesterand Harry Luttrell gathered about Martin at the table whilst he ate coldbeef and drank a pint of champagne. 

"I went up to London to see some one on the editorial staff of the_Harpoon_, " Martin explained. "There were two questions I wanted answersfor, if I could get them. You see, according to McKerrel--and you, SirChichester, say that he is a capable man--Stella Croyle died at one inthe morning. "

"Yes, " Sir Chichester agreed. 

"_About_ one, " Harry Luttrell corrected, with the exactness of thesoldierly mind. 

"'About' will do, " Martin rejoined. "For newspapers go to press earlynowadays. The _Harpoon_ would have been made up, and most of theeditorial staff would have gone home an hour--yes, actually anhour--before Mrs. Croyle died here at Rackham in Sussex. Yet the news isin that very issue. How did that happen? How did the news reach theoffice of the _Harpoon_ an hour before the event occurred?"

"Yes, that is what has been bothering me, " added Sir Chichester. 

"Well, that was one question, " Martin resumed. "Here's the other. How, when the news had reached the _Harpoon_ office, did it get printed inthe paper?"

Millie Splay found no difficulty in providing an explanation of that. 

"It's sensational, " she said disdainfully. 

Martin shook his head. 

"I don't think that's enough. The _Harpoon_, like lots of othernewspapers, has its social column, and in that column, no doubt, aparagraph like this one about Stella would have a certain sensationalvalue. But supposing it wasn't true! A libel action follows, followsinevitably. A great deal would be said about the unscrupulousrecklessness involved; the judge would come down like a cartload ofbricks and the paper would get badly stung. No editor of any reliablepaper would run such a risk. No sub-editor, left behind with power toalter and insert, would have taken the responsibility. Before he printedthat item of news he would want corroboration of its truth. That'scertain. How did he get it? It was true news, and it was corroborated. But, again, it was corroborated before the event happened. How?"

"I haven't an idea, " cried Sir Chichester. "I thought I knew somethingabout getting things into the papers, but I see that I am a baby at it. "

"It's much the more difficult question of the two, " Hillyard agreed. "But we will go back to the first one. How did the news reach the_Harpoon_ office yesterday night? Perhaps you can guess?" and he lookedtowards Harry Luttrell. 

Luttrell, however, was at a loss. 

"It's beyond me, " he replied, and Martin Hillyard understood how thatone morning at the little hotel under the Hog's Back had given to himand him alone the key by which the door upon these dark things might beunlocked. 

"The news arrived in the form of a letter marked urgent, which washanded in by the chauffeur of a private motor-car just after midnight. Of the time there is no doubt. I saw the editor myself. The issue wouldalready have gone to press, but late news was expected that night fromFrance, and the paper was waiting for it. Instead this letter came. "

A look of bewilderment crept into the faces of the group about thetable. 

"But who in the world could have written it?" cried Sir Chichester inexasperation. 

"It was written over your name. "

"Mine?"

The bewilderment in Millie Splay's face deepened into anxiety. Shelooked at her husband with a sudden sinking of her heart. Had his foibledeveloped into a madness? Such things had been. A little gasp broke fromher lips. 

"But not in your handwriting, " Hillyard hastened to add. 

"Whose then?" asked Harry Luttrell suddenly. 

"Stella's, " answered Hillyard. 

A shiver ran from one to the other of that small company, and discomfortkept them silent. A vague dread stole in upon their minds. It was asthough some uncanny presence were in the room. They had eaten withStella Croyle in this room, played with her out there in the sunlitgarden, and only one of them had suspected the overwhelming despairwhich had driven her so hard. They began to blame themselves. "Poorwoman! Poor woman!" Millie Splay whispered in a moan. 

Sir Chichester broke the silence. 

"But we left Stella here when we went to Harrel, " he began, and Hillyardinterrupted him. 

"There's no doubt that Stella sent the message, " he said. "Your car, Mrs. Brown's and Luttrell's, were all used to take us to Harrel. One carremained in your garage--Stella's. "

"But there wouldn't be time for that car to reach London. " SirChichester fought against Hillyard's statement. He did not want tobelieve it. He did not want to think of it. It brought him within toonear a view of that horrid brink where overtried nature grows dizzy andwhirls down into blackness. 

"Just time, " Hillyard answered relentlessly, "if you will follow me. Joan certainly returned here last night--that I know, as you know. Butshe was back again in the ball-room at Harrel within a few minutes often o'clock. She must have left Mrs. Croyle a quarter before ten--that, at the latest. "

"Yes, " Millie Splay agreed. 

"Well, I have myself crossed Putney Bridge after leaving here, withinten minutes under the two hours. And that in the daytime. Stella hadtime enough for her purpose. It was night and little traffic on theroad. She writes her letter, sends Jenny with it to the garage, and thecar reaches the _Harpoon_ office by twelve. "

"But its return?" asked Sir Chichester. 

"Simpler still. Your gates were left open last night, and we returnedfrom Harrel at four in the morning. Stella's chauffeur hands in hisletter, comes back by the way he went and is home here at Rackham anhour and a half before we thought of saying good-bye to Mrs. Willoughby. That is the way it happened. That is the way it must have happened, "Hillyard concluded energetically. "For it's the only way it could havehappened. "

Luttrell, though he had been a listener and nothing else throughoutMartin's statement, had cherished a hope that somehow it might bediscovered that Stella had died by an accident. That she should die byher own hand, in this house, under the same roof as Joan, and because ofone year which had ended at Stockholm--oh, to him a generationback!--was an idea of irrepressible horror. He could not shake off somesense of guiltiness. He had argued with it all that day, discovering themost excellent contentions, but at the end, not one of them hadsucceeded in weakening in the least degree his inward conviction that hehad his share in Stella's death. Unless her death was an accident, unless, using her drug, she fell asleep and so drifted unintentionallyout of life! He still caught at that hope. 

"Are you sure that the handwriting was Stella's?" he asked. 

"Quite. I saw the letter. "

"Did the editor give it to you?"

"No, he had to keep it for his own protection. "

"That's a pity, " said Harry. A pity--or a relief, since, without thatevidence before his eyes, he could still insist upon his pretence. 

"Not such a great pity, " answered Martin, and taking a letter from hispocket he threw it down upon the table, with the ghost of a smile uponhis face. "What do you think I have been doing during the last twoyears?" he asked drily. 

Harry pounced upon the letter and his first glance dispelled hisillusion--nay, proved to him that he had never had faith in it. For hesaw, without surprise, the broad strokes and the straight up-and-downletters familiar to him of old. Stella had always written rather like aman, a man without character. He had made a joke of it to her in thetime before the little jokes aimed by the one at the other had begun torasp. 

"Yes, she wrote the letter and signed it with Sir Chichester's name. "

Millie Splay reached out for the letter. 

"Stella took a big risk, " she said. "I don't understand it. She musthave foreseen that Chichester's hand was likely to be familiar in theoffice. "

"No, Millie, " said Sir Chichester suddenly, and he spurred his memory. "Of course! Of course! Stella helped me with the telephone one day thisweek in the library there. I told her that I was new to the _Harpoon_. "He suddenly beat upon the table with his fist. "But why should she writethe letter at all? Why should she want her death here, under thesestrange conditions, announced to the world? A little cruel I callit--yes, Millie, a little cruel. "

"Stella wasn't cruel, " said Lady Splay. 

"She wasn't, " Hillyard agreed. "I know why she wrote that. She wrote itto strengthen her hand and will at the last moment. The message wassent, the announcement of her death would be published in the morning, was already in print. Just that knowledge would serve as the finalcompulsion to do what she wished to do. She wrote lest her courage andnerve should at the last moment fail her, as to my knowledge they hadfailed her before. "

"Before!" cried Millie. "She had tried before! Oh, poor woman!"

"Yes, " said Hillyard, and he told them all of the vague but very realfear which had once driven him into Surrey in chase of her; of herbedroom with the bed unslept in and the lights still burning in theblaze of a summer morning; of herself sitting all night at herwriting-table, making dashes and figures upon the notepaper and unableto steel herself to the last dreadful act. 

Martin Hillyard gave no reason for her misery upon that occasion, nordid any one think to inquire. He just told the story from his heart, andtherefore with a great simplicity of words. There was not one of thosewho heard him, but was moved. 

"Yet there were perhaps a couple of hours in her life more grim andhorrible than any in that long night, " he went on, "the hours betweenten o'clock and midnight yesterday. "

"Ah, but we don't know how they were spent, " began Sir Chichester. 

"We know something, " returned Martin gravely. "I told you that thatletter was corroborated before the paragraph it contained was insertedin the paper. "

"Yes, " said Lady Splay. 

"Whilst they were waiting for the news from France, which did not come, they rang you up from the _Harpoon_ office. Yes: they rang up RackhamPark. "

Harry Luttrell snatched up the letter once more from the table. Yes, there across the left-hand corner was printed Sir Chichester's telephonenumber and the district exchange. 

"They were answered by a woman. Of that there's no doubt. And the womanassured them that Stella Croyle was dead. This was at a quarter-pasttwelve. "

There was a movement of horror about the table, and then, with dry lips, Millie Splay whispered:

"Stella!"

"Yes. It must have been, " answered Hillyard. "Oh, she had thought outher plan to its last detail. She knew the letter might not be enough. So, whilst we were all dancing at Harrel, she sat alone from ten tomidnight in that library, waiting for the telephone to ring, hopingperhaps--for all we know--at the bottom of her heart that it would notring. But it did, and she answered. "

The picture rose vividly before them all. Harrel, with its lightedball-room and joyous dancers on the one side; the silent library on theother, with Stella herself in all her finery, sitting with her haggardeyes fixed upon the telephone, whilst the slow minutes passed. 

"That's terrible, " said Millie Splay in a low voice; and such a wave ofpity swept over the four people that for a long while no further wordwas said. Joan upstairs in her room was forgotten. Any thought ofresentment in that Stella had used Sir Chichester's name was overlookedby the revelation of the long travail of her soul. 

"I remember that she once said to me, 'Women do get the worst of it whenthey kick over the traces, '" Hillyard resumed. "And undoubtedly they do. On the other hand you have McKerrel's hard-headed verdict, 'If thesepoor neurotic bodies had any work to do they wouldn't have so much timeto worry about their troubles. ' Who shall choose between them? And whatdoes it matter now? Stella's gone. She will strain her poor littleunhappy heart no more against the bars. "

CHAPTER XXXI

JENNY AND MILLIE SPLAY

After a time their thoughts reverted to the living. 

"There's Joan, " said Millie Splay. "Jenny Prask hates her. She means todrag her into some scandal. "

"If she can, " said Martin. He went out into the hall and returned withthe key of Stella Croyle's room. He held it up before them all. 

"This key was found on the lawn outside the library window this morningby Luttrell. Jenny has never referred to it since she ran downstairsthis morning crying out that the key was not in the lock. It was lyingon the hall table all through the time when Sir Chichester wasquestioning her, and she said never a word about it. She was much tooclever. But she saw it. I was watching her when she did see it. Therewas no concealing the swift look of satisfaction which flashed acrossher face. I haven't a doubt that she herself dropped the key where itwas found. "

"Nor I, " Luttrell agreed with a despairing vehemence, "but we can'tprove it. Jenny Prask is going to know nothing of that key. 'No, no, no, no!' she is going to say, 'Ask Miss Whitworth! Miss Whitworth came backfrom Harrel. Miss Whitworth was the last person to see Mrs. Croylealive. Ask her!' It is Jenny Prask or Miss Whitworth. We are up againstthat alternative all the time. And Jenny holds all the cards. For sheknows, damn her, what happened here last night. "

"She did hold all the cards this morning, " Hillyard corrected. "Shedoesn't now. Look at this key! There was a heavy dew last night. It waswet underfoot in the garden at Harrel. "

"Yes, " said Millie. 

"How is it then that there's no rust upon the key?" and as he asked thequestion he twirled the key so that the light flashed upon stem andwards until they shone like silver. "No, this key was placed where youfound it, Luttrell, not last night, but this morning after the sun haddried the grass. "

"But we came home by daylight, " Sir Chichester interposed. "They mightargue that Joan might have slipped downstairs before she went to bed, with the key in her hand. "

"But she wouldn't have chosen that spot in front of the library window. She might have flung it from her window, she might conceivably haveslipped round the house and laid it under Mrs. Croyle's window. But toplace it in front of the library to which room she returned fromHarrel--no. "

"Yes, " said Sir Chichester doubtfully. "I see. Joan can make good thatpoint. Yes, she can explain that. " And Millie Splay broke in withimpatience:

"Explain it! Of course. But what we want is to avoid that she shouldhave to explain anything, that she should be called as a witness atall!"

There lay the point of trouble. To it, they came ceaselessly back, revolving in the circle of their vain argument. Joan had something toconceal, and Jenny Prask was determined that she should disclose it, andJenny Prask held the means by which to force her. 

"But that's just what I am driving at, " continued Martin. "We can'tafford to be gentle here. There's no lie Jenny Prask wouldn't tell toforce Joan into the witness box. We have got to deal relentlessly withJenny Prask. A woman's voice spoke from this house over the telephone toLondon at a quarter-past twelve last night, and said that Stella wasdead. Whose voice? Not Joan's. Joan was having supper with Luttrell attwelve o'clock. I saw her, others, too, saw her of course. Whose voicethen? Stella's, as we say--as we know. But if not Stella's, as JennyPrask says--why then there is only one other woman's voice which couldhave given the news. "

"Jenny's, " cried Millie with a sudden upspring of hope. 

"Yes, Jenny Prask's. "

Millie Splay rose from her chair swiftly and rang the bell; and whenHarper answered it, she said:

"Will you ask Jenny to come here?"

"Now, my lady?"

"Now. "

Harper went out of the room and Millie turned again to her friends. 

"Will you leave this to me?" she asked. 

Sir Chichester was inclined to demur. A few deft and pointed questions, very clear, such as might naturally occur to Hillyard or Luttrell, orSir Chichester himself might come in usefully to put the polish, as itwere, on Millie's spade work. Harry Luttrell smiled grimly. 

"We didn't exactly cover ourselves with glory this morning, " he said. "Ithink that we had better leave it to Lady Splay. "

Sir Chichester reluctantly consented, and they all waited anxiously forJenny's appearance. That she would fight to the last no one doubted. Would she fight even to her own danger?

Jenny came into the room, quietly respectful, and without a trace ofapprehension. 

"You sent for me, my lady. "

"Yes, Jenny. "

Jenny closed the door and came forward to the table. 

"Do you still persist in your story of this morning?" Lady Splay asked. 

"Yes, my lady. "

"You did not see your mistress at all after Miss Whitworth had talkedwith her in the library?"

"No, my lady. "

"Jenny, I advise you to be quite sure before you speak. "

"I am not to be frightened, my lady, " said Jenny Prask, with a spot ofbright colour showing suddenly in her cheeks. 

"I am not trying to frighten you, " Millie Splay returned. "But someunexpected news has reached us which, if you persist, will place you inan awkward position. "

Jenny Prask smiled. She turned again to the door. 

"Is that all, my lady?"

"You had better hear what the news is. "

"As you please, my lady. "

Jenny stopped and resumed her position. 

"The announcement of Mrs. Croyle's death appeared in the _Harpoon_ thismorning. The news was left at the _Harpoon_ office by a chauffeur with aprivate car at midnight--Mrs. Croyle's car. "

"It never left the garage last night, " said Jenny fiercely. 

"You know that for certain?"

"I am engaged to the chauffeur, " she replied with a smile; and MillieSplay looked sharply up. 

"Oh, " she murmured slowly, after a pause. "Thank you, Jenny. Yes, thankyou. "

The quiet satisfaction of Millie Splay's voice puzzled Jenny andtroubled her security. She watched Lady Splay warily. From that momenther assurance faltered, and with the loss of her ease, she lostsomething, too, of her respectful manner. A note of impertinence becameaudible. 

"Very happy, I'm sure, " she said. 

"The motor-car delivered the message at midnight, " Lady Splay resumed, "and--this is what I ask your attention to, Jenny--the editor, in orderto obtain corroboration of the message before he inserted it in hispaper, rang up Rackham Park. "

Lady Splay paused for Jenny's comment, but none was uttered then. Jennywas listening with a concentration of all her thoughts. Here was a newfact of which she was ignorant, creeping into the affair. Whither did itlead? Did it strike her weapon from her hand? Upset her fine plan ofavenging her dear mistress's most unhappy life? She would not believeit. 

"He rang up Rackham Park--mark the time, Jenny--at a few minutes aftertwelve, " said Lady Splay impressively, and Jenny's uneasiness wasmarkedly increased. 

"Fancy that!" she returned flippantly. "But I don't see, my lady, whatthat has to do with me. "

"You will see, Jenny, " Lady Splay continued with gentleness. "He got ananswer. "

Jenny turned that announcement over in her mind. 

"An answer, did he?"

"Yes, Jenny, and an answer in a woman's voice. "

A startled cry broke from the lips of Jenny Prask. Her cheeks blanchedand horror stared suddenly from her eyes. She understood whose voice itmust have been which answered the question from London. Before her, too, the pitiful vision of the lonely woman waiting for the shrill summons ofthe telephone bell to close the door of life upon her, rose clear; andsuch a flood of grief and compassion welled up in her as choked herutterance. 

"Oh!" she whispered, moaning. 

"Whose voice was it, Jenny?"

At the question Jenny rallied. All the more dearly because of thatvision, should Joan Whitworth pay, the shining armour of her youngbeauty be pierced, her pride be humbled, her indifference turned toshame. 

"I can't think, my lady--unless it was Miss Whitworth's. "

"I asked you to mark the time, Jenny. A few minutes after midnight. MissWhitworth was at that moment in the supper-room at Harrel. She was seenthere. The woman's voice which answered was either Mrs. Croyle's oryours. "

Nothing could have been quieter or gentler than Millie Splay'sutterance. But it was like a searing iron to the shoulders of JennyPrask. 

"Mine!" The word was launched in a cry of incredulous anger. "It wasn'tmine. Oh, as if I would do such a thing! The idea! Well, I never did!"

"I don't believe it was yours, Jenny, " said Millie Splay. 

"Granted, I'm sure, " returned Jenny Prask, tossing her head. 

"But how many people will agree with me?" Millie Splay went on. 

"I don't care, my lady. "

"Don't you? You will, Jenny, " said Millie in a hard and biting tonewhich contrasted violently with the smoothness of her earlier questions. "You are trying, very maliciously, to do a great injury to a young girlwho had never a thought of hurting your mistress, and you have onlysucceeded in placing yourself in real danger. "

Jenny tried to laugh contemptuously. 

"Me in danger! Goodness me, what next, I wonder?"

"Just listen how your story works out, Jenny, " and Millie Splay set itout succinctly step by step. 

"Mrs. Croyle never took chloroform as a drug. Mrs. Croyle had notroubles. Mrs. Croyle was quite gay this week. Yet she was found deadwith a glass of chloroform arranged between her pillows, so that thefumes must kill her--and Jenny Prask was her maid. A motor-car took thenews of Mrs. Croyle's death to London before it had occurred and tookthe news from Rackham Park. There was only one motor-car in thegarage--Mrs. Croyle's--and Mrs. Croyle's chauffeur was engaged to JennyPrask, Mrs. Croyle's maid. London then telephones to Rackham Park forcorroboration of the news, and a woman's voice confirms it--an hourbefore it was true. There are only two women to choose from, Mrs. Croyleand Jenny Prask, her maid. But since Mrs. Croyle never took drugs, andhad no troubles or thoughts of suicide and was quite gay, it followsthat Jenny Prask----"

At this point Jenny interrupted in a voice in which fear was now verydistinctly audible. "Why, you can't mean--Oh, my lady, you are tellingme that--oh!"

"Yes, it begins to look black, Jenny, but I am not at the end, " MillieSplay continued implacably. Jenny was not the only woman in that housewho could fight if her darling was attacked. "You proceed to directsuspicion at a young girl with the statement that you never saw yourmistress after half past nine that night or helped her to undress; andto complete your treachery, you take the key of Mrs. Croyle's door whichyou found inside her room this morning, and threw it where it may avertinquiry from you and point it against another. "

Jenny Prask flinched. The conviction with which Lady Splay announced asa fact the opinion of the small conclave about the table quite deceivedher. 

"So you know about the key?" she said sullenly. And about the table rana little quiver of relief. With that question, Jenny Prask had deliveredherself into their hands. 

"Yes. "

Jenny stood with a mutinous face and silent lips. Lady Splay hadmarshalled in their order the items of the case which would be madeagainst her, if she persisted in her lie. How would she receive them?Persist, reckless of her own overthrow, so long as she overthrew JoanWhitworth too? Or surrender angrily? The four people watched for heranswer with anxiety; and it was given in a way which they leastexpected. For Jenny covered her face with her hands, her shoulders beganto heave and great tears burst out between her fingers and trickled downthe backs of her hands. 

"It's unbearable, " she sobbed. "I would have given my life forher--that's the truth. Oh, I know that most maids serve their mistressesfor what they can get out of them. But she was so kind to me--wherevershe went she was thoughtful of my comfort. Oh, if I had guessed what shemeant to do! And I might have!"

The truth came out now. Stella Croyle had given the letter to Jenny, andJenny herself had taken it to the garage and sent the chauffeur off uponhis journey. She had no idea of what the letter contained. Stella was inthe habit of inhaling chloroform; she carried a bottle of it in herdressing-case--a bottle which Jenny had taken secretly from the room andsmashed into atoms after Doctor McKerrel's departure. She had alreadyconceived her plan to involve Joan in so much suspicion that she mustneeds openly confess that she had returned from Harrel to meet MarioEscobar in the empty house. 

"Mario Escobar!" Millie Splay exclaimed. "It was he. " She turned pale. Sir Charles Hardiman had spoken frankly to her of Escobar. A creature ofthe shadows--it was rumored that he lived on the blackmailing of women. Joan was not out of the wood then! Martin Hillyard was quick to appeaseher fears. 

"He will not trouble you, " and when Jenny had gone from the room headded, "Mario Escobar was arrested this morning. He will be internedtill the end of the war and deported afterwards. "

Lady Splay rose, her face bright with relief. 

"Thank you, " she said warmly to Hillyard. "I am going up to Joan. " Atthe door she stopped to add, "Now that it's over, I don't mind tellingyou that I admire Jenny Prask. Out-and-out loyalty like hers is not socommon that we can think lightly of it. "

Martin Hillyard turned to Sir Chichester. 

"And now, if you will allow me, I will open my box of cigarettes. "

Harry Luttrell went back to his depot the next morning, without seeingJoan again. Millicent Splay wrote to him during the next week. Theinquest had been confined within its proper limits. Jenny Prask hadspoken the truth in the witness box, and from beginning to end there hadbeen no mention of Joan or Mario Escobar. A verdict of temporaryinsanity had been returned, and Stella now lay in the villagechurchyard. Harry Luttrell drew a breath of relief and turned to hiswork. For six weeks his days and nights were full; and then cametwenty-four hours' leave and a swift journey into Sussex. He arrived atRackham Park in the dusk of the evening. By a good chance he found Joanwith Millie Splay and Sir Chichester alone. 

Sir Chichester welcomed him with cordiality. 

"My dear fellow, I am delighted to see you. You will stay the night, ofcourse. "

"No, " Harry answered. "I must get back to London this evening. "

He took a cup of tea, and Sir Chichester, obtuse to the warning glancesof his wife, plunged into an account of the events which had followedhis departure. 

"I drew out a statement. Nothing could have been more concise, thecoroner said. What's the matter, Millie? Why don't you leave me alone?Oh--ah--yes, " and he hummed a little and spluttered a little, and thenwith an air of the subtlest craft he remarked, "There are those plansfor the new pig-sties, Millie, which I am anxious to show you. "

He was manoeuvred at last from the room. Harry Luttrell and JoanWhitworth were left standing opposite to one another in the room. 

"Joan, " Harry Luttrell said, "in ten days I go back to France. "

With a queer little stumble and her hands fluttering out she wenttowards him blinded by a rush of tears. 

CHAPTER XXXII

"BUT STILL A RUBY KINDLES IN THE VINE"

Between the North and South Downs in the east of Sussex lies a widetract of pleasant homely country which, during certain months of thoseyears, was subject to a strange phenomenon. Listen on a still day whenthe clouds were low, or at night when the birds were all asleep, and youheard a faint, soft thud, so very faint that it was rather a convulsionof the air than an actual sound. Fancy might paint it as the tap of anenormous muffled drum beaten at a giant's funeral leagues and leaguesaway. It was not the roll of thunder. There was no crash, howeverdistant, along the sky. It was just the one soft impact with asuggestion of earth-wide portentous force; and an interval followed; andthe blurred sound again. The dwellers in those parts, who had sons andhusbands at the war, made up no fancies to explain it. They listenedwith a sinking of the heart; for what they heard was the roar of theBritish guns at Ypres. 

Into this country Martin Hillyard drove a small motor-car on a day ofOctober two years afterwards. Until this week he had not set foot in hiscountry of the soft grey skies since he had left Rackham Park. He hadhurried down to Rackham as soon as he had reported to his Chief, but notwith the high anticipation of old days. In what spirit would he find hisfriends? How would Joan meet him? For sorrow had marked her cross uponthe door of that house as upon so many others in the land. 

Martin had arrived before luncheon. 

"Joan is hunting to-day, " said Millie, "on the other side of the county. She will catch a train back. "

"I can fetch her, " Hillyard returned. "She is well?"

"Yes. She was overworked and ordered a rest. She has been with us afortnight and is better. She was very grateful for your letters. Shesent you a telegram because she could not bear to write. "

Martin had understood that. He had had little news of her during the twoyears--a few lines about Harry in the crowded obituaries of thenewspapers after the attack in 1917 on the Messines Ridge, where he methis death, and six months afterwards the announcement that a son wasborn. 

"Joan's distress was terrible, " said Millie. "At first she refused tobelieve that Harry was killed. He was reported as 'missing' for weeks;and during those weeks Joan, with a confident face--whatever failings ofthe heart beset her during the night vigils none ever knew--daily soughtfor news of him at the Red Cross office at Devonshire House. There hadbeen the usual rumours. One officer in one prison camp had heard ofHarry Luttrell in another. A sergeant had seen him wounded, notmortally. A bullet had struck him in the foot. Joan lived upon theserumours. Finally proof came--proof irrefutable. 

"Joan collapsed then, " said Millie Splay. "We brought her down here andput her to bed. She cried--oh, day and night!--she who never cried! Wewere afraid for her--afraid for the child that was coming. "

Millie Splay smiled wistfully. "She had just two weeks with Harry. Theywere married before he left for France in 'sixteen, and then had anotherweek together in the January of 'seventeen at his house in the Clayfordcountry. That was all. " Millie Splay was silent for a few minutes. Thenshe resumed cheerfully:

"But she is better now. She will talk of him, indeed, likes at times totalk of him; she is comforted by it, and the boy"--Millie's face becameradiant--"the boy is splendid. You shall see him. "

Martin was shown the boy. He seemed to him much like any other boy ofhis age, but such remarkable things in the way of avoirdupois poundageand teething, serenity of temper and quickness of apprehension wereexplained to him that he felt that he must be in the presence of aprodigy. 

"Chichester will want to see you. He is in the library. He is Chairmanof our Food Committee. You may have seen it in the papers, " said Milliewith a smile. "He is back in the papers again, you know. "

"Good. Then he won't object to me smoking a cigarette, " said Martin. 

He motored over in the afternoon to the house on the other side ofSussex where he was to find Joan. He drove her away with him, and asthey came to the top of a little crest in the flat country, Martinstopped the car and looked about him. 

"I never cease to be surprised by the beauty of this country when I comehome to it. "

"Yes, but I wish _that_ would stop. "

_That_ was the dull and muffled boom of the great guns across the sea. They sat and listened to it in silence. 

"There it comes again!" said Joan in a quiet voice. "Oh, I do wish itwould stop! What has happened to me, has happened to enough of us. "

As Millie had said, she was glad to talk of Harry Luttrell to hisfriends; and she talked simply and naturally, with a little note ofwistfulness heard in all the words. 

"We were going to have a small house in London and spend our timebetween it and the old Manor at Clayford.... Harry had seen thehouse.... He was always writing that I must watch for it to come intothe market.... It had a brass front door. There we should be. We couldgo out when we wished, and when we wished we could be snug behind ourown brass door. " Joan laughed simply and lovingly as she spoke. Hillyardhad never seen her more beautiful than she was at this moment. If griefhad taken from her just the high brilliancy of her beauty, it had addedto it a most appealing tenderness. 

"After all, " she said again, "Harry fulfilled himself. I love to thinkof that. The ambition of his life--young as he was he saw it realisedand helped--more than all others, except perhaps one old Colonel--torealise it. And he left me a son ... To carry on.... There will be nostigma on the Clayfords when my boy gets his commission. Won't I tellhim why? Won't I just tell him!"

And the soft October evening closed in upon them as they drove. 

THE END