William Le Queux (continued 3)

“Why do you ask?” I inquired in surprise.

“Well—it would be only natural, as you are engaged to her.”

“Engaged to her?” I echoed. “I’m certainly not engaged to Mary Blain.”

“Aren’t you?” she exclaimed. “I always understood you were.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “We are old friends. We were boy and girl together, but that is all.”

Her great blue eyes opened with a rather bewildered air, and she exclaimed—

“How strange that people should make such a mistake! I had long ago heard of you as Mary’s future husband.”

Then again we were silent, both pondering deeply. Had this remark of hers been mere guess-work? Was this carefully-concealed question but a masterstroke of woman’s ingenuity to ascertain whether I loved Mary Blain? It seemed very likely to be so. But she was so frank in all that I could not believe it of her. No doubt she had heard some story of our long-past love, and it had been exaggerated into an engagement, as such stories are so often apt to be.

Soon we emerged from the backwater into the main stream, and with our bow set in the direction of Laleham I rowed down with the current without loss of time. The twilight had fast deepened into dusk; the high poplars and drooping willows along the bank had grown dark, though the broad surface of the stream, eddying here and there where a fish rose, was still of a blue steely hue, and far away upstream only a long streak of grey showed upon the horizon. The stars shone down in the first faint darkness of the early night. Presently I glanced behind me, and in the distance saw a yellow ray, which my companion, well versed in river geography, told me was a light in one of the windows of Riverdene.

It had grown quite chilly, and the meadows were wreathed in faint white mist, therefore I spurted forward, and soon brought the boat up to the steps.

I knew that the world now held nothing for me but Eva.

When we entered the dining-room, a fine apartment with the table laid with shining plate, decorated with flowers, and illuminated with red-shaded candles, we were greeted, as we expected, by a loud and rather boisterous welcome by Dick and Mary. We were, of course, full of apologies, being nearly half an hour late. But up-river dinner is a somewhat movable feast, so Mrs Blain quickly forgave us, and while I sat by Mary on her one hand, Dick seated himself at Eva’s side.

Gaily we gossiped through a merry meal, washed down with a real Berncastel, and followed by old port, coffee, and curaçoa. Yet my mind was full of strange apprehensions. What possible connexion could these three women have with that crime which the police were withholding from the public? That they were all three aware that a tragedy had taken place seemed quite clear. Yet all remained silent.

I had detected in Mrs Blain’s manner an anxiety and nervousness which I had never before noticed, yet I refrained from putting any further question to her, lest I might, by doing so, show my hand. She could not keep from her tone when she spoke to me a note of insincerity, which my ear did not fail to detect.

Our conversation over dessert turned upon dogs, the performances of Mary’s pug having started the discussion, and quite inadvertently Dick, whose mind seemed always centred upon his work, for he was nothing if not an enthusiast, suddenly said—

“Dogs are now being used by the police to trace criminals. There is no better method when it can be accomplished, for a bloodhound will follow a trail anywhere with unfailing accuracy, even after some hours.”

“Do they actually use them now?” asked Mrs Blain in a strained, faltering voice, her wine-glass poised in her hand.

“Yes,” he responded. “They’ve been utilised with entire success in two or three cases this week, not only in London, but in the provinces also. They are unfailing, and will track the guilty one with an accuracy that’s absolutely astounding.”

Eva and Mary exchanged quick glances across the table, while Mrs Blain sipped her wine and stirred uneasily in her chair.

I noticed that the colour had died out from the faces of all three, and that in their blanched countenances was a look of mingled fear and suspicion.

My friend had led that conversation with remarkable tact to quite an unlooked-for result.

He lifted his eyes to mine for an instant and read my thoughts. My mind became filled with a presentiment of future ill.

Chapter Twelve.

The Deformed Man’s Statement.

Youth is as short as joy, and happiness vanishes like all else. In the mad hurry of life, however, we heed not such things. We live only for to-day.

On our way back to Waterloo that night Dick earnestly discussed the situation.

“And what’s your opinion now?” I inquired, as he sat opposite me in the corner of the railway carriage.

Dick smiled slightly. “Both mother and daughter are connected with the affair, and are in deadly fear,” he replied decisively. “While in the punt with Mary Blain I had a long chat with her, and the conclusion I’ve formed is that she knows all about it. Besides, she was very anxious to know your recent movements—what you had been doing during the past week or so.”

“I wonder whether she suspects?”

“No, I don’t think so,” he answered. “Neither mother nor daughter dream that we are in possession of the secret. You see no one has returned to the place since the fatal night, and, as nothing has appeared in the papers, they naturally conclude that the affair has not yet been discovered.”

“They evidently devour almost every morning and evening paper as it arrives down there. Did you notice the heap of papers in the morning-room?” I asked.

“Of course. I kept my eyes well open while there,” he replied. “Did it strike you that the plate used at dinner was of exactly the same pattern as that on the table at Phillimore Place, and further, that among a pile of novels in the drawing-room was a book which one would not expect to find in such a place—a work known mainly to toxicologists, for it deals wholly with the potency of poisons?”

“No,” I said in surprise, “I didn’t notice either of those things.”

“But I did,” he went on reflectively. “All these facts go to convince me.”

“Of what?”

“That we are working in the right direction to obtain a key to the mystery,” he responded. Then suddenly he added: “By the way, that girl Glaslyn is certainly very beautiful. I envied you, old fellow, when you took her for a row.”

I smiled. I had determined not to reveal to him her identity as the woman whom I had first discovered lifeless, but his natural shrewdness was far greater than mine. He was a born investigator of crime, and had not Fate placed him in a newspaper office, he would, I believe, have become a renowned detective.

“Glaslyn? Eva Glaslyn?” he repeated, as if to himself. “Why, surely that’s the name of the girl you met in St. James’s Park and followed to Hampton—the woman whom you found dead on your first visit to the house with Patterson? Is that really so?” he cried, in sudden amazement.

I nodded, without replying.

“Then, Frank, old chap,” he answered in the low, hoarse voice of one utterly staggered, “this affair has assumed such a devilishly complicated phase that I fear we shall never get at the truth. To approach any of those three women would only be to place them on their guard, and without their assistance we can’t possibly act with success.”

“Then what do you suggest?” I asked.

“Suggest? I can suggest nothing,” he answered. “The complications on every side are too great—far too great.”

“Only Eva Glaslyn can assist us,” I observed. “Yes. She alone can most probably tell us the truth, but her friendship for the Blains is proof positive that her secret is a guilty one, even though she was so near being a victim.”

“She was a victim,” I declared. “When I saw her she was apparently lifeless, lying cold and still in the chair, with every appearance of one dead. But what causes you to think that her secret is a guilty one?” I asked hastily.

“The Blains undoubtedly are implicated in the matter, and she, their friend, is in possession of their secret,” he argued. “As a victim, she would be prompted to expose them if she did not fear exposure herself. She’s therefore held to enforced silence.”

His argument was a very forcible one, and during the remainder of the journey to London I sat back calmly reflecting upon it. It was a theory which had not before occurred to me, but I hesitated to accept it, because I could not believe that upon this woman who held me beneath the spell of her marvellous beauty could there rest any such hideous shadow of guilt. I remembered those clear blue eyes, that fair open countenance, and that frank manner of speech, and refused to give credence to my friend’s allegation.

Slowly passed the days. Summer heat increased and in London the silk-hatted world had already turned their thoughts towards the open fields and the sea-beach. The summer holidays were drawing near at hand. How much that brief vacation of a week or fortnight means to the toiling Londoner! and how much more to his ailing wife and puny family, doomed to live year after year in the smoke-halo of some black, grimy street into which the sun never seems to shine, or in some cheap, crowded suburb where the jerry-built houses stand in long, inartistic, parallel rows and the cheap streets swarm with unwashed, shouting offspring! I had arranged to take my holiday in winter and go down to the Riviera, a treat I had long since promised myself, therefore both Dick and I continued our work through those stifling days, obtaining from Boyd every now and then the results of his latest inquiries. These results, it must be said, were absolutely nil.

I had agreed with Dick to keep our suspicions entirely to ourselves, therefore we gave no information to Boyd, preferring to carry out our inquiries in our own method rather than seeking his aid. It was well, perhaps, that we did this, for the police too often blunder by displaying too great an energy. I was determined if possible to protect Eva.

At Riverdene, Dick and I were welcome guests and were often invited to Sunday river-parties, thus showing that any suspicions entertained of us in that quarter had been removed. Time after time I had met Eva, and we had on lots of occasions gone out on the river together, exploring over and over again that winding shaded backwater, and picking lilies and forget-me-nots at the spot where on that memorable evening we had first exchanged confidences.

I had received no invitation to The Hollies, but she had apologised, saying that the unusual heat had prostrated her mother, and that for the present they had been compelled to abandon their picnics. Many were the afternoons and evenings I idled away in a deck-chair on that well-kept lawn, or, accompanied by Mary, Eva, Cleugh and Fred Langdale, who, by the way, turned out to be an insufferable, over-dressed “bounder” who was continually dangling at Eva’s skirts, we would go forth and pay visits to various house-boats up and down stream.

Langdale looked upon me with a certain amount of jealousy, I think, and, truth to tell, was not, as I had imagined, of the milk-and-water genus. Eva seemed to regard him as a necessary evil, and used him as a tame cat, a kind of body servant to fetch and carry for her. From her remarks to me, however, I had known full well from the first that there was not a shadow of affection on her side. She had explained how she simply tolerated him because companions were few at Hampton and he was a fairly good tennis player, while he, on his part, was unconsciously making an arrant ass of himself in the eyes of all by his efforts to cultivate a drawl that he deemed aristocratic, and to carefully caressing his moustache in an upward direction.

Dick Cleugh, thorough-going Bohemian that he was, cared but little, I believe, for those riparian gatherings. True, he played tennis, rowed, punted and ate the strawberries and cream with as great a zest as any of us; nevertheless, I knew that he accepted the invitation with but one object, and that he would far rather have strolled in one of the parks with Lily Lowry than row Mary Blain up and down the stream.

Lily often came to our chambers. She was about twenty-two, of a rather Southern type of beauty, with a good figure, a graceful gait, and a decidedly London chic. She spoke, however, with that nasal twang which stamps the true South Londoner, and her expressions were not absolutely devoid of the slang of the Newington Butts. Yet withal she was a quiet, pleasant girl.

Thus half the month of July went by practically without incident, until one blazing day at noon, when, I went forth into Fleet Street for lunch, I unexpectedly encountered Dick, hot and hurrying, his hat tilted back. He had left home very early that morning to work up some “startling discovery” that had been made out at Plaistow, and already hoarse-voiced men were crying the “Fourth Comet” with the “latest details” he had unearthed.

In reply to his question as to where I was going, I told him that after luncheon I had to go down to Walworth to make some trifling inquiry, whereupon he said—

“Then I wish you’d do a favour for me, old fellow.”

“Of course,” I answered promptly. “What is it?”

“Call at the Lowrys and tell Lily to meet me at Loughborough Junction at eight to-night, at the usual place. I want to take her to the Crystal Palace to see the fireworks. I was going to wire, but you’ll pass her father’s place. Will you give her the message?”

“Certainly,” I answered. “But is she at home?”

“Yes. She’s got her holidays. Tell her I’m very busy, or I’d have come down myself. Sorry to trouble you.”

I promised him to deliver the message, and after eating a chop at the Cock, I walked along to the Gaiety and there took a blue motor-bus, which deposited me outside a small, very dingy shop, a few doors up the Walworth Road from the Elephant and Castle, which bore over the little, old-fashioned window the sign, “Morris Lowry, Herbalist.” Displayed to the gaze of the passer-by were various assortments of lozenges and bunches of dried herbs, boxes of pills guaranteed to cure every ill, and a row of dirty glass bottles filled with yellow liquids, containing filthy-looking specimens of various repulsive objects. The glaring cards in the window advertised such desirable commodities as “Lowry’s Wind Pills,” “Lowry’s Cough Tablets,” and “Lowry’s Herbal Ointment,” while the window itself and the whole shop-front was dirt-encrusted, one pane being cracked across.

As I entered the dark little shop, a mere box of a place smelling strongly of camomile, sarsaparilla and such-like herbs, which hung in dried and dusty confusion all over the ceiling, there arose from a chair the queerest, oddest creature that one might ever meet, even in the diverse crowds of lower London. Morris Lowry, the herbalist, was a strange specimen of distorted humanity, hunch-backed, with an abnormally large, semi-bald head, a scrubby grey beard, and wearing large, old-fashioned, steel-rimmed spectacles, which imparted to him an appearance of learning and distinction. His legs were short and stumpy, his body rather stout, and his arms of inordinate length, while the whole appearance of his sickly, yellow, wizened face was such as might increase one’s belief in the Darwinian theory. Indeed, it was impossible to look upon him without one’s mind reverting to monkeys, for his high cheek bones and square jaws bore a striking resemblance to the facial expression of the ancestral gorilla.

Dressed in black cloak and conical hat he would have made an ideal stage wizard; but attired as he was in greasy black frock coat, and trousers that had long ago passed the glossy stage, he was certainly as curious-looking an individual as one could have found on the Surrey side of the Thames. He was no stranger to me, for on several occasions I had called there with Dick, and had chatted with him. Trade in herbs had dwindled almost to nothing. Nowadays, with all sorts and varieties of well-advertised medicines, the people of Newington, Walworth, and the New Kent Road did not patronise the old-fashioned herbal remedies, which, if truth be told, are perhaps more potent and wholesome than any of the quack nostrums flaunted in the daily papers and on the hoardings. Ten years ago the herbalists did a brisk trade in London, especially among lower class housewives who, having come up from the country, were glad enough to obtain the old-world decoctions; but nowadays the herbalists’ only source of profit seems to be in the sale of skin soaps and worm tablets.

Old Morris, with his ugly, deformed figure and shining bald head, welcomed me warmly as I entered, and at once invited me into the little shop-parlour beyond, a mere dark cupboard which still retained the odour of the midday meal—Irish stew it must have been—and seemed infested with a myriad of flies. Possibly the fragrance of the herbs attracted them, or else they revelled among the succulent tablets exposed in the open boxes upon the narrow counter. These lozenges, together with his various bottled brews, tinctures of this and of that, the old man manufactured in a kind of dilapidated shed at the rear, which, be it said, often offended the olfactory nerves of the whole neighbourhood when certain herbs were in the process of stewing.

“Lily is out,” croaked the weird old fellow, in response to my inquiry, “but I’ll, of course, give her the message. She don’t get much chance nowadays, poor child! When her mother was alive we used to manage to run down to Margit for a week or fortnight in the hot weather. But now—” and he shrugged his shoulders with quite a foreign air. “Well, there’s only me to look after the shop,” he added. “And things are not so brisk as they were a few years ago.” He spoke with a slight accent, due, Cleugh had told me, to the fact that his mother was French, and he had lived in France a number of years. Few people, however, noticed it, for by many he was believed to be a Jew.

I nodded. I could see that the trade done there was infinitesimal and quite insufficient to pay the rent; besides, was not the fact that Lily had been compelled to go out and earn her own living proof in itself that the strange-looking old fellow was the reverse of prosperous? The herbal trade in London is nearly as dead as the manufacture of that once popular metal known as German silver.

“Lily has gone to see an aunt of hers over at Battersea,” the old man explained. “But she’ll be home at five. She’s got her holidays now, and, poor girl, she’s been sadly disappointed. She expected to go down to her married sister at Huntingdon, but couldn’t go because her sister’s laid up with rheumatic fever. So she has to stay at home this year. And this place isn’t much of a change for her.”

I glanced around at the dark, close little den, and at the strong-smelling shop beyond, and was fain to admit that he spoke the truth.

“I suppose your friend, Mr Cleugh, is busy as usual with his murders and his horrors?” he remarked, smiling. “He’s a wonderful acute fellow. I always read the paper every day, and am generally interested in the results of the inquiries by the Comet man. Half London reads his interviews and latest details.”

“Yes,” I answered. “He’s kept hard at work always. There seems to be a never-ceasing string of sensations nowadays. As soon as one mystery is elucidated another springs up somewhere else.”

“Ah,” he answered, his dark eyes gazing at me through his heavy-rimmed glasses, “it was always so. Never a day goes past without a mystery of some sort or another.”

“I suppose,” I said, “if the truth were told, more people are poisoned in London than ever the police or the public imagine.” I knew that all herbalists were versed in toxicology more or less, and had a vague idea that I might learn something from him.

“Of course,” he answered, “there are several poisons, the results of which bear such strong resemblance to symptoms of disease, that doctors are very frequently misled, and the verdict is ‘Death from natural causes.’ In dozens of cases every year the post-mortem proves disease, and thus the poisoner escapes.”

“What causes you to think this?” I inquired eagerly, recollections of the tragedy in Kensington vividly in my mind.

“Well,” he said, “I only make that allegation because every herbalist in London sells poisons in smaller or greater quantity. If he’s an unwise man, he asks no questions.—If he’s wise, he makes the usual inquiry.”

“And then?”

“Well,” the old man croaked with his small eyes twinkling in the semi-darkness, “the customer generally jays pretty dearly for the article.”

“Which means that an entry is made in the poison-register which is not altogether the truth—eh?”

He smiled and nodded.

“When poisons are sold at a high price,” the old herbalist answered, “the vendor has no desire to know for what purpose the drug is to be used. It is generally supposed that it is to kill vermin—you understand.”

“And human beings are more often the victims?” I hazarded.

He raised his grey, shaggy brows with an expression of affected ignorance, answering—

“Who can tell? The herbs or drugs are sold unlabelled, and wrapped in blank paper. As far as the herbalist is concerned, his liability is at an end, just as a cutler sells razors, or a gun-maker revolvers.”

“And do you really believe that there is much secret poisoning in London at this moment?” I inquired, greatly interested.

“Believe it?” he echoed. “Why, there’s no doubt of it. Why do people buy certain herbs which can be used for no other purpose than the destruction of human life?”

“Do they actually buy poisons openly?” I exclaimed in surprise.

“Well, no, not exactly openly,” he responded. “They are most of them very wary how they approach the subject, and all are prepared to pay heavily.”

I looked at the odd, ugly figure before me. For the first time I had learned the secret of this trade. Perhaps even he retailed poisons to those who wanted such undesirable commodities, charging exorbitant prices for them, and entering fictitious sales in the poison-book which, by law, he was compelled to keep.

“Have you actually ever had dealings with any poisoners?” I inquired. “Remember,” I added laughing, “that I’m not interviewing you, that we are friends, and that I don’t intend to publish this conversation in the newspapers.”

“That’s rather a difficult question,” he responded, with a look of mystery upon his face. “Perhaps I’d best reply that I’ve before now sold poisons to people who could want them for no other purpose than the removal of superfluous friends.”

“But do they actually ask openly for this herb or that?”

“Certainly—with excuses for its use, of course,” and he went on to remark how lucidly the science of poisoning was explained in a certain book which might be purchased anywhere for seven-and-sixpence, a work which had undoubtedly cost thousands of human lives. Then instantly I recollected. It was a copy of this same book that Dick had noticed in the morning-room at Riverdene.

“In this very room,” the old fellow went on, “I’ve had some queer inquiries made by all sorts and conditions of people. Only the other day a young girl called to consult me, having heard, she said, that I sold for a consideration a certain deadly herb. By her voice she was evidently a lady.”

His final observation increased my interest in this remarkable conversation.

“What was she like?” I inquired with eagerness, for since the affair at Phillimore Place I took the keenest interest in anything appertaining to poisons.

“She was rather tall and slim, dressed in black. But my eyes are not so good as they used to be, and, in the dark here, I couldn’t see much of her face through her veil. She was pretty, I think.”

“And did you actually sell her what she wanted?”

He hesitated a moment.

“Certainly, and at my own price,” he answered at last in his thin, rasping voice. “The stuff, one of the most dangerous and little-known compounds, not obtainable through any ordinary channel, is most difficult to handle. But I saw that it was not the first time she’d had azotics in her possession,” and he smiled grimly, rendering his face the more hideous. “From her attitude and conversation I should imagine her to be a very ingenious, but not altogether desirable acquaintance,” he added.

“And didn’t you note anything by which you might recognise her again?” I inquired. “Surely young girls are not in the habit of buying poison in that manner!”

“Well,” croaked the distorted old fellow, with a grin, “I did notice one thing, certainly. She wore a brooch of rather uncommon pattern. It was a playing-card in gold and enamel—a tiny five of diamonds.”

“A five of diamonds!” I gasped.

At that instant the truth became plain, although I hesitated to believe it. The brooch was Eva Glaslyn’s; one that she had worn only three days before when I was last down at Riverdene, and while on the water with her I had remarked its quaintness.

Could it be possible that she had actually purchased a deadly drug of this hideous old man? Or were there other brooches of similar pattern and design? Thus were increased the shadows which seemed to envelop her. My soul seemed killed within me.

Chapter Thirteen.

Dick Becomes Mysterious.

The startling statement of Morris Lowry caused me very considerable uneasiness. On my return to Gray’s Inn, however, I made no mention of our strange conversation to Dick, who returned that evening rather late after a heavy day of news-hunting. Old Lowry had evidently been in a confidential mood that afternoon, and I had no right to expose any secret of his extraordinary business. Therefore I kept my own counsel, pondering deeply over his statement when Cleugh had gone forth to meet Lily, wondering whether it might have been some other woman who had worn the brooch with the five of diamonds.

I sat at the window gloomily watching the light fade from the leaden London sky. The evening was stifling, for no fresh air penetrated to that small open space, surrounded as it was by miles and miles of smoke-blackened streets, and as night crept on the heavens became a dull red with the reflection of the myriad lights of the city.

Heedless of all, I strove to find some solution of the enigma. Inquiries made by Boyd, one of the shrewdest detectives in London, had failed utterly. He was now relying solely upon me. There was but one clue, that given by the landlord of the house, and this I had followed with the result that the circumstances had only grown more and more bewildering. As far as could be discerned there was no motive whatever in taking the lives of either the man or the woman, while the escape of Eva was an astounding fact of which I longed for an explanation from her own lips.

I loved her. Yes, the more I reflected as I sat there gazing aimlessly across the square, regardless of the fleeting time, the more I became convinced that she was all the world to me. I recollected her daintiness and her grace, the sweetness of her smile and the music of her voice, telling myself that she alone was my idol, that my love for Mary had after all been a mere boyish fancy, and that this affection was a true, honest, deep-rooted one, the outcome of a great and boundless love.

Was there, however, not a great and terrible suspicion upon her? By a mere chance, that chance which Fate sends so often to thwart the murderer’s plans or give him up to justice, I had learnt that she—or some one answering exactly to her description—had actually purchased some poisonous compound. I had believed her to have been a victim on that fatal night, but now it seemed that, on the other hand, she was herself given to the study of poisons; a strange subject, indeed, for a woman to take up. Then calmly I asked myself if it were possible to cast all memory of her aside, and after reflection discovered that such a course was utterly unfeasible. To entertain no further thought of her was entirely out of all question, for I loved her with a fierce and intense affection, and thought of nought else but her strange connexion with this mystery which, if made public, would send a thrill through London.

There were some very ugly facts hidden somewhere, yet try how I would I could form no distinct straightforward theory. Eva was naïve and sincere, frank and open, undesigning and entirely inartificial, nevertheless beneath her candour she seemed to be concealing some dread secret.

The latter I was determined to discover, and while night drew on and shadowy figures crossed and recrossed the square, I still sat plunged in thought, pondering deeply to find some means whereby to approach her.

I love her—a woman upon whom the gravest suspicion rested of having purchased a deadly drug for some nefarious purpose. Truly in the fitful fever of life the decree of Fate is oft-times strange. Men have loved murderesses, and women have, before now, given their hearts, nay, even their lives, to shield cowards and assassins.

Suddenly a movement behind me brought me back to a sense of my surroundings, and I saw that Dick had returned.

“Why, you’re back very early,” I said. “Have you been down to the Crystal Palace?”

“Yes, of course,” he answered gaily. “What have you been doing, you lazy beggar? It’s past half-past eleven.”

“Nothing,” I answered, surprised that it was so late. “I tried to write, but it’s too beastly hot to work.”

“Quite fresh down at the Palace,” he answered. “Big crowd on the Terrace, and the fireworks not at all bad.”

“Lil all right?”

“Yes. Sends her regards, and all that sort of thing. But—” and he hesitated, at the same time tossing his hat across upon a chair, and seating himself on the edge of the table in that careless, devil-may-care style habitual to him.

“But what?” I inquired.

He sighed, and a grave expression crossed his face.

“Fact is, old chap,” he said in an unusually earnest tone, “I fear I’m getting a bit tired of her. She wasn’t the least bit interesting to-night.”

“Sorry to hear that, old man,” I said. “Perhaps she wasn’t very well—or you may be out of sorts—liver, or something. A woman isn’t always in the same mood, you know, just as a man is liable to attacks of blues.”

“Yes, yes, I know all that,” he exclaimed impatiently. “But I’ve been thinking over it a long time, and, to tell the truth, I’m no longer in love with her. It’s no good making a fool of the girl any longer.”

“But she loves you,” I observed, knowing well in what affection she held my erratic friend.

“That’s the devil of it!” he snapped. “To tell the truth, it has worried me a lot lately.”

“You’ve neglected her very much,” I observed, “but surely she’s good-looking, a charming companion, and has a very even temper. You’ve told me so lots of times. Why have you so suddenly grown tired?”

“I really don’t know,” he answered, smiling, at the same time slowly filling his pipe. “Perhaps it’s my nature. I was always a wanderer, you know.”

I looked at him steadily for some moments, then said bluntly—

“Look here, Dick, you needn’t conceal the truth from me, old fellow. Mary Blain has attracted you, and you are throwing Lil over on her account.”

“Rubbish!” he laughed. “Mary’s a nice girl, but as for loving her—” and he shrugged his shoulders without concluding his sentence.

Notwithstanding this protest, however, I felt convinced that I had guessed aright, and regretted, because I knew how well Lily loved him, and what a blow it would be to her. She and I had been good friends always, and I liked her, for she was demure, modest, and withal dignified, even though she were but a shop assistant.

“Well, is it really fair to Lily?” I suggested, after a rather painful pause.

“You surely wouldn’t advise me to tie myself to a girl I don’t love?” he protested, rather hastily. “You are a fellow with lots of common sense, Frank, and your advice I’d follow before that of any chap I know, but here you’re a bit wide of the mark, I think.”

“Thanks for the compliment, old fellow,” I responded. “Of course it isn’t for me to interfere in your private affairs, but all I advise in this matter is a little hesitation before decision.”

“It’s useless,” he said. “I’ve already decided.”

“To give up Lily?”

“I have given her up. I told her to-night that I shouldn’t see her again.”

“You did!” I exclaimed, looking at him in surprise. I could not understand this sudden change of his. A few hours before he had been full of Lil’s praises, telling me how charming she could be in conversation, and declaring that he loved her very dearly. It was more than remarkable.

“Yes,” he said. “You know that I can’t bear to beat about the bush, so I resolved to tell her the truth. She’d have to know it some day, and better at once than later on.”

“Well, all I can say is that you’re a confounded brute,” I exclaimed plainly.

“I know I am,” he admitted. “That’s the worst of it. I’m too deuced outspoken. Any other chap would have simply left her and ended it by letter. I, however, put the matter to her philosophically.”

“And how did she take it?”

His lips compressed for an instant as his eyes met mine.

“Badly,” he answered in a low voice. “Tears, protestations of love, and quite a scene. Fortunately we were alone together in the train. I got out with her at the Elephant and Castle, and took her home.”

“Did you see her father?”

“No. And don’t want to. He’s no good—the ugly old sinner.”

“Why?” I inquired quickly, wondering how much he knew.

But he evaded my question, answering—

“I mean he’s a sanguinary old idiot.”

“He idolises Lily.”

“I know that.” Then, after a brief pause he added, “I may appear a brute, a silly fool and all the rest, but I tell you, Frank, I’ve acted for the best.”

“I can’t see it.”

“No, I don’t suppose you can, old chap,” he answered. “But you will entirely agree with my course of action some day ere long.”

His words puzzled me, for they seemed to contain some hidden meaning.

“Are you absolutely certain that you’ve no further love for Lil?” I inquired.

“Absolutely.”

“And you are likewise equally certain that it is not the personal charms of Mary Blain which have led you to take this step?”

“I’m quite certain of it,” he answered. “You once loved Mary, remember, but broke it off. Surely we are all of us at liberty to choose our own helpmate in life?”

“Of course,” I responded. “It was not, however, my fault that we parted. Mary was infatuated with another.”

“That just bears out my argument,” he went on. “She didn’t love you, and therefore considered herself perfectly justified in her attachment with your rival. I don’t love Lil.”

“But it seems that you have parted from her in a really cruel and heartless manner. This isn’t like you, Dick,” I added reproachfully.

“Why are you her champion?” he asked, laughing. “Are you in love with her?”

“Not at all,” I assured him with a smile. “Only I don’t like to see a girl badly treated by any friend of mine.”

“Oh, that’s good!” he laughed. “You’ve treated girls badly in your time, I suppose. Have a peg, old fellow, and let’s close the debate.” Then he added, in the language of Parliament, where he so often reported the speeches of the Irish ranters, “I move that this House do now adjourn.”

“But I don’t consider that you’ve acted with your usual tact in this affair,” I protested, heedless of his words. “You could, of course, have broken if off in a much more honourable way if you had chosen.”

“I’ve been quite honourable,” he declared, in a tone of annoyance. “I told her plainly that my love had cooled. Hark!” The clock on the inn hall was striking midnight. “There’s no suspension of the twelve o’clock rule. Shut up, Frank, and be damned to you.”

He crossed to the sideboard, mixed a couple of whisky-and-sodas, and handed me one, saying—

“Thirsty weather this. My mouth’s as dry as a kipper.”

I willingly admitted that the summer dust of London was conducive to the wholesale consumption of liquid, but was nevertheless reflecting upon his remarkable change of manner towards Lily. Something, I believed, had occurred of which he had not told me.

He stretched himself in the armchair, placed his glass at his elbow, and began to blow a suffocating cloud from his most cherished briar.

“I wish you’d spend sixpence on a new pipe,” I said, coughing.

“This one cost fourpence halfpenny in Fleet Street nearly two years ago,” he answered, without removing it from his lips. “Don’t you like it?”

“My dear fellow, it’s awful.”

“Ah! So they said at the office the other day. Don’t notice it myself.”

“But others do. I’ll make you a present of a new one to-morrow.”

“Don’t want it, old chap. Have a drink yourself with the money. This one’s quite good enough for me. Besides, it’ll keep the moths out of our drawing-room furniture,” and he gazed around the shabby apartment, where, from the leather-covered chairs, the mysterious stuffing was in many places peeping forth upon the world.

We smoked on. Although I had been considerably annoyed by what he had told me regarding Lily, his imperturbable good humour caused me to laugh outright, whereat he observed—

“You’re really a very funny beggar, Frank. I like you exceedingly, except when you try and dwell upon themes you don’t understand. Those who do that are apt to wallow out of their depth. You don’t know my reasons for throwing Lil over; therefore it’s impossible for you to regale me with any good advice. You understand?”

“But what are your reasons?” I inquired.

“You shall know them before long,” he assured me. “At present I don’t intend to say anything.”

“This is the first time, Dick, we’ve had secrets from each other,” I observed gravely.

“No,” he answered. “You love the mysterious Eva, and have never told me so. That’s a secret, isn’t it?”

I was surprised that he had detected my love for her, and rather alarmed, because if he had noticed it others had doubtless remarked it also. Therefore I questioned him, but he only laughed, saying—

“Why, anybody who saw you together down at Riverdene couldn’t fail to guess the truth. People have sharp eyes, you know.”

I was silent. If this were actually true, then I feared that I had made a hopeless fool of myself, besides wrecking any chance of eliciting those facts which I had set my mind upon revealing at any hazard.

Presently he rose, crossing to his writing-table to scribble a letter, while I, lighting a cigarette, sat silent, still thinking seriously upon the words he had just uttered.

Through the veil of tobacco smoke I seemed to see that fair, smiling face gazing at me, ever the same open countenance, the same clear eyes of childlike blue, the same half-parted mouth that I had first seen on that fatal night in Phillimore Place. In my dream I thought that she beckoned me to her, that she invited me to speak with her, and saw in her eyes a calm, sweet expression—the expression of true womanly love. It was but the chimera of an instant, a vision produced by my wildly-disordered brain, yet so vivid it seemed that when it faded I glanced across to my companion’s bent figure, half fearing that he, too, had witnessed it.

There are times when our imagination plays us such tricks—times when the constant concentration of the mind reaches its climax and is reflected down the aimless vista of our vision, causing us to see the person upon whom our thoughts are centred. Such a moment was this. It aroused within me an instant and intense longing to walk again at her side, to speak to her, to hear her sweet, well-modulated voice—nay, to tell her the deepest secret of my heart.

Thus it was that without invitation, or without previous introduction to Lady Glaslyn, I called at the Hollies on the following afternoon. A neat maid showed me into a cosy, rather small sitting-room, and for a few moments I remained there in expectancy. Although the house was not a large one it bore no stamp of the nouveau riche. It was exceedingly well-furnished, and surrounded by spacious grounds, wherein were a number of old yews and beeches. Old-fashioned, queer in its bygone taste, it had stood there on the broad highway from historic Hampton to London for probably a century and a half, being built in the days when the villadom of Fulwell had not yet arisen, and Twickenham was still a quiet village with its historic ferry, and where the stage-coaches changed horses at that low-built old hostelry, the King’s Head. The place stood back from the dusty-high road, half-hidden from the curious gaze, yet, surrounded as it now was by smaller houses, some of them mere cottages, while a few cheap shops had also sprung up in the vicinity, the place was not really a desirable place of abode. The district had apparently sadly degenerated, like all places in the immediate vicinity of the Metropolis.

Before long the door opened, and Eva, looking cool and sweet in a washing dress of white drill, and wearing a straw hat with black band, entered and greeted me cordially.

“Mother is out,” she said. “I’m so awfully sorry, as I wanted to introduce you. She’s gone over to Riverdene, and I, too, was just about to follow her. If you’d been five minutes later I should have left.”

“I’m lucky then to have just caught you,” I remarked. “But if you’re going to Riverdene, may I not accompany you?”

“Most certainly,” she answered. “Of course I shall be delighted,” and the light in her clear blue eyes told me that she was not averse to my company. She ordered a glass of port for me, and then said, “It’s a whole week since you’ve been down there. Mary has several times mentioned you, and wondered whether you’d grown sick of boating.”

“I’ve been rather busy,” I said apologetically.

“Busy with murders and all sorts of horribles, I suppose,” she observed with a smile.

“Yes,” I answered, regarding her closely. “Of late there have been one or two sensational mysteries brought to light!”

“Mysteries!” she exclaimed, starting slightly. “Oh, do tell me about them. I’m always interested in mysteries.”

“The facts are in the papers,” I answered, disinclined to repeat stories which had already grown stale. “The mysteries to which I referred were very ordinary ones, containing no features of particular interest.”

“I’m always interested in those kind of things,” she said. “You may think me awfully foolish, but I always read them. Mother grows so annoyed.”

“It’s only natural!” I answered. “We who are engaged on newspapers, however, soon cease to be interested in the facts we print, but of course, if they didn’t interest the public our papers wouldn’t have any circulation.”

She glanced at me, and a vague thought possessed me, for the look in her eyes was one of suspicion.

When she had drawn on her gloves we together went forth through the garden and down to the road. Suddenly it occurred to me that we might go by train to Shepperton, and thence take a boat and row up to Riverdene. This I suggested, and she gladly welcomed the proposal, declaring that it would be much more pleasant than driving along the dusty, shadowless road from Shepperton to Laleham.

Half an hour later we were afloat at Shepperton, and although the afternoon sun was blazing hot, it was nevertheless delightful on the water. With her lilac sunshade open she lolled lazily in the stern, laughing and chatting as I pulled regularly against the stream. Her conversation was always charming, and her countenance, I thought, fresher and more beautiful at that hour than I had ever before seen. About her manner was an air of irresponsibility, and when she laughed it was so gay a laugh that one would not dream that she had a single care in all the world. She was dainty from the crown of her hat to the tip of her white suède shoe, and as I sat in the boat before her, I felt constrained to take her in my arms and imprint a fervent kiss of love upon those sweet lips, arched and well-formed as a child’s.

My position, however, was, to say the least, an exceedingly strange one. I was actually loving a woman whom I suspected to be guilty of some unknown but dastardly crime. Dozens of times had I tried to impress upon myself the utter folly of it, but my mind refused to be convinced or set at rest. I loved her; that was sufficient. Nothing against her had been proved, and until that had been done, ought not I, in human justice, to consider her innocent?

Indeed, it was impossible to believe that this bright-eyed, pure-faced girl before me, light-hearted, and graceful in every movement, had actually secretly visited that dark little den in the Walworth Road and purchased a drug for the purpose of taking the life of one of her fellow-creatures. Yet she wore at her throat the small enamelled brooch with its five of diamonds, the ornament described by old Lowry, the ornament which she had told me she had purchased as a souvenir at one of the fashionable jewellers in the Montagne de la Cour in Brussels.

We had passed both locks, and were heading up to Laleham, when we suddenly glided into the cool shade of some willows, the boughs of which overhung the stream. The shadow was welcome after the sun glare, and resting upon the oars I removed my hat.

“Yes,” she said, noticing my actions, “we’ve come up unusually quick. Let’s stay here a little time, it is so pleasant. The breeze seems quite cool.”

Let it be punt, canoe or skiff, what more delightful than to moor oneself snugly in the leafy shade, and with a pleasant companion “laze” away the hours until the time comes to take up the sculls and gently pull against the placid stream. Everything was so peaceful, so quiet, the ripple of the sculls alone breaking the stillness. Yet, after all, what a change has come over the river in recent years! Good “pitches” for anglers and quiet nooks for the lazy were, ten years ago, to be discovered in every reach. Now they must be diligently sought for, and when found a note must be made of them. Warning boards notifying that landing or mooring alongside is prohibited were almost unknown, now they greet one in every direction. It is a pity; nevertheless there are still many real joys in river life.

So we remained there beneath the willows, where the water was white with lilies and the bank with its brambles was covered with wild flowers, and as I “lazed” I looked into those clear blue eyes wherein my gaze became lost, for she held me in fascination. I loved her with all my soul.

Chapter Fourteen.

This Hapless World.

How it came about I can really scarcely tell. I remember uttering mere commonplaces, stammering at first as the bashful schoolboy stammers, then growing more bold, until at length I threw all ceremony and reserve to the winds, and grasping her tiny hand raised it to my lips.

“No,” she said, somewhat coldly, drawing it away with more force than I should have suspected. “This is extremely foolish, Mr Urwin. It is, of course, my fault. I’ve been wrong in acting as I have done.”

“How?” I inquired, her harsh, cruel words instantly bringing me to my senses.

“You have flirted with me on several occasions, and perhaps I have even foolishly encouraged you. If I have done so, then I am alone to blame. Every woman is flattered by attention,” she answered, gazing straight into my eyes, and sighing slightly.

“But I love you!” I cried. “You surely must have seen, Eva, that from the first day we were introduced I have been irrevocably yours. I have not, I assure you, uttered these words without weighty consideration, nor without calmly putting the question to myself. Can you give me absolutely no hope?”

She shook her head. There was a sorrowful expression upon her face, as though she pitied me.

“None,” she answered, and her great blue eyes were downcast.

“Ah, no!” I cried in quick protest. “Don’t say that. I love you with a fierce, ardent affection such as few men have within their hearts. If you will but reciprocate that love, then I swear that the remainder of my life shall be devoted to you.”

“It is impossible,” she responded in a harsh, despairing voice, quite unlike her usual self. Her head was bowed, as though she dare not again look into my face.

Once more I caught her hand, holding it within my grasp. It seemed to have grown cold, and in an instant its touch brought back to me the recollection of that fatal night in Kensington. Would that I might lay bare all that I knew, and ask her for an explanation. But to do so would be to show that I doubted her; therefore I was compelled to remain silent.

“Why impossible?” I inquired persuasively. “The many times we have met since our first introduction have only served to increase my love for you. Surely you will not withhold from me every hope?”

“Alas!” she faltered, with a downward sweep of her lashes, her hand trembling in mine, “I am compelled.”

“Compelled?” I echoed. “I don’t understand. You are not engaged to Langdale?”

“No.”

“Then why are you forced to give me this negative answer?” I asked in deep earnestness, for until then I had not known the true strength of my love for her.

The seriousness of her beautiful countenance relaxed slightly, still her breast slowly heaved and fell, plainly showing the agitation within her.

“Because it is absolutely imperative that I should do so,” she replied.

Suddenly a thought flashed through my mind.

“Perhaps,” I said, “perhaps I’ve been too precipitate. If so—if I have spoken too plainly and frankly—forgive me, Eva. It is only because I can no longer repress the great love I bear you. I think of you always—always. My every thought is of you; my every hope is of happiness at your side; my very life depends upon your favour and your love.”

“No, no!” she cried, with a quick movement of her hand as if to stay my words. “Don’t say that. You may remain my friend if you like—but you may never be my lover—never!”

“Never your lover!” I gasped, starting back as though she had dealt me a blow. I felt at that moment as though all I appreciated in life was slipping from me. I had staked all, everything, and lost. “Ah, do not give me this hasty answer,” I urged. “I have been too eager; I am a fool. Yet I love you with a stronger, fiercer passion than any man can ever love you with, Eva. You are my very life,” and notwithstanding her effort to snatch her hand away, I again raised it reverently to my lips.

“No, no. This is a mere summer dream, Mr Urwin,” she said, with a cool firmness well assumed, although she avoided my gaze. “I have flirted with you, it is true, and we have spent many pleasant hours together, but I have never taken you seriously. You were always so merry and careless, you know.”

“You did not believe, then, that I really loved you?” I observed, divining her thoughts.

“Exactly,” she answered, still very grave. “If I had thought so, I should never have allowed our acquaintance to ripen as it has done.”

“Are you annoyed that I should have declared only what is but the absolute truth?” I asked.

“Not at all,” she responded quickly, with something of her old self in her low, sweet voice. “How can I be annoyed?”

“And you will forgive my hasty declaration?” I urged.

“There is nothing to forgive,” she replied, smiling. “I only regret that you have misconstrued my friendship into love.”

I was silent. These last words of hers crushed all hope from my soul. She sat with her hand trailing listlessly in the water, apparently intent upon the long rushes waving in the green depths below.

“Then,” I said in a disappointed voice, half-choked with emotion, “then you cannot love me, Eva, after all?”

“I did not say so,” she answered slowly, almost mechanically.

“What?” I cried joyously, again bending forward towards her. “Will you then try and love me—will you defer your answer until we know one another better? Say that you will.”

Again she shook her head with sorrowful air. She looked at me with a kind of mingled grief and joy, bliss embittered by despair.

“Why should I deceive you?” she asked. “Why, indeed, should you deceive yourself?”

“I do not deceive myself,” I protested, “I only know that I adore you; that you are the sole light of my life, and that I love you devotedly.”

“Ah! And in a month, perhaps, you will tell a similar story to some other woman,” she observed doubtingly. “Men are too often fickle.”

“I swear that I’ll never do that,” I declared. “My affairs of the heart have been few.”

“But Mary?” she suggested, and I knew from her tone that she had been thinking deeply of her.

“Ours was a mere boy and girl liking,” I hastened to assure her. “Ask her, and she will tell you the same. We never really loved.”

She smiled, rather dubiously I thought.

“But surely you are aware that she loves you even now,” Eva answered.

“Loves me!” I echoed in surprise. “That’s absolutely ridiculous. Since we parted not a single word of affection has ever been uttered between us.”

“And you actually do not love her?” she asked in deep earnestness, looking straight into my eyes. “Are you really certain?”

“I do not,” I answered. “I swear I don’t.”

The boat was drifting, and with a swift stroke of the oars I ran her bows into the bank. Overhead the larks were singing their joyous songs and the hot air seemed to throb with the humming of a myriad insects. The afternoon was gloriously sunny, and away in the meadow on the opposite bank a picnic party were busy preparing their tea amid peals of feminine laughter.

“Well,” she sighed, “I can only regret that you have spoken as you have to-day. I regret it the more because I esteem your friendship highly, Mr Urwin. We might have been friends—but lovers we may never be!”

“Why never?” I inquired, acutely disappointed.

“There are circumstances which entirely prevent such a course,” she answered. “Unfortunately, it is impossible for me to be more explicit.”

“So you are prevented by some utterly inexplicable circumstances from loving me?” I observed, greatly puzzled.

“Yes,” she responded, toying with the tassel of her sunshade.

“But tell me, Eva,” I asked hoarsely, again grasping her chilly, nervous hand, “can you never love me? Are you actually convinced that in your own heart you have no spark of affection for me?”

She paused, then glanced at me. I fancied I saw in her blue eyes the light of unshed tears.

“Your question is a rather difficult one,” she faltered. “Even if I reciprocated your love our positions would not be altered. We should still be alienated as we now are.”

“Why?”

“Because—because we may not love each other,” she answered, in a low, strained voice—the voice of a woman terribly agitated. “Let us part to-day and never again meet. It will be best for both of us—far the best.”

“No,” I cried, intensely in earnest. “I cannot leave you, Eva, because I love you far too dearly. If you cannot love me now, then bear with me a little, and you will later learn to love me.”

“In one year, nay, in ten, my answer must, of necessity, be the same as it is to-day,” she responded. “A negative one.”

“As vague as it is cruel,” I observed.

“Its vagueness is imperative,” she said. “You are loved by another, and I have therefore no right to a place in your heart.”

“You are cruel, Eva!” I cried reproachfully. “My love for Mary Blain has been dead these three years. By mutual consent we gave each other freedom, and since that hour all has been over between us.”

“But what if Mary still loves you?” she suggested. “You were once her affianced husband.”

“True,” I said. “But even if she again loves me she has no further claim whatever upon me, for we mutually agreed to separate and have both long been free.”

“And if she thought that I loved you?” Eva asked.

In an instant I guessed the reason of her disinclination to listen to my avowal. She feared the jealousy of her friend!

“She would only congratulate us,” I answered. “Surely you have no cause for uneasiness in that direction?”

“Cause for uneasiness!” she repeated, starting, while at that same instant the colour died from her sweet face. Next second, however, she recovered herself, and with a forced smile said, “Of course I have no cause. Other circumstances, however, prevent us being more than friends.”

“And may I not be made aware of them?” I inquired in vague wonder.

“No,” she said quickly. “Not now. It is quite impossible.”

“But all my future depends upon your decision,” I urged. “Do not answer lightly, Eva. You must surely have seen that I love you?”

“Yes,” she answered, sighing. “I confess to having seen it. Every woman knows instinctively when she is loved and when despised. The knowledge has caused me deep, poignant regret.”

“Why?”

“Because,” and she hesitated. “Because I have dreaded this day. I feared to tell you the truth.”

“You haven’t told me the truth,” I said, looking her straight in the face.

“I have,” she protested.

“The truth is, then, that you would love me, only you dare not,” I said clearly. “Is that so?”

She nodded, her eyes again downcast, and I saw that hot tears were in them—tears she was unable longer to repress.

When the heart is fullest of love, and the mouth purest with truth, there seems a cruel destiny in things which often renders our words worst chosen and surest to defeat the ends they seek.

“Then whom do you fear?” I asked, after a pause.

She shook her head. Only a low sob escaped her.

“May we not love in secret,” I suggested, “if it is really impossible to love openly?”

“No, no!” she said, lifting her white hand in protest. “We must not love. I tell you that it is all a dream impossible of realisation. To-day we must part. Leave me, and we will both forget this meeting.”

“But surely you will not deliberately wreck both our lives, Eva?” I cried, dismayed. “Your very words have betrayed that you really entertain some affection for me, although you deny it for reasons that are inexplicable. Why not be quite plain and straightforward, as I am?”

“I have been quite clear,” she answered. “I tell you that we can never love one another.”

“Why?”

“For a reason which some day ere long will be made plain to you,” she answered in a low voice, her pure countenance at that moment drawn and ashen pale. “In that day you will hate my very name, and yet will think kindly of my memory, because I have to-day refused to listen to you and have given you your freedom.”

“And yet you actually love me!” I exclaimed, bewildered at this strange allegation. “It is most extraordinary.”

“It may seem extraordinary,” she said in a voice that appeared to sound soft and afar, “but the truth is oft-times strange, especially when one is draining the cup of life to its very dregs.”

“And may I not know this secret of yours, Eva?” I asked sympathetically, for I saw by her manner how she was suffering a torture of the soul.

“My secret!” she cried, glaring at me suddenly as one brought to bay, a strange, hunted look in those clear blue eyes. “My secret! Why”—and she laughed a hollow, artificial laugh, as one hysterical—“why, how absurd you are, Mr Urwin! Whatever made you suspect me of having secrets?”

Chapter Fifteen.

The Near Beyond.

The remainder of our pull to Riverdene was accomplished in comparative silence. Crushed, hopeless and despairing, I bent to the oars mechanically, with the feeling that in all else my interest was dead, save in the woman I so dearly loved, who, lounging back among her cushions, sighed now and then, her face very grave and agitated.

I spoke at last, urging her to reconsider her decision, but she only responded with a single word, a word which destroyed all my fondest hopes—

“Impossible.”

In that bright hour when the broad bosom of the Thames sent back the reflection of the summer sun, when the sky was clear as that in Italy, when all the world seemed rejoicing, and the gay laughter wafted over the water from the launches, boats and punts gliding past us, we alone had heavy hearts. Overwhelmed by this bitter disappointment and sorrow, the laughter jarred upon my ears. I tried to shut it out, and with my teeth set rowed with all my might against the stream until, skirting the shady wood, we rounded the bend of the stream and suddenly drew up at the landing-steps of Riverdene.

“Why, here’s Eva!” cried Mary, running down to the water’s edge, her tennis-racquet in her hand. “And Frank, too!” Then, turning to Eva as we stood together on the lawn a moment later, she asked, “Where’s your mother? We’ve expected her all the afternoon.”

“Isn’t she here?” asked Eva, in surprise.

“No.”

“Well, she started to come here immediately after luncheon. She must have missed the train or something.”

“She must, for it’s now past five. I really hope nothing has happened.”

“Nothing ever happens to mother,” observed Eva, with a light laugh. “She’ll turn up presently.” Then she explained how I had called at The Hollies and she had brought me along. On reaching Riverdene she had instantly concealed her agitation and reassumed her old buoyant spirits in order that none should suspect. She was an adept at the art of disguising her feelings, for none would now believe that twenty minutes before her face had been blanched, almost deathlike in agitation.

Together we walked up the lawn, being warmly welcomed by Mrs Blain and introduced to several friends who, seated beneath a tree, were idling over afternoon tea, a pleasant function in which we were, of course, compelled to join.

Seated next to Mrs Blain I gossiped for a long time with her, learning that her husband was still in Paris, detained upon his company business. He was often there, for he was one of the greatest shippers of champagne, and much of his business was with firms in the French capital.

“I don’t expect him back for at least a fortnight,” she said. “The other day, when writing, I mentioned that you had visited us again and he sent his good wishes to you.”

“Thanks,” I answered. Truth to tell, I rather liked him. He was a typical City man, elderly, spruce, smartly dressed, always showing a large expanse of elaborate shirt-front, fastened by diamond studs, and a heavy gold albert, a fashion which seems to alone belong to wealthy merchants and to that financial tribe who attend and speak at meetings at Winchester House or the Cannon Street Hotel.

From time to time when I glanced at Eva I was surprised to see how happily she smiled, and to hear how light and careless was her laughter. Had she already forgotten my words and the great overwhelming sorrow her response had brought upon me?

To Mrs Blain’s irresponsible chatter I answered quite mechanically, for all my thoughts were of that woman whom I loved. Deeply I reflected upon all she had said, remembering how intensely agitated she had become when I had implied that she was in possession of some secret. The vehemence with which she had denied my imputation was quite sufficient to show that I had unconsciously referred to the one object uppermost in her mind. I was undecided in opinion whether her refusal to accept my love was actually in consequence of her fear of Mary’s jealousy. If so, then Mary was in possession of this secret of hers. There was no doubt in my mind that she really loved me, and that, if she were fearless, she would hasten to reciprocate my affection. Apparently hers was a guilty secret, held over her as menace by Mary Blain, and knowing this she had been compelled to respond in the negative. This theory took possession of me, and during the hours I spent at Riverdene that evening, dining and boating with several of my fellow-visitors, I reflected upon it, viewing it in its every phase, and finding it to be well founded.

Indeed, as I sat opposite the two girls at dinner, I watched the actions of both furtively behind the great silver épergne of roses and ferns, and although they chatted merrily, laughing and joking with their male companions, I nevertheless fancied that I could detect a slight expression of concealed annoyance—or was it of hatred?—upon Eva’s face whenever Mary addressed her. Ever so slight, merely the quivering or slight contraction of the eyebrows, it passed unnoticed by the merry party, yet with my eyes on the alert for any sign it was to me a proof sufficient that the theory I had formed was correct, and that the woman I loved went in deadly fear of Mary Blain.

If this were really so, did it not add additional colour to the other vague theories that had been aroused in my mind through various inexplicable circumstances? Did it not, indeed, point to the fact that upon Eva, although she might have been a victim of that bewildering tragedy in Phillimore Place, there rested a terrible guilt?

I recollected how she had gone to St. James’s Park to keep the appointment which the unknown assassin’s accomplice had made, and the remarkable allegation of old Lowry, the herbalist—two facts which, viewed in the light of other discoveries, were circumstances in themselves sufficient evidence of her guilt. Besides, had she not, with her own lips, told me that one day ere long I should hate her very name, and thank her for refusing to accept my love?

Was not this sufficient proof of the correctness of my theory?

As evening wore on and darkness deepened into night, the strings of Chinese lanterns at the bottom of the lawn were lit, imparting to the place a very gay, almost fairylike, aspect. There were many remarks regarding the non-appearance of Lady Glaslyn. Mrs Blain seemed extremely anxious, yet Eva betrayed no anxiety, merely saying—

“She may have felt unwell and returned. I shall no doubt find her at home with one of her bad headaches.”

Thus all were reassured. Nevertheless, the incident struck me as curious, for Eva’s calm unconcern showed that her mother must be a woman of somewhat eccentric habits.

Simpson drove us both to Shepperton Station in the motor-car, and we caught the ten-thirty train, from which she alighted at Hampton while I continued my journey up to Waterloo. During the fifteen minutes or so we were alone together in the train our conversation was mainly of our fellow-visitors. Of a sudden I asked—

“Have you seen Mr Langdale lately?”

“Yes. I often see him. He lives quite near us,” she answered frankly.

“You told me this afternoon, Eva, that you were not engaged. Are you confident there is not likely to be a match between you?”

“A match between us!” she exclaimed with an expression of surprise. “What, are you joking, or do you actually suspect that I love him?”

“I have thought so.”

“Never!” she answered decisively. “I may be friendly, but to love a man of that stamp—a man who thinks more of his dress than a woman—never!”

I smiled at this denunciation of his foppishness. He was certainly a howling cad, for ever dusting his patent leather boots with his handkerchief, shooting forth his cuffs, and settling his tie. He parted his hair in the middle, and patronised women because he believed himself to be a lady-killer. Truly he was a typical specimen of the City “bounder,” who might some day develop into a bucket-shop keeper, a company promoter, or perhaps a money-lender.

At the moment when we were speaking the train entered the station of Hampton, and she rose.

“Tell me, Eva,” I said with deep earnestness as I took her hand to say farewell, “is what you told me this afternoon the absolute truth? Can you never—never reciprocate my love?”

Her lips quivered for an instant as her great blue eyes met mine. Even though she wore a veil, I saw that there were tears in them.

“Yes,” she answered in a hoarse tone, “I have told you the truth, Mr Urwin. We may never love—never.”

The train was already at a standstill, and she was compelled to descend hurriedly.

“Good-night,” she said hoarsely as I released her hand. Then, without waiting for my response, she hurried away and was a moment later lost in the darkness of the road beyond the barrier.

The carriage door was slammed, the train moved on, and as it did so I flung myself back into a corner, plunged in gloom and abject despair. She was the only woman I had ever truly loved, yet she was held apart from me. It was the first passionate agony of my life. I suffered now as those do without hope.

I found Dick at home smoking furiously, and busily writing in duplicate for the morning papers a strange story he had that evening picked up out at Gipsy Hill concerning a romantic elopement, which would cause considerable sensation in those little tea-and-tennis circles which call themselves suburban society. He briefly related it to me without pausing in his work, writing on oiled tissue paper and taking six copies, one for each of the great dailies. My friend’s position in the journalistic world was by no means an uncommon one, for many men holding good berths on newspapers add to their incomes by doing what in press parlance is termed “lineage”—that is contributing to other newspapers for the payment of a penny, or perhaps three-halfpence, a line.

I told him that I’d been down to Riverdene, but so engrossed was he in his work that he hazarded no remark, and when he had finished and placed the copies in separate envelopes, already addressed, he put on his hat and went forth to the Boy-Messenger Office in Chancery Lane, whence they would be distributed to the sub-editors about Fleet Street.

I lit a cigarette and stretched myself in the armchair, gloomily pondering. Of late we had spoken but little of the mystery in Phillimore Place, for other inquiries had occupied Dick’s attention, and on my part, loving Eva as I did, I preferred to continue my investigation alone.

Perhaps I had been sitting there a quarter of an hour or so, when suddenly a strange dizziness crept over me. It might, I thought, be due to my cigarette, therefore I tossed it out of the window and sat quiet. But the feeling of nausea, accompanied by a giddiness such as I had never before experienced, increased rather than diminished, and in order to light against it I rose and attempted to cross the room. I must have walked very unsteadily, for in the attempt I upset a chair, the back of which was broken, beside sweeping Dick’s terra-cotta tobacco-pot from the table and smashing it to fragments. I clutched at the table in order to steady myself, but found myself reeling and swaying as though I were intoxicated. My legs seemed unable to support me, and the thought crossed my mind that this seizure might be one of paralysis. The idea was horrible.

At length, after some difficulty, I managed to again crawl back to the chair, and sinking down, closed my eyes. By doing so my brain seemed more evenly balanced, yet it seemed as though inside my skull was all on fire, and I wondered if exposure to the sun while rowing had caused these remarkable symptoms. I recollected how blazing hot it had been from Shepperton up to the second lock, and how once Eva, ever solicitous for my welfare, had warned me to be careful of sunstroke.

Yes, I had been careless, and this was undoubtedly the result.

My hands were trembling as though palsied, just as my legs had done a few minutes before, yet strangely enough I felt compelled to clench my fingers into my palms. All my muscles seemed slowly to contract, until even my jaws worked with painful difficulty.

An appalling fear fell upon me. I was suffering from tetanus.

Resolved not to allow my jaws to close tightly, I opened and shut my mouth, knowing that if it became fixed I should die a slow, lingering death as so many thousands had done. If I could only keep my jaws working the seizure might, perhaps, pass.

I longed for Dick’s return. At that hour there was no one I could summon to call a doctor. I glanced at the clock. He had been already gone nearly half an hour. Would he never come back?

The sickening dizziness increased, and seemed to develop into an excruciating pain in my throbbing temples. I placed my hand to my head and felt that the veins were standing out hard and knotted, just as though I were exerting every muscle in some feat of strength. Then almost at that very instant I was gripped by a fearful pain in the stomach, as though it were being torn by a thousand needles. A cold sweat stood upon my brow until it rolled down my cheeks in great beads. I tried to shout for help, but my tongue clave to the roof of my mouth, and my voice was thin and weak as a child’s. My throat seemed to have contracted. I was altogether helpless.

My agony was excruciating, yet I could only await Dick’s return. Perhaps he had met a friend, and was lounging in some bar ignorant of my peril. The only doctor I knew in the vicinity was a hospital surgeon who lived a little way down Chancery Lane, over the Safe Deposit Company’s vaults. I clenched my teeth to endure the racking, frightful pains by which my body was tortured, and in patience awaited my friend’s home-coming.

My eyes were closed, for the gas-light was too strong for them. Perhaps I lost consciousness. At any rate I was awakened from a kind of heavy stupor by Dick’s tardy entry.

“Good God, Urwin!” he gasped. “Why, what’s the matter? What’s occurred? You’re as white as a sheet, man!”

“I’m ill,” I managed to gasp with extreme difficulty. “Go and get Tweedie—at once!”

He stood for a moment looking at me with a frightened expression, then turned and dashed away down the stairs.

I remember raising myself, after he had gone, in an endeavour to reach a cupboard where there was some brandy in a bottle, but as I made a step forward all strength let me. I became paralysed, clutched at the table, missed it, and fell headlong to the floor. Then all consciousness became blotted out. I knew no more.

How long I remained insensible I have only a very vague idea. It must have been many hours. When, however, I slowly became aware of things about me, I found myself lying upon my own bed partly dressed. I tried to move, but my limbs seemed icy cold and rigid; I tried to think, but my thoughts were at first only a confused jumble of reminiscences. There was a tearing pain across my stomach, and across my brow—a pain that was excruciating. It seemed as though my waist was bound tightly with a belt of wire, while my brain throbbed as if my skull must burst.

I opened my eyes, but the bright light of day caused me to close them quickly again.

Noises sounded about me, strange and distorted. I distinguished voices, and I knew that I was not alone. Again I opened my eyes.

“Thank Heaven! my dear old fellow, you are saved!” cried Dick, whose coat was off, as he bent down eagerly to me, looking with keenest anxiety into my face.

“Saved!” I echoed. “What has happened?” for at that moment I recollected little of the past.

Then I saw, standing beside Dick, my friend, Dr Tweedie, of the Royal Free Hospital in Gray’s Inn Road, a mild-mannered old gentleman whom I had many times met during my inquiries at that institution.

“What’s happened?” the latter repeated. “That’s what we want to ask you?”

“I don’t know,” I answered, “except that I was suddenly taken frightfully queer.”

“Taken queer! I should rather think you were,” he said, bending down to get a better look at my countenance, at the same time feeling my pulse. “You’re better now, much better. But it’s been a very narrow squeak for you, I can tell you.”

“What’s been the matter with me?” I inquired mystified.

“You’ve been eating something that hasn’t quite agreed with you,” he answered with a mysterious smile.

“But that couldn’t have brought on a seizure like this,” I argued weakly.

“Well,” the doctor said, “of course you can tell better what you’ve been eating than I can. Only one fact is clear to me.”

“And what’s that?” I asked.

“Why, that you’ve been within an ace of death, young man,” he answered. “You’ll want the most careful treatment, too, if we are to get you round again, for the truth is you’ve been poisoned!”

“Poisoned?” I gasped.

“Yes,” he responded, handing me some medicine. “And this seizure of yours is a very mysterious one indeed. I’ve never seen such symptoms before. That you’ve been poisoned is quite plain, but how the accident has occurred remains for us to discover later.”

Chapter Sixteen.

In the City.

Through several days I remained in bed, my limbs rigid, my senses bewildered.

Although we said nothing to Tweedie, Cleugh entirely shared my suspicion that if an attempt had actually been made upon my life it had been made at Riverdene. The doctor ran in several times each day, and Dick, assisted by old Mrs Joad, was as attentive to my wants as any trained nurse, snatching all the time he could spare from his duties to sit by me and gossip of men and things in Fleet Street, and the latest “scoop” of the Comet.

Tweedie was puzzled. Each time he saw me he remarked upon my curious symptoms, carefully noting them and expressing wonder as to the exact nature of the deleterious substance. He pronounced the opinion that it was some alkaloid, for such it was shown by the reagents he had used in his analysis, but of what nature he was utterly at a loss to determine. Many were the questions he put to me as to what I had eaten on that day, and I explained how I had lunched at one of the restaurants in Fleet Street, and afterwards dined with friends at Laleham.

“You ate no sandwiches, or anything of that kind at station refreshment bars?” he asked, when he visited me one morning, in the vague idea, I suppose, that the poison might, after all, be a ptomaine.

“None,” I answered. “With the exception of what I told you, I had a glass of wine at the house of a friend at Hampton before rowing up to Laleham.”

“A glass of wine,” he repeated slowly, as if reflecting. “You noticed no peculiar taste in it? What was it—port?”

“Yes,” I replied. “An excellent wine it was, without any taste unusual.”

For the first time the recollection of that glass of wine given me by Eva at The Hollies came back to me. Surely she could not have deliberately given me a fatal draught?

“Often,” he said, “a substance which is poison to one person is harmless to another. If we could only discover what it really was which affected you, we might treat you for it and cure you much more rapidly. As matters rest, however, you must grow strong again by degrees, and thank Providence that you’re still alive. I confess when I first saw you, I thought you’d only a few minutes to live.”

“Was I so very bad?”

“As ill as you could be. You were cold and rigid, and looked as though you were already dead. In fact, any one but a doctor would, I believe, have pronounced life extinct. Your breath on a mirror alone showed respiration, although the heart’s movement was so weak as to be practically imperceptible. But don’t trouble further over it, you’ll be about soon,” and shortly afterwards he shook my hand and went on his way to the hospital, already late on my account.

I longed to tell him all the curious events of the past, but saw that such a course would be unwise. If I did so, Eva—the woman I adored—must be prematurely judged, first because of old Lowry’s revelations, and now secondly because of the suspicious fact of my illness after partaking of the wine she offered.

The idea that the attempt had been made upon me at Riverdene seemed very improbable, because I had dined in common with the other guests; the tea I had taken was poured from the same Queen Anne pot from which the cups of others were filled, and in the whisky-and-soda I had had before leaving I was joined by three other men who had rowed up from a house-boat about a quarter of a mile lower down.

As I lay there restless in my bed, trying vainly to read, I spent hours in recalling every event of that day, but could discover no suspicious circumstance other than that incident of the wine at The Hollies. I recollected how Eva after ringing for the servant and ordering it, had herself gone out into the dining-room, and had been absent a couple of minutes or so. Possibly she might only have gone there in order to unlock the cellarette, yet there were likewise, of course, other graver possibilities.

This thought which fastened upon my mind so tenaciously allowed me but little rest. I tried to rid myself of it, tried to scorn such an idea, tried to reason with myself how plain it was that she actually held me in some esteem, and if so she would certainly not seek to take my life in that cowardly, dastardly manner. Sometimes I felt that I misjudged her; at others grave suspicions haunted me. Yet withal my love for her never once wavered. She was my idol. Through those long, weary hours of prostration and convalescence I thought always of her—always.

I had written her a short note, saying that I was unwell and unable to go down to Riverdene, not, however, mentioning the cause of my illness, and in response there came in return a charmingly-worded little letter, expressing profound regret and hoping we should meet again very soon. A hundred times I read that note.

Was the thin, delicate hand that penned it the same that had endeavoured to take my life?

That was the sole question uppermost in my mind; a problem which racked my brain day by day, nay, hour by hour. But there was no solution. Thus was I compelled to exist in torturing suspicion, anxiety and uncertainty.

One hot afternoon I had risen for the first time, and was sitting among pillows in the armchair reading some magazines which Dick had thoughtfully brought me during the luncheon hour, when a timid knock sounded at the door. The Hag had left me to attend upon her other “young gentlemen” in the Temple, and I was alone. Therefore I rose and answered the summons, finding to my surprise that my visitor was Lily Lowry.

At once, at my invitation, she entered, a slim figure dressed in neat, if cheap, black, without any attempt at being fashionable, but with that primness and severity expected of lady’s-maids and shop-assistants. Her gloves were neat, her hat suited her well, and beneath her veil I saw a pretty face, pale, interesting and anxious-looking.

“I didn’t expect to find any one in, except Mrs Joad,” she said apologetically, as she took the chair I offered. Then, noticing my pillows, and perhaps the paleness of my countenance, she asked. “What? You are surely not ill, Mr Urwin?”

“Yes,” I answered. “I’ve been rather queer for a week past. The heat, or something of that sort, I suppose. Nothing at all serious.”

“I’m so glad of that,” she said. “I only called because I was passing. I’ve been matching some silk at the wholesale houses in the City, and as I wanted to give Mr Cleugh a message I thought I’d leave it with Mrs Joad.”

“A message?” I repeated. “Can I give it?”

She hesitated, and I saw that a slight blush suffused her cheeks.

“No,” she faltered. “You’re very kind, but perhaps, after all, it would be better to write to him.”

“As you like,” I said, smiling. “You don’t, of course, care to trust your secrets in my keeping—eh?”

She looked at me seriously for a moment, her lips quivered, and she drew a long breath.

“You’ve always been extremely kind,” she said in a low voice, half-choked with emotion. “And now that I find you alone, I feel impelled to confide in you and seek your advice.”

“I’m quite ready to offer any advice I can,” I answered, quickly interested. “If I can render you any assistance I will certainly do so with pleasure.”

“Ah!” she exclaimed, sighing again, “I knew you would. I am in trouble—in such terrible trouble.”

“What has happened?” I inquired quickly, for I saw how white and wan she was, and of course attributed it to Dick’s action in renouncing his pledge.

“You, of course, know that Mr Cleugh and I have parted,” she said, looking up at me quickly.

“He has told me so,” I responded gravely. “I regret very much to hear it. What is the reason?”

“Has he not told you?” she asked, her eyes filled with tears.

“No,” I answered. “He gave no reason.”

“Well,” she explained, “he has judged me wrongly. I am entirely innocent, I assure you. In a place of business like ours we are compelled to be on friendly terms with the male assistants, and the other evening, as I was leaving the shop to go to the house where we girls live, at the other end of Rye Lane, one of the men—an insufferable young fellow in the hosiery department—chanced to be going the same way and walked with me.

“On the way, Dick—Mr Cleugh, I mean—passed us, and now he declares that I’ve been in the habit of flirting with these men. It is not pleasant for any girl to walk alone along Rye Lane at ten o’clock at night, therefore this young fellow was only escorting me out of politeness. Yet I cannot make Dick believe otherwise than that he is my lover.”

“He’s jealous of you,” I said. “Is not jealousy an index of true love?”

“But if he loved me truly,” she protested, bursting into tears, “he surely would not treat me so cruelly as this. I’ve done nothing to warrant this denunciation as a worthless flirt—indeed, I haven’t.”

“And you love him?” I asked with deep sympathy, for I saw how intense was her suffering.

“He knows that I do,” she answered. “He could see but little of me because his work prevented him, yet I was supremely happy in the knowledge of his love. Yet now he has forsaken me,” she added, sobbing. “I’m but a poor girl, and I suppose if the truth were known he admires some one else better educated and more attractive than I am.”

“No, I think not,” I said, although at heart I felt that she spoke the truth. “This is merely a lover’s quarrel, and you’ll quickly make it up again. Look at the brighter side of things—come.”

But she shook her head gloomily, saying—

“Never. I feel confident that Dick will never come back to me, although—although I shall love him always,” and she raised her veil to wipe the hot tears from her cheeks.

“No, no,” I exclaimed, endeavouring to comfort her, “don’t meet trouble half-way. That’s one of the secrets of happiness. We all of us have our little spasms of grief and despair sometimes, you know.”

“Ah! yes, of course,” she cried quickly. “But this sorrow has, alas! not come alone. Still another misfortune has fallen upon me.”

“What’s that?” I inquired, surprised.

“My father!” she exclaimed huskily.

“And what of him?” I asked. “I called upon him a short time ago. Surely nothing has happened to him?”

“Well,” she replied, “it occurred like this. I got permission this day week to leave business at five o’clock, and, as usual, went home. When, however, I arrived at the shop I found it shut, and to my amazement a bailiff was in possession.”

“For debt?” I inquired.

“Yes. He showed me some papers, and said it would cost about four hundred pounds to settle both bill and costs of the court.”

“And your father? What was his explanation?” I asked, greatly interested and surprised.

“He wasn’t there,” she responded. “That’s the curious part about the whole affair. I made inquiries, and discovered that he had suddenly shut up the shop about noon three days before, and had gone off with a heavy trunk placed on a four-wheeled cab.”

“Does no one know where he’s gone?”

“Nobody,” she answered excitedly. “It’s so strange that he has not written me a single line in explanation. I can’t understand it.”

I paused for a few moments, deeply puzzled.

“From the fact that the bailiff was in possession it would appear that he had preferred flight to facing his creditors,” I said slowly. “Were you aware that he was in debt?”

“Not in the least,” she answered. “He has some property abroad, you know.”

“Where?”

“In France, I think. He never spoke of it to any one, although I knew that the rent was remitted regularly by a draft on the Crédit Lyonnais in Pall Mall. I used to go there with him to receive the money. It was quite a pile of banknotes each quarter.”

“Then he could not really have been so badly off as he appeared?” I observed.

“No. He was eccentric, and very miserly, and although he always had enough and to spare he used constantly to deplore our poverty. I took a situation merely to satisfy him, as he had so often expressed regret that I should be idling at home. There was, however, absolutely no real necessity.”

“But surely,” I said, “he has not intentionally left you alone in the world? He will write very soon. Perhaps just now he does not write for fear his whereabouts should become known. He’s evidently escaped his creditors. Has he been speculating, do you think?”

“Not that I am aware of.”

“Can’t you think of any reason why he should have fled so precipitately?” I asked, at the same time reflecting that it might be due to the fact that he had aroused the suspicions of the police by the illegal sale of drugs.

“No,” she answered. “None whatever, beyond what I’ve already explained. His flight is an entire mystery, and it was to seek the advice of Dick, as my closest friend, that I called here. How had I best act, do you think?”

“I really don’t know,” I replied, after some reflection. “His disappearance is certainly remarkable, but if he is in hiding, it is not at all strange that he should omit to write to you. He knows your address, therefore, when he deems it safe in his own interests to communicate with you and explain, he will do so, no doubt.”

“Then I’m to wait in patience and see our home sold up?” she asked, tears again welling in her dark, luminous eyes.

“You can do nothing else,” I said. “He evidently means that it should be sold, for he has made no attempt to rescue it.”

“There are so many of my poor mother’s things there. I should so like to keep them—her little trinkets and such trifles. It seems very hard that they should be sold to a second-hand dealer.”

“That’s so, but you have no means of rescuing them,” I pointed out. “It is certainly very hard indeed for you to be left alone and friendless like this, but without doubt your father has some reason in acting thus.”

“He’s fled like some common thief,” she cried, with a choking sob. “And now I haven’t a single friend.”

“I am your friend,” I said, echoing her sigh. “You have my sympathy, Lily, and if I can render you any service I shall always be ready to do so.”

She thanked me warmly in a voice choked by sobs, for the two great sorrows had fallen upon her, and she was overwhelmed and broken.

I promised I would speak to Dick, and if possible arrange a meeting between them, in order to try and effect a reconciliation. Inwardly, however, I knew that this was quite impossible, for he had really grown tired of her, and had more than once in the past few days openly congratulated himself upon his freedom. She remained a short time longer, and before she left had become more composed and was in better spirits.