Front matter (continued 2)

They paused for a few moments on Cherry Brook bridge, gazed into the pool on the left and watched the trout sporting. The waters sang as they tumbled over the granite rocks and swirled beneath the bracken and heather which overhung the peat banks. In the distance a sheep bell tinkled. Now and again one of the wild Dartmoor ponies neighed. The air was sweet with the faint smell of gorse.

Rupert sighed. He almost wished he had never left the moorlands. His father had doubtless sent him to London to make a gentleman of him with the best intentions in the world. But it was a mistake. They were moorland folk. The land belonged to them and they to the land. He was not suited to the city or the ways of the men who dwelt in it.

A mirthless laugh escaped his lips, and Marjorie looked at him and laid her hand on his. "What's the matter, Rupert? You're not worried, are you, dear."

"Oh, he's in love, that's all," Despard grinned. And he looked at Marjorie. "I suppose you've never been in love, Miss Dale, so you can't sympathise with that blessed but unhappy frame of mind."

They watched the course of the Cherry Brook as it wound in and out, to and fro, making a complete circle here, almost a triangle there, finally disappearing behind the ridge of hill. There was a wistful look in Marjorie's eyes.

"I think I've always been in love—in love with life. I suppose that sounds stupid, or sentimental, to you."

"Life will fall in love with you one day, and be revenged."

She shook her head. "For a woman life is love, and love is life. For a man I suppose it consists of fighting.... She gives life, he takes it."

"Rather a queer point of view," Despard laughed.

"But life is queer, isn't it?" she answered gravely. "If all one reads is true. The greatest nations are the most densely populated, where all the men bear arms—and the women bear children that the men who are killed may be replaced! It does seem a waste, but I suppose one day we shall find something better to do."

"Let's get on," Despard suggested. "You've got a pretty stiff hill to tackle. And I'm a town bird, remember, and can't go the pace you can."

He rather wished that Rupert had stayed at home so that he could have had a tête-à-tête with Marjorie.

Rupert did not seem inclined to take the hint he had given him the previous evening; possibly he knew his reputation with women too well to trust him.

To Despard, Marjorie Dale was unique, and her beauty refreshing after the faded and painted women he knew in London. She was a strange mixture of innocence and fearlessness which appealed to him strongly. The fact that he could not understand her was an added attraction. Not an easy woman to make love to, and he knew she would be a very difficult woman to win.

For the moment he only wanted to amuse himself, but to do that with any measure of safety or success he knew he would have to superficially play the game. That was why he had hinted to Rupert that he was falling in love with Marjorie.

They reached the prison gates just before mid-day. The town itself lay a little distance beyond, with a couple of hotels and a little railway station, and quite a good sprinkling of shops. The two men agreed to meet Marjorie an hour later, and Despard insisted on lunching at the principal hotel.

They watched Marjorie out of sight. Ringing the bell outside the great gates, a porter appeared from his lodge, examined the order, and admitted them.

They were kept waiting a little while in the porter's lodge. Eventually a warder appeared and asked them to sign their names in a large book which was kept there for the purpose. They had to fill in their places of residence, their professions, and various other details.

"I almost feel as if I were signing my own warrant," Despard chuckled. He looked at the warder. "I suppose we shall be let out again?"

"We shall be only too happy to let you go, sir," the man replied without moving a muscle of his clean-shaven, emotionless face.

Despard linked his arm through Rupert's as the chief warder led them across the great stone square and put them in charge of a subordinate.

"For heaven's sake smile, man, or they'll really think you've done time here. That's exactly what you look like."

"I can't see that there's anything to smile at. Other people's misfortunes never amuse me."

"Think of your own, then," Despard replied, "that will cheer you up. By the way, have you heard from Ruby since you left town?"

Rupert's cheeks flushed. He was saved the necessity of replying, by the warder halting them outside another gate. It was opened with much jangling of keys.

Though the sun was shining outside it could not penetrate here. The building was almost entirely of granite, cold and grey. There was no relief for the eye anywhere; just harsh granite underfoot, overhead, and on all sides. Rupert, free man though he was, felt a strange sense of repulsion, a childish desire to beat against those granite walls, to try and break them down, to escape.

The whole time he was in the building, anywhere within the surrounding walls of the prison, he felt as if he were a prisoner. Now and then he heard the warder explaining. He found it difficult to pay any attention to him.

Despard, on the other hand, was interested in everything, asking innumerable questions, watching convicts at work and inspecting their work. Almost every kind of trade seemed to be carried on within the prison walls. Tailors, saddlers, shoemakers, basket-makers. The men sat or stood in rows, each one a certain distance apart from his fellows; and in the middle and at the end of each row was a warder.

Absolute silence reigned, a silence that to an imaginative person like Rupert could be felt, almost seen. It seemed to be part of the stone corridors, the granite walls. And granite appeared to be beaten into the convicts' souls until the expression of it was graven on their faces. Like their walls they were cold, grey, silent. Here and there a few retained traces of humanity; others suggested primeval men of the stone age, though they wore no hair on their faces and their heads had been shaven until nothing but innumerable spikes stood erect from the scalp.

Each man bent over his work as if he were absorbed in it. Rupert, watching closely, noticed their eyes roved here and there, moving quickly, sometimes fearfully; like the eyes of an animal ever on the watch. Sometimes their lips moved, too, though not a sound escaped them.

They passed into the kitchens—here there was blessed warmth again and the smell of newly-baked bread—through innumerable corridors and passages.

They were shown into a cell, A.C. 2061. "Just room enough to die"—as Despard humorously expressed it.

The cells in which the majority of prisoners were confined were built in the middle of a square, the floors rising one above the other, all securely railed off, so that one warder on guard above, could command a view of every cell in the square.

Rupert felt a sense of relief when they reached the porter's lodge again. They had to wait a moment while a gang of convicts marched in through the courtyard. They were accompanied by warders with loaded carbines. They had been at work out on the moorlands, quarrying and farming and digging peat.

"Well, I hope you're satisfied," Rupert said, when they found themselves walking along the road towards Princetown. "I felt a beast all the time. I only wonder the poor brutes didn't get up and go for us."

"Oh, they're happy enough," Despard said carelessly. "But, I confess it's good to be outside again in the air and the sunshine, and, by gad! it has given me an appetite. I hope the local hotel can provide us with something to eat."

They met Marjorie just outside the market-place, and though all she wanted was a little bread and cheese and a glass of milk, Despard insisted on ordering a big luncheon and opening a bottle of champagne.

"We want something to take the taste of the granite out of our mouths," he laughed.

Rupert's spirits rose when they started to walk back to Blackthorn Farm. Marjorie found an opportunity of telling him that she had bought herself some material for a new dress, and made several purchases for her wardrobe out of the money he had given her. Her pride and pleasure in having money to spend made him realise how selfish he had been, and he again made a solemn vow that when he returned to London he would work day and night and not spend a penny more than was necessary.

Ruby would help him in that, he knew, and he would no longer have any shame in appearing before her in his true light.

He had been afraid that when she knew he was a poor man he would lose her. And but for her he would now be ruined!

That evening after supper John Dale drew his son aside. Rupert realised that an interview was inevitable, and though he dreaded it he knew that the moment had come. He expected some kind of a lecture, a warning on the folly of gambling and living beyond his means, and an appeal as to his future conduct. He knew his father would not be angry, probably would not even blame him for what he had done. He almost wished he would. It would be easier than kindness and the pain and disappointment he saw in the old man's eyes whenever he looked at him.

To his surprise Dale made no reference to the past. He simply told him that Sir Reginald had received a letter that morning from his bankers, and he outlined the contents.

The cheque which Rupert had lost and which had since been altered from five to five hundred pounds, had been brought to the bank by a messenger boy, who was given the amount in gold and notes.

On enquiry at the office from which the messenger had been despatched, it had been ascertained that a young man had handed the cheque in to the office in an envelope addressed to the bank, and he had called later on for the money, which had been handed him.

Rupert listened with a sense of relief. "Have they traced the man?" he asked.

Dale shook his head. "Not yet. But, of course, now the affair is in the hands of the police. The manager of the district messenger office where the message was handed in described him as a tall, fair man with a slight moustache, well dressed, and, as far as he remembered, wearing a tall silk hat, and a light overcoat." Dale laid his hand affectionately on his son's shoulder. "Last night, at one dreadful moment, I had a feeling that Sir Reginald suspected you, my boy, so this is a great relief to me."

Rupert laughed a little uneasily. "I suppose it did seem rather queer my losing the beastly cheque and Sir Reginald knowing we were so awfully hard up for money. But you see, father, it arrived at a critical moment, just when I was awaiting the result of my exam., knowing I was dreadfully in debt, and I had made up my mind to risk everything by backing the favourite in the big race. The money I had in hand was borrowed money. I know now it was rotten of me and I'm awfully ashamed. I promise you I shan't make a fool of myself again. I've—I've plenty of money to go on with, and if you want any——"

Dale shook his head. "I'm old-fashioned, I daresay you'll laugh at me. If I were a rich man I don't say I wouldn't do a bit of gambling myself occasionally. But we're poor, and perhaps that makes me extra proud. Keep your money, my boy; pay all your debts, but don't ask me to take any. I couldn't take money that you had won like that. You had no right to take the risk; therefore, to me it almost seems as if you had no right to the money. But it's too late to go back now, so use what's left, but use it carefully for your own sake."

Rupert bowed his head. He made up his mind to make a clean breast of everything, to tell his father about Ruby Strode and his love for her. But just as he was about to speak Dale interrupted him.

"I'm afraid you'll have to start by going back to town to-morrow morning. Sir Reginald left to-day and he said he was afraid it would be necessary for you to go up. It will only be for a couple of days, I expect, and you'll come straight back here, won't you?"

Rupert nodded. "Of course—I'll go if necessary, but I can't see why I should be wanted. I've told Sir Reginald all I know."

Dale cleared his throat uneasily. "It's not Sir Reginald, it's the officials at the bank and—Scotland Yard has charge of the affair. They want you to give them an exact account of your movements, what you did and where you went on the day you received and lost the cheque. It's the least you can do under the circumstances, my boy. You see, if the money's not recovered, I shall have to make it good."

Rupert nodded and said no more. His heart sank again. Yes, unless the bank recovered the money, whether his father was legally liable or not, Rupert knew that if it meant selling the old homestead and everything he possessed in the world to pay Sir Reginald, he would do so.

After all, perhaps he had won only to lose.

Before going to bed that night he knocked at the door of Marjorie's room, and he sat on the edge of her bed just as he had been accustomed to do in the old days when they were boy and girl together with not a thought in the world to trouble them, happy and contented in the life and work of the moorlands.

At first they talked of little things, things which had lost their importance to Rupert, but still went to make up life for Marjorie. Then she fell to questioning him, asking him about his life in London, and if he were happy.

"Somehow, you've changed," she confessed. "You don't look as well or so jolly as you used to. There's nothing seriously wrong, is there, old boy?"

He shook his head. "I'm all right. I've a secret which I want to tell you soon, but it's one that makes me happy, and I hope it will make you happy, too.... Of course, now you'll guess, but don't say anything. While I'm away I don't want you to be too much alone with Despard. He's all right, but he's a man's man—the sort of fellow who makes love to every pretty woman he sees. He can't help it, you know."

Marjorie sat up in her bed and laughed. "Is that a man's man?"

Rupert did not reply, but continued: "Last night, as I was coming back from Post Bridge Hall, I saw you and young Crichton pass me on the bridge. I don't want to interfere, dear, but, somehow, I wondered whether—it looked as though you cared for one another, perhaps——"

Marjorie's cheeks grew the colour of red roses. And, looking at her, as she sat up in her little white bed, with her auburn hair falling in wild disorder about her shoulders, her sun-kissed arms and neck warm against the white lace of her nightgown, he realised for the first time with something like a shock how very beautiful she was. Being a brother he had taken her for granted. He had only looked at her with a brother's eyes. Now he saw her as a man sees a woman; young, in the first flush of youth with warm blood in her veins, a body moulded and made for love.

"Yes, we do love one another," she whispered. "He wants me to marry him one day, but I haven't promised yet. Our positions are so different. I'm not good enough for him."

Rupert laughed. "You, not good enough!"

Marjorie nodded. "That's just what he said when I told him. But it's true. I'm only a farmer's daughter; he's the son of a gentleman. Don't say anything more, dear," as Rupert was about to reply. "Time will tell. If we really care for one another we can both wait until we're quite sure."

Bending down Rupert kissed his sister very gently. There were tears in his eyes. He rose from the bed and blew out the candle and the room was in darkness.

"To tell you the truth, I've been a bit of a rotter since I've been in London," he said, finding it easier to speak in the darkness. "Owing to my stupidity and selfishness, I've got to go up to town to-morrow, but it will only be for a couple of days, and when I come back I'll tell you my secret. For I've fallen in love, Marjorie. I'm beginning to feel as you do—that I'm not good enough for her.... She's wonderful."

He groped his way towards the door and opened it.

"I'm glad, dear," Marjorie whispered. "Good-night."

"Good-night," he replied as he shut the door quietly and went to his own room.

Perhaps it was true. Marjorie was only the daughter and he the son of a farmer. That was why he had made such a mess of things in London. But his eyes had been opened just in time. Love had opened them.

A farmer's son. But his father's ambition should be realised. He would learn to be a man and a gentleman.

CHAPTER VII.

THE VISITORS.

It was dark before the West of England express pulled into Paddington Station. Rupert alighted, carrying a suit-case in his hand. He avoided the temptation of taking a taxi-cab, but walked to the underground railway and took a train to Westminster. He was turning over a new leaf, and, though for the moment he had plenty of money, he had made up his mind henceforth not to spend a penny more than was necessary.

He had not warned his landlady that he was coming, so he found that she was out and that nothing was ready for him. His rooms looked dusty and uncared-for, the blinds were drawn, the atmosphere was cold and cheerless.

The servant suggested lighting the fire, but Rupert shook his head. He was going to do without luxuries of any sort. The first thing he did was to write a letter to Sir Reginald at the Imperial Hotel, telling him of his arrival and saying he was at his service during the whole of the next day. Then, after unpacking his suit-case and changing his clothes, he went out and had dinner at a humble restaurant. He would have telephoned to Ruby, but there was not much time, and, again, it would have meant added expense.

It was curious and irritating how important money had suddenly become. It seemed to check him at every turn—though there was gold in his purse and a balance at his bank. A week or two ago when he had been really broke, it scarcely troubled him. Not as it troubled him now.

For the first time in his life he realised its importance. And his father's words continually echoed in his ears.

At eight o'clock he went to the Ingenue Theatre and waited at the stage door for Ruby Strode to arrive. She generally put in an appearance between eight and eight-fifteen. Every minute cabs and motor-cars drew up and members of the company got out and passed through the narrow entrance to the back of the theatre. Some of the girls he recognised, but he kept out of the way, as he did not wish to be seen.

When the hands of the clock in the doorkeeper's office pointed to a quarter-past eight, he began to grow a little anxious. Ruby was late. As a rule she was careful about time where her work was concerned.

He waited five minutes more, then stepping inside the passage he knocked at the sliding glass-panel of the doorkeeper's office and asked if Miss Strode had arrived.

"I'm sure I couldn't say," the man in charge replied. "The doorkeeper's been called away for a moment, but he'll be back directly. All the chorus and extra people are supposed to be booked in by eight-fifteen."

As Rupert turned away a girl hurrying along the passage nearly ran into him. As she apologised he recognised Iris Colyer, a friend of Ruby's.

"Do you know if Miss Strode has arrived yet? I wish you'd find her for me," he said. "I've just come up to town from the country, and I don't suppose I shall have more than twenty-four hours here. I want her to meet me after the performance to-night."

He noticed a look of surprise on Miss Colyer's face, and she hesitated a moment before replying. "But don't you know she has gone away? She's been absent about a week now."

"Gone away," Rupert echoed blankly.

"Yes; didn't you know? She was a bit run down. Got a chill or something—at least, she said so! Anyway, she wanted a holiday, poor dear! She's been at it hard for the past twelve months."

"Yes—of course, she wanted a holiday," Rupert said mechanically. "Where has she gone?"

Miss Colyer shrugged her shoulders. "I haven't the faintest idea. As you ought to know, Mr. Dale, Ruby was never one of the chatty ones, never gabbled about her own affairs or other people's like the rest of the girls." She held out a neatly-gloved hand. "I must rush away; late as usual. I expect you'll hear from Ruby in a day or two. I remember now she talked about the Continent—Paris, I believe. Said she'd send me picture postcards—of course, the little wretch never has.... So long."

Iris Colyer disappeared with a nod of her head. Rupert remained standing in the passage, pushed about and buffeted to and fro by stage hands and dressers as they passed in and out, until he recovered himself with an effort and made his way into the street and walked slowly along in the direction of Piccadilly Circus. He found it difficult to believe that Ruby had gone away suddenly without a word to him, without even leaving her address. She had not complained of feeling ill the day they parted. He could not believe she had gone away. A sudden fear struck him that perhaps she was seriously ill.

Calling a cab he drove to her flat in Baker Street. He rang the bell three times without receiving an answer, then he went in search of the porter.

The man corroborated what Iris Colyer had told him. Miss Strode had gone away for a holiday. He did not know where she had gone, but he remembered her telling the driver of the taxi-cab to take her to Victoria Station. She had left about eight o'clock on the evening of the same day Rupert had started for Devonshire. She had said she would send an address to which letters could be forwarded, but up to the present she had not done so.

Rupert was on the point of asking if she had gone alone, then he checked himself, ashamed of the thought. For jealousy had prompted it.

He turned away without a word and walked blindly down the street. The contemptible thought which had entered his heart, prompted by a sudden wave of jealousy, was swept away by the return of the dreadful fear which had assailed him several times during the last forty-eight hours, and against which he had so far fought successfully. But now it would not be denied. It brought with it a horrible suspicion.

Why had she gone away? he asked himself again and again, still not daring to find the answer which fear prompted. When she had said good-bye to him at his rooms in Westminster she must have known she was going and have made her preparations. Yet she had carefully concealed the fact from him. It was not a case of illness. He would have seen it or she would have told him. He knew she had not tired of her work at the Ingenue. She loved the theatre.

Then why had she gone? Why had she suddenly run away from him, from London, from life?

She loved him. Nothing could shake his faith in her love. She had proved it. Her love had saved him from taking his own life.

Rupert found himself standing just inside the gates of the Marble Arch. The roar of traffic echoed dully in his ears; on his left the lights of Oxford Street glared. Facing him was the darkness of the Park, with here and there the red blot of a gas lamp.

She had saved him from the crime of self-destruction. With extraordinary clearness pictures rose before his eyes presenting each incident of the last day they had spent together. They passed before him like the pictures projected by a cinematograph.

She had not told him of his good fortune until she had found him seated in the chair with a revolver clasped in his hand. Yet she had known his position perfectly well: she had known that with the defeat of the favourite in the big race ruin faced him. Yet she had said nothing until she found him face to face with death.

He put his hands up to his face to shut out the pictures which danced before his eyes. He heard himself laugh.

The next moment he was striding through the Park trying to escape from his thoughts and from the fear which now permeated his whole being.

At Hyde Park Corner he got on to an omnibus. He wanted to get back to his rooms again. He might find something there, some proof, that these fears were groundless.

The first thing he did was to light a fire and switch on all the electric lights. He noticed a vase of faded flowers on the bureau. He was about to throw them into the fire when he hesitated. As far as he could remember there were no flowers in the room when he had left.

He rang the bell and told the servant he wished to speak to the landlady. The maid gave him a scared look and said she would ask her to step up.

Mrs. Jones entered the room noiselessly, and, closing the door, stood with her back to it. She gave Rupert one glance, then stooped down to pick up an imaginary hairpin from the floor.

"I've returned rather unexpectedly on business," Rupert said, speaking jerkily.

"Yes, sir. I hope—there ain't no serious trouble, sir?"

Rupert forced a laugh. "Trouble? Why—by the way, are there any letters for me?"

Mrs. Jones struggled for her pocket, and after a few moments produced a crumpled envelope which she straightened out and handed to Rupert.

"Miss Strode left that for you the day she went away, sir. And she put them flowers in that vase on the bureau. I said as how they wouldn't live until you came back. But, there, it was her fancy to have them while you were away, and I was to leave them there."

Rupert nodded. He turned the envelope over, broke the seal, then changed his mind, and put it into his pocket.

"No other letters?" he asked sharply.

The landlady looked over the top of his head, and picking up her apron commenced to twist the corners nervously.

"A gentleman called to see you this afternoon, sir, and not knowing you was returning I told him you had gone away and weren't expected. He said you were probably coming up to London—I didn't take no notice of that. He wouldn't give his name, sir, but he seemed anxious to see you."

Rupert guessed it was Sir Reginald Crichton. Turning his back on Mrs. Jones he took out his key intending to open the bureau. To his surprise he found it was unlocked. The landlady continued to twist her apron, watching him surreptitiously.

"There are no other letters for me?" he repeated.

"Well, sir," the landlady stammered, "there were some letters—and Miss Strode, after you was gone, I think she paid some bills for you. At least, so I understood her to say. But two gentlemen have been here since you arrived this evening——"

She stopped, and again picked up an imaginary hairpin from the floor.

Rupert swung round. He waited for her to continue.

"Of course, I shouldn't have admitted them, sir—but, I couldn't help myself."

"What do you mean?"

Mrs. Jones hesitated. She was washing her hands in her apron now, and she sniffed suspiciously once or twice as if tears threatened.

"Speak out—speak plainly, for goodness' sake!" Rupert cried fiercely. "What did these men come for? Who were they?"

"Scotland Yard, sir. In order to search the rooms." She raised her apron to her eyes and commenced to sob. "Such a thing ain't never happened to me before, sir, never since my poor husband died and I was forced to take in lodgers. I told them what I thought of them, but it weren't no good, sir. They had a warrant, or whatever it's called.... And they took your letters, sir. What right had they to them, I'd like to know."

"It's all right, Mrs. Jones," Rupert said quietly. "It's a mistake."

"I know that, sir. But it ain't pleasant to have a thing like that happen in one's own house. Police officers they were, sir.... I told them you was a perfectly respectable gentleman.... You'd paid your bills, as they could see——"

"That will do," Rupert interrupted. "Did they take anything else out of my rooms?"

Mrs. Jones wiped her eyes with her apron. "I don't think so, sir. I had a look round after they'd gone. The race card you'd left and which I'd put on the blotting-pad was missing; and they took the blotting-pad, too, the robbers. I'd just filled it up with fresh blotting-paper the very day before you left, as you may remember."

"Yes, I remember." Again Rupert laughed. "You needn't worry, Mrs. Jones. It's a mistake and it will be put right to-morrow. That'll do, you can go now."

The landlady hesitated, fingering the door-handle. "No one knows but me, sir. Fortunately, I answered the door myself, so my servant, she don't know. People will talk, so——"

"I quite understand. But there will be nothing to talk about. Good-night."

"Good-night, sir. Anything I can do I'm sure——" The door closed on the remainder of the sentence.

Rupert waited until her footsteps had died away. He opened the bureau and searched. A few papers were missing, some notes he had made of his examination, and one or two unimportant letters. As far as he could remember that was all, with the exception of the letters which had arrived during his absence and the bills Ruby had paid. It was lucky they had found and taken the race card.

He took Ruby's letter from his pocket and opened it:

"DARLING,—

"In case you return before we meet again, this is just to greet you and to tell you I have paid all the bills I could find, and put a hundred and fifty pounds to your credit in the bank. It is just possible that I may go away for a little holiday, as I have been feeling rather seedy, lately, and the management say that if I give them a doctor's certificate I can take a rest. So don't worry if you return and find me flown. I won't write to Devonshire as you told me it would be better not to. Guard yourself for my sake. I love you better than anything else in the world.

"Always yours,

"RUBY."

"P.S. I left some flowers on the bureau. I'm afraid they'll die before you see them, but they are my thoughts, which will always be in this room with you."

He looked at the flowers: red roses drooping their heads. Bending down he pressed the letter to his lips. Then slowly and deliberately he tore it up, threw the pieces on to the fire and watched them burn. Drawing a chair forward he sat down and stretched out his hands to the glowing coal. They were icy cold. He was shivering.

It was obvious that the police suspected him of having altered Sir Reginald Crichton's cheque. Their suspicions must have been pretty strong. They must have found some evidence in order to obtain a warrant to search his rooms.

Perhaps there was a warrant out for his arrest. He smiled grimly. But suddenly the expression on his face changed.

If he were arrested and the news reached Devonshire it would break his father's heart, ruin his sister's life.

He jumped to his feet, picked up his hat, intending to go out at once and find Sir Reginald. The clock struck the hour—eleven. It was too late to see him now. Besides, he did not know for certain that the police suspected him!

They had some letters, the contents of which he did not know. Receipts for the bills Ruby had paid.

It was quite possible they might suspect her. He threw his hat aside and examined the bureau again.

Why had the police taken the blotting-pad? He could not remember having written any letters on the day of the race. Yet the blotting-pad must have contained evidence of some sort or the police would not have taken it. If the cheque had been altered in his rooms and blotted on that pad——

His body broke out into a sweat. He dropped back into the chair and sat gazing into the fire.

His suspicions would no longer be stifled. He still fought them, but it was useless. He reasoned with himself, he argued with himself. But the more he reasoned the more firmly did his suspicions take root.

Ruby had never backed Ambuscade for him at all. She had told a lie to save his life!

And, having saved his life, she had had to find the money which, she told him, they had won, and without which he had confessed he dared not face life.

How had she obtained that money?

He heard the question answered again and again, but he dared not listen. He put his hands over his ears and rocked himself to and fro in agony.

To save him Ruby had sacrificed herself. She could not have known what she was doing. She must have been mad at the time.... As mad as he when he had taken his revolver and placed it over his heart intending self-destruction.

Dawn was in the sky before he went to bed. The sun was commencing to rise before he slept. For sleep only came when he had made up his mind what he would do when a few hours later he met Sir Reginald Crichton.

CHAPTER VIII.

ARRESTED.

Rupert awoke with a start. Some one had been knocking loudly at his door. He turned slowly round, then sat upright. The little maid had drawn back the curtains and pulled up the blind with a noisy jerk.

"It's past nine o'clock, sir. You slept that sound I began to grow scared—though I wouldn't have woke you but for Mrs. Jones—she's got one of her nasty moods on this morning; she says she can't have breakfast kept about the whole morning. Shall I turn the bath water on for you, sir?"

"Yes, I shan't be five minutes," Rupert replied. "She can start cooking the breakfast at once."

Directly the door closed he jumped out of bed, and slipping on his dressing-gown commenced to shave. Every now and then as he lathered his face he stopped and stared at his reflection in the mirror. The action was unconscious, yet, whenever he caught himself doing it he was filled with a vague sense of uneasiness. On his way to the bathroom he glanced at the breakfast-table to see if there were any letters for him. He half expected one from Sir Reginald. But there was only a postcard.

As he saw and recognised the writing he picked it up eagerly. It was from Ruby. The postmark was Paris, dated the previous morning. He turned it over, but for a few seconds the writing was blurred by the mist which rose before his eyes. He experienced a sudden, blessed sense of relief. The horror which had haunted him all night went away. He read the address at the top of the card—"Hotel de Tournon." He knew it, a little place in the Latin Quarter patronised by artists and students.

Had she been guilty she would never have written to him nor let him know where she was hiding.

The postcard meant that she was not hiding, that she had not run away. He knew that she was safe.

For the moment nothing else mattered. Not even the danger which threatened him, the possibility of his arrest, the shame it would cast on his father and sister.

The maid came into the room carrying the breakfast-tray, so he took the card to the bathroom, and, locking the door, read it there:

"I arrived here about a week ago. Thought I'd let you know where I was in case you returned to town; but I'm moving on to-morrow, so if you get this write by return. Tell me how you are and if everything is going on satisfactorily. I'm anxious to know. On hearing, I'll send you my next address."

She did not sign her name or her initials.

Slowly, the feeling of relief Rupert had experienced faded away. He read the card again as soon as he was seated at the breakfast-table. Her anxiety to know that all was well with him and progressing satisfactorily, caused fear to return. He told himself angrily that he was a fool, he knew his suspicions were groundless. Of course, she would not have written at all, not even on a postcard, if she had been in any way connected with the altered cheque.

She would really have run away and hidden where no one could find her.

And yet.... When men stole or robbed or murdered or committed any crime, they nearly always did so in the belief that their crime would remain undetected and they would escape. In this case she would be the last person anyone would suspect. No one connected with the affair knew of their friendship or of the relations which existed between them. Neither the Crichtons nor his father had ever heard of her.

There was a knock on the sitting-room door, and Rupert started and hastily hid the postcard in his pocket. It was only the landlady to ask if he had everything he required and to take any orders he might have to give her for luncheon or dinner.

"I shall be out all day," he replied, trying to speak in his normal voice.

"Will you be staying another night or two, or will you be returning to Devonshire at once, sir?" she asked.

"I expect I shall go back to-morrow."

Even as he spoke he had a curious feeling that he would not return home next day. Some dreadful sub-conscious instinct warned him that he would not return home for a long time.

Directly the landlady had gone he looked at the postcard again, then with unsteady hands tore it up and put it into the fire. Under normal conditions, lover-like, he would have kept it.

In every little thing he did now he seemed to have some ulterior motive. He found himself criticising every action and every thought.

He sipped his tea—it was half cold. He had been seated at the table for ten minutes without realising the flight of time. The bacon lay untouched on his plate. He nibbled a piece of bread, then lay back in his chair staring across the room—at nothing.

The clock on the mantelshelf chimed the hour—half-past ten. It was time he started to call on Sir Reginald Crichton. But he did not move. During the night, during the long hours of darkness, he had made up his mind that the woman he loved was guilty of the crime of which obviously he was already suspected. And he had made up his mind what course of action he would pursue.

But by the cold, clear light of day he began to reason again, once more to argue with himself.

In imagination he saw two figures standing by his side; one on the right, the other on the left. Duty and Love.

His duty was to tell the whole truth. To clear himself from any possible shadow of guilt. That was his duty, because his life was not his own any more than his name. Both, in a sense, belonged to his father and sister.

And his sister was loved by the son of the man he was suspected of robbing. But Love, on his left hand, told him that at all costs he must shield and save the woman who loved him. If she had done this terrible thing, she had done it on the inspiration of the moment; love and fear had made her do it. She had found him seated in this very room determined to take his life. She had entered at the critical moment. And when she had tried to show him his folly and sin, he had told her, calmly and quietly, that nothing could alter his determination. He had told her he was not only thinking of himself, but of his father and Marjorie.

And that was why she had done this thing ... To save him and those he loved. She had not considered herself at all. It was not just because she loved him and wanted to keep him. He remembered everything she had said to him and he had said to her in this little room a week ago.

He put his hands up to his face. They were wet and clammy now.

Love and Duty.

He heard the front door bell ring. He started to his feet, his nerve had gone. Again the clock chimed the hour—eleven. Sir Reginald Crichton would be waiting for him.

He turned towards the bedroom, then stopped. There was a hurried knock on the door and the landlady entered. He noticed that her face looked white, her large, coarse hands were clasped together.

"There are two—two gentlemen to see you, sir. I didn't know what to say. I told them to wait while I saw if you was at home or not."

Rupert pulled himself together. He looked at Mrs. Jones and smiled. "I haven't finished my breakfast yet. Tell them to come up."

As he spoke the men entered the room. Rupert looked at them, and he knew who they were and why they had come.

There was a moment's silence. He glanced at Mrs. Jones and smiled again.

"You can go."

Very slowly she stepped back.

"I hope nothing's wrong," she stammered. "I'm sure the young gentleman's done nothing—nothing to be ashamed of——"

"That's all right, Mrs. Jones.... Shut the door, please."

He sat down again and sipped some tea. Then he told the men to be seated. One stepped forward. From the breast-pocket of his tunic he took out a slip of paper and unfolded it.

"You are Rupert Allen Dale?"

"Yes. You have a warrant——" He checked himself.

The man said something else which he did not hear. There was a buzzing in his ears. The imaginary figures on either side of his chair had grown to an enormous size. They seemed to be hemming him in. He felt stifled.

Now the man was reading. Reading the warrant for Rupert Allen Dale's arrest. He caught words here and there.

"That's all right," he said when the officer had finished. "But it's a mistake. I'm not guilty."

Again the man repeated automatically the official warning. Rupert glanced round the room. His eyes stopped at the vase of faded flowers, the red roses which Ruby had left for him.... Her thoughts, which she said would always be with him, surrounding him—in the little room where they had first known one another; known and loved one another.

Again a mist rose before his eyes. He set his teeth, telling himself that he must play the man.

For he had made up his mind what he was going to do, and there was nothing for it now but to do it. To do what he felt was right. Or, right or wrong, to do what heart and head prompted.

"Do you mind if I finish my breakfast?" he said steadily.

The officer glanced at his watch. "I can give you five minutes."

Rupert made a pretence of eating. He managed to swallow a little food. He felt he wanted to remain in this room just a few minutes more. Just a common lodging-house room, that was all, but it seemed now as if the greater part of his life had been passed here.

Here he had worked; here he had really lived, learnt just a little of the meaning of life. Here love had come to him for the first time. It was just as much or even more his home than Blackthorn Farm had been. He swept it with his eyes. But he did not see the common cloth nor the lodging-house breakfast service, the framed text on the wall "Home, Sweet Home," the cheap etching of one of Landseer's pictures, or the coloured print from the Christmas number of the Illustrated London News. He did not see the hideous wallpaper with its green and gold pattern which had long irritated him, nor the well-worn Early-Victorian furniture. He only saw the Ghost of the Things that Had Been. The photograph of Ruby on the bureau, the vase of dead roses, and through the windows one of the turrets of Westminster Abbey.

The officer cleared his throat. "I'm afraid——"

Rupert rose instantly. "Will you call a cab?"

Then, to his own surprise, as much as to the surprise of the two men waiting, he laughed. For, suddenly, the vision of an old four-wheeled cab, a policeman on the box next the driver, and inside a man sitting very close to a plain-clothes officer, rose before his eyes. He had seen this four-wheeled cab and its occupants on Westminster Bridge the day he and Ruby went to the races.

And they had both laughed then at some foolish joke he had made.

And so he laughed again now. "Get a taxi-cab, if you can," he said.

He put on his hat and coat, drew on a pair of gloves. Then, not out of bravado, but prompted by a sentimental whim, perhaps, he drew one of the roses from the vase and placed it in his button-hole.

"I'm ready," he said. "I don't suppose you'll want to—to handcuff me?"

The officer put his hand on his arm. "I don't think it will be necessary, sir."

They walked downstairs together side by side.

CHAPTER IX.

A PROPOSAL.

The news of his son's arrest did not reach John Dale at once. Though Rupert could have written or wired to him he naturally refrained from doing so. The longer his father and sister remained in ignorance of the crime of which he was accused, the better!

Bad news spreads quickly enough, and he wanted Ruby to remain in ignorance, too. It was fortunate he had burnt her postcard as quickly as he did. He had not answered it, and unless she wrote again when she left Paris he would not know her address.

It was from the lips of Sir Reginald Crichton's son that John Dale eventually learnt of Rupert's arrest. In Crichton's mind there was little doubt but that Rupert was guilty of altering the cheque, and he pitied the proud old farmer from the bottom of his heart.

For Sir Reginald also had an only son, one in whom all his hopes were centred; he could enter into John Dale's feelings and he knew how this blow would strike him. So he wrote to his son Jim, who was, fortunately, at Post Bridge Hall on leave, and asked him to break the news as best he could. Though father and son had no secrets from one another, Jim had not yet told his father of his love for Marjorie Dale. He himself knew there were many reasons against a definite announcement of their engagement. He was still young; needless to say, he could not live on his pay, and though his father made him an allowance it barely covered his expenses. Flying was an expensive game, and, like all men attached to the Royal Flying Corps, Jim's energy and keenness knew no bounds. He was always experimenting, trying new engines, building new machines—giving the benefit of his experience to his corps and to his country.

And there was Marjorie's side of the question and her point of view to be considered. Being both so young, having both been brought up in natural healthy surroundings, it was impossible for them to hide their feelings from one another, and before he was aware of it, Jim had confessed his love and read a corresponding confession in Marjorie's eyes.

It was not until afterwards, when quietly and soberly he thought out their position and considered the question of their marriage, that he realised love was all in all to a woman, but to him, while he had his profession, it would only be part of his life. And that at present his life was not his own. Not only did it belong to his country, but he risked it almost daily. For that reason alone he felt he could not tie Marjorie down to a formal engagement.

Sir Reginald Crichton little knew the effect his letter, telling his son all about the altered cheque and Rupert Dale's arrest, would have on him. Had he guessed he might not have written it.

He asked him to break the news to poor old John Dale, to tell him that he, Sir Reginald, was seeing his son had the best legal advice that could be obtained, and to advise Dale to come up to London immediately.

It was with a heavy heart that Jim Crichton walked over to Blackthorn Farm early in the morning after he received Sir Reginald's letter. It was not an easy or a pleasant job to tell another man's father that his only son had been arrested on a criminal charge. He was rather annoyed with his father for not writing direct to Dale. For, after all, he could only blurt the news out in a way that might hurt more than if it had been conveyed by letter.

Youth must always be a little egotistical and a little selfish, and what troubled Jim most of all was the shock the news would give to the woman he loved—and the effect it might have on their love and their future life.

If Rupert Dale were guilty! Jim Crichton was a soldier, and so could not help being a little conventional and having more respect sometimes for the opinion of others than his own opinion. He had to consider what the world thought and said. He knew he would have to consider his own position as well as his father's. And he knew as he walked along the banks of the purling Dart in which Rupert and he had often fished together as boys, that before seeing Marjorie and telling her, he would have to make up his mind as to the position he would take up in this wretched affair—if her brother were found guilty. He knew it meant that the Dales would be ruined, probably financially as well as socially.

In the West country a social sin is never forgiven, never forgotten. They would have to leave Devonshire and go far away. And he might never see Marjorie again.

He halted, sat down on a giant boulder, and looked across the bleak moorland to Blackthorn Farm not a quarter of a mile away. At that moment he realised for the first time how deeply he loved Marjorie Dale.

Better than anyone else in the world; more than anyone else in the world. She even came before his profession.

It was with a shock he discovered this. But he had to confess it to himself.

He could not give her up. Not even though her brother were convicted of being a criminal and sent to prison.

It was a glorious summer day. The sun was rising in a cloudless blue sky. A gentle wind brought the scent of gorse. Here and there streaks of purple showed in red heather where it had burst into bloom. Now and then a trout leapt with a noisy splash in the pool at his feet.

A long time James Crichton sat on the granite boulder lost in thought, trying to look at the thing from every point of view, arguing and reasoning with himself. No matter what happened, he could not give up Marjorie. If he had only considered his own feelings, it might have been possible, even though it meant a broken heart. But she loved him. He belonged to her; she looked to him for her future life and happiness. She had done no wrong. Why should she, he asked himself, suffer for her brother's sin?

He could save her, even though it meant humbling himself, even though it meant giving up the profession he loved.

He knew the decision to which he had come would hurt his father terribly; but if it came to a choice between him and Marjorie, he knew he should choose the woman who was destined to be his mate; the girl, the whole of whose life lay before her, rather than the man, his own father whose life had been lived.

It was a terrible choice, perhaps a strange one. But Jim instinctively felt he was right.

So deep was his reverie that he did not hear a light step on the grassy ground. A hand was laid on his shoulder and he started, looked up, and found Marjorie smiling into his face.

"My dear!" he cried, jumping to his feet. "My dearest!"

He took her in his arms with a passion she had never felt before and held her so fiercely that she would have cried out with the pain had she not loved him as she did.

"Jim.... You frightened me—and I thought to frighten you," she panted when he released her. "You don't know how strong you are." She glanced at him, her cheeks scarlet, the love and dawn of passion swimming in her eyes. She wore no hat and her hair shone in the golden sunshine. Her neck and arms were bare, and her short, workman-like skirt showed her tiny, well-bred ankles and long, narrow feet. Jim looked at her silently, hungrily.

Slowly her colour fled and she came close to him again, holding out her hands. "Is anything wrong?"

Without replying he put his arm around her and led her away towards Blackthorn Farm.

Some one lounging on Post Bridge might see them. A labourer in the fields, or a farmer on the hills, who would carry the news back to his cottage at night that he had seen the young master of Post Bridge Hall making love to old John Dale's daughter. But he did not care—now. Every one should soon know that they loved and that Marjorie was to be his affianced wife.

He told her as gently as he could what had happened. Of course, he made as light of it as possible, assuring her that Rupert would be released and the affair cleared up satisfactorily.

"That's why the guv'nor wrote to me instead of your father and asked me to tell him and see him off to London. He was afraid if he wrote Mr. Dale would put the worst construction possible on the affair. It's quite a common thing for a man to be arrested by mistake on some scraps of evidence the police get hold of.... Don't you worry, Marjorie. You've got to leave all the worrying to me in future."

She tried to smile and press his hand, but the happiness had left her eyes and her face was very pale now. "I'm frightened," she whispered. "I can't help it, Jim—if father goes to London I must go with him."

But James Crichton shook his head. "That's just what you mustn't do. That friend of Rupert's I saw the other day will see him safely up to town. Despard was his name, wasn't it? I suppose he's still here?"

Marjorie nodded. "Yes. He and Rupert had made some discovery in the old tin-mine. They were awfully excited about it." She tried to laugh. "They were going to find radium and make a fortune, I believe. I heard them say something about it.... Oh, Jim, we were so happy and everything seemed to be turning out so well. And now this has happened. Rupert—it can't be true. Of course, I know it isn't true. It will kill father."

Jim forced himself to laugh. "My dear, we shall have him back here within a week. You mustn't think anything more about it. There's something else I want to tell you. I'm going to announce our engagement—at once."

She looked at him with unbelieving eyes, almost as if she could not understand. Then she shook her head.

"Not now, Jim. We must wait until—until Rupert's free; this charge against him disproved."

He shook his head, and, stopping, held her in his arms again. "Darling, if by any chance the worst should happen, it would make no difference to our love! Nothing would force me to give you up. That's why I'm going to announce our engagement now. Now, while this thing is hanging over our heads."

Again she would have protested, but he silenced her. "I've made up my mind, nothing can change it."

Holding her hand he led her forward and opened the gate that led into the farmhouse garden. As they entered they saw Despard lounging in a chair on the lawn reading the morning newspaper, a pipe between his lips. He glanced up as they entered, smiled at Marjorie, and without taking the pipe from his lips, or rising, gave Jim Crichton a curt nod.

"Bounder!" was the latter's silent ejaculation. But he saw old John Dale standing in the doorway, so, giving Marjorie's hand a gentle pressure, he left her.

Telling Mr. Dale he had something to say to him in private he entered the dining-room.

"You bring me bad news of my son," Dale said quietly. "I know it."

"How did you?" Jim asked, off his guard. "Surely it hasn't got into the local papers."

Dale stepped forward instantly, then, gripping the back of his chair, sat down. "So, it's true," he said in a broken voice. "It's true." He gave a mirthless laugh. Jim tried to speak, but the words refused to come. He would have done anything to spare the father of the girl he loved. He would have borrowed the money from his father, hushed the affair up, and repaid the bank. He would have done anything.

"It's true he has been arrested," Jim said after he had given the old man time to recover himself. "But I'm quite sure he will be able to prove his innocence. I know my father thinks so, too. Indeed, he himself is employing the best legal advice he can obtain, and will see he is given every chance of defending himself. We want you to come up to town, if you will, sir, and, if possible, to catch the train to-day." He glanced at the grandfather clock in a corner of the room. "There is one that leaves Newton Abbot about two-thirty, I think. I can motor you in. I am sure Mr. Despard will accompany you."

John Dale shook his head slowly to and fro. "Yes, I must go up. I must see him," he whispered. He rose to his feet and held out his hand. "You're too good, Mr. James. I'm afraid—I'm afraid——"

"You needn't be," Jim interrupted quickly. "Rupert's innocent, I'll swear. Anyway, we'll see to him and see that justice is done."

"Yes; that's so. Justice must be done at all costs." John Dale raised his head and looked proudly at Sir Reginald Crichton's son.

The latter took his hand and shook it warmly. "Then I'll be round with the motor in about an hour's time. Perhaps you'll warn Mr. Despard that you want him to go with you. Anyway, under the circumstances, he could not be left here alone with your daughter, could he?"

He walked to the door, then stopped. "There's something else I would like to say, sir, though it may not seem quite the moment. I love your daughter Marjorie: I hope to make her my wife. With your permission I should like to announce our engagement at once."

It was a long time before Dale replied. "That's impossible now. But I thank you, Mr. Crichton.... It is just the sort of thing I—I would have expected—from Sir Reginald's son."

The old man broke down then, and Jim saw tears coursing down the lined and furrowed cheeks. He bit his lip. "It is not impossible, sir. I want to announce the engagement now; now, at this moment, while this charge is hanging over your son's head. Do you think a thing like that would make any difference to my love for your daughter? It's at this moment she wants my love and the protection of my name. And she shall have it."

Without waiting for a reply he opened the door. Dale stopped him.

"I ought to tell you," he said unsteadily, "that last night Mr. Despard, Rupert's friend, made the same request—told me he loved Marjorie and asked for her hand."

"What did you say?"

"Of course, I refused," Dale replied. "Why, they've only known each other a few days. But, putting that aside, I'm afraid I dislike and distrust the man. I feel he's one of the men who has led my son into bad ways."

He bent over the table and bowed his head between his hands. Again there was a long silence.

"You have no objection to me as a son-in-law, Mr. Dale?"

"Surely that question needs no answer—but, please say no more now. Leave me, Mr. James."

Quietly closing the door behind him Jim walked out of the house into the garden. Taking no notice of Mr. Despard, he drew Marjorie aside and told her what had happened.

"I am driving your father—and Mr. Despard—to Newton Abbot in about an hour's time. When I come back we'll have a little run in the car—tea together at Moretonhampstead, perhaps. Or, better still, we'll go over to Hey Tor and have a picnic on our own. Cheer up, darling, all will be well, I know."

Bending down, he kissed her in full view of Robert Despard. The latter scrunched the Western Morning News up between his hands with an oath.

Waving a farewell to Marjorie, Jim swung through the gate and hurried across the moorlands towards Post Bridge Hall.

An hour later he was driving both John Dale and Mr. Robert Despard to Newton Abbot junction. And he could not help feeling some satisfaction when the train carried the latter gentleman away from Devonshire back to London.

CHAPTER X.

IN SUSPENSE.

It was Saturday. A week had passed since Rupert's arrest, since he had left the little rooms at Westminster and been driven to the police court. It all seemed to him like a vivid dream, in which he played a passive but unwilling part.

He had seen no one but the prison chaplain since that dreadful day at the Westminster Police Court. The long wait in a bare cell, the sudden hurrying through dark passages, the Court, with the hum of conversation suddenly stifled—and then he found himself standing in the dock and felt rather than saw that every eye was fixed on him.

He had pleaded "Not guilty," in a voice he scarcely recognised as his own. Shame covered him as with a cold mist. He was committed for trial, but bail was offered him, two sureties of £500 each. He had shaken his head as he gulped down the lump in his throat that prevented him speaking. Who would stand bail for him?

He began to realise that he had not a friend; many acquaintances—many pals, yes—but not one friend!

A tear dropped on the open book on his knees—"Barnaby Rudge"—that the chaplain had brought him. He had just finished chapter sixty-two, and the tale of Rudge's prison had strangely softened his troubles. But the uppermost thought in his mind was the woman he loved!

Ruby! Again he felt that icy grip at his heart. How often had he reasoned it all out and fought against the suspicion that at last had become a certainty.

Why had she not been to see him? Why had she sent no word, not even a message?

What a coward he had been. The pistol that he held to his own breast had really been pointed at her heart. She had committed this great crime to save him from a greater.

A crime of murder, for in taking his own life did he not end hers, too? And now it was up to him to play the man and pay the price of his own sins. He began to pace the narrow cell.

The key turned in the lock, the cell door opened, and a warder curtly ordered Rupert to follow him. A second warder walked behind, and, after descending a flight of stairs, he stopped before a door which he opened and motioned Rupert to enter, and at once closed the door from outside.

Rupert found himself in a small, bare room, in the centre of which a table covered with a green, ink-stained cloth and half a dozen wooden chairs were the only furniture. Seated at the table was an elderly man with a closely-trimmed beard, while, standing with his back to the fireplace, was a younger man, whose clean-shaven face and clear-cut features at once arrested Rupert's attention. The man at the table rose and bowed.

"Mr. Dale, I believe! This is Mr. Marshall, who has undertaken your defence. Please be seated!"

Rupert obeyed automatically. He was too surprised to speak, and the man, obviously a lawyer, continued:

"I must explain to you that I represent Messrs. Redway, Wales & Redway, Sir Richard Crichton's solicitors, who have been instructed by him to arrange for your defence. Mr. Marshall has kindly accepted the brief and will defend you. Now, Mr. Dale, I want you to tell us all you know about this unfortunate occurrence. You must understand that whatever you tell us will be treated as strictly confidential, and it is absolutely necessary that you are perfectly frank with us. Mr. Marshall will tell you that to conceal anything from us will greatly prejudice your case—in fact, it might ruin your defence."

Mr. Marshall murmured "Quite so! quite so!" and began to examine the toes of his boots.

"I have nothing to conceal," said Rupert. "I intend to plead guilty; I have no desire to be defended—I am quite prepared to pay the penalty of my folly."

Mr. Marshall coughed.

"That's frank; that's very frank," Mr. Redway exclaimed. "But, my dear young sir, you must allow us to judge the way you should plead. Now, I have here a statement of the case as far as we've been able to obtain it from the proceedings in the police court, and the statements made by the witnesses for the prosecution. What we now require are the exact circumstances under which you—er—altered the amount on the cheque and exactly how you proceeded to cash it. Will you kindly tell us in the first place what caused you to be in want of this large sum?"

"I was in debt. I had been betting, and living beyond my means."

"Just so," said Mr. Redway; "and so you altered the cheque under the pressure of debt—to avoid ruin, in fact?"

Rupert nodded.

"Will you kindly tell us to whom you gave the cheque in the first instance with a view of getting it cashed?"

"What's the use of all this? I have admitted the crime, and I do not wish to make any further statement." Rupert spoke with sudden irritation.

"Now, look here, Mr. Dale—Excuse me, Mr. Redway!" Mr. Marshall interrupted—"I have done an unusual thing in coming here to-day, and I have done it entirely in your interests, to enable me to get a personal insight into this case, which possibly I could not get from my brief alone. The least you can do in return is to answer the questions asked you, and give us as much information as you are able. You must understand that unless I am fully acquainted with the details of your actions in this matter, it will be impossible for me to meet and reply to the evidence which the prosecution will bring against you."

Rupert bit his lip, and, after a few moments' silence, he looked straight into the barrister's eyes: "I am extremely sorry to put difficulties in your way, and I fully appreciate Sir Reginald's kindness in arranging for my defence. Believe me, I am very grateful to him and to you both; but there are circumstances which render it impossible for me to give you any information regarding the cheque or its subsequent disposal. I hope you will not press me further in the matter."

Redway, who was fidgeting with the papers, looked at Mr. Marshall with raised eyebrows, and the barrister nodded to him as though he understood.

Redway cleared his throat: "We quite understand, Mr. Dale, and your scruples do you honour; but you must remember that in trying to shield your accomplice by refusing to confide in us, you are not only spoiling your own case, but very possibly endangering your friend. Come, now, be reasonable. We must know who gave the cheque, or rather the note containing the cheque, to the messenger-boy."

Rupert looked up, and the surprise he felt must have been clearly reflected on his face, for Mr. Redway exclaimed: "You don't mean to say that it was you who gave the note to the messenger?"

There was a long silence before the lawyer spoke again. "Will you, then, give us Miss Strode's present address? This is really most important, as she has completely disappeared and left no trace, although the police have been searching for her for the past week."

Rupert's heart gave a great bound. Then she was still safe! "I can answer that question, at least. I don't know where she is, and have heard nothing of her since I was arrested." Then, after a moment's hesitation: "I suppose she is utterly disgusted with my crime, and wishes to avoid having her name in any way connected with mine!"

Redway rose and touched the bell on the table. "I am sorry you can give us so little help. I shall see you again before the trial, when I hope you will see your way to place a little more confidence in us, otherwise I fear your defence will suffer gravely."

The door opened, and the warder escorted Rupert back to his cell. As he reached it, he handed him a letter.

The door slammed, and the retreating steps of the warder echoed down the stone-flagged passage.

Rupert glanced at the envelope in his hand, and started as he recognised his father's writing. He sat on the wooden bunk and slowly opened it. The envelope fell to the floor and lay there. He noticed that the post-mark was London, not Princetown.

For a moment Dartmoor and the great convict prisons rose before his eyes, and he shuddered at the bare possibility of his being sent there. He began to read the letter:

"MY DEAR BOY,—I hardly know how to write these few lines. I have had a great struggle, and from my heart tried to believe you innocent—for how could my son commit this horrible crime? Sir Reginald has been more than kind. He asked me plainly if I believed you did this thing, and I looked him in the face and said 'No! It is impossible! He is a true gentleman!' He shook my hand and said: 'Neither do I; and what's more, I'll see he has a fair trial.' He has written to his lawyers and they are to help you, and he has brought me up to London, and I hope to see you to-morrow. For God's sake, my dear boy, clear yourself and our good name! For my sake, and your sister's, help the lawyers to find the man who has put this awful burden upon us. Find him, Rupert, and hunt him down, for unless you do my heart is broken, and I fear ruin faces us—all three. God help you clear our name.

"Your affectionate father,

"JOHN DALE."

The letter fluttered to the floor beside the envelope and Rupert threw himself on the hard bunk and sobbed aloud. Try as he would, great sobs shook his frame. All his resolutions were shattered by this appeal. How could he destroy his father, ruin his sister, and bring desolation and unending shame to his home?

What was he to do? A word to Mr. Redway, and his innocence would be quickly proved. Nay, he need only give a hint, and the lawyers would do the rest. He need not mention Ruby's name.

Blood was thicker than water, after all; if it had only been himself to sacrifice he would have been too ready to do so for Ruby's sake; but had he any right to sacrifice his father and sister as well? The more he thought of it the more convinced he became that he must save them at all costs.

His eye fell upon the ink-pot on the wooden shelf. As a prisoner awaiting trial he was allowed to send and receive letters.

He found a sheet of paper and wrote to the lawyer.

CHAPTER XI.

THE TRIAL.

It was the second day of the trial.

The atmosphere of the Court was stifling, and as the counsel for the prosecution sat down a deep buzz of conversation and scuffling of feet instantly succeeded the tense silence which had been maintained during his speech.

The judge left the bench, and every one in Court rose. It was exactly ten minutes to five by the clock over the door. The counsel for the prosecution had spoken for just twenty minutes. The public struggled through the door, intent upon tea.

"Poor devil, not much chance for him after that!" "Oh, he's guilty all right! Did you notice the jury's faces?" "G'on! we ain't 'eard t' other side yet." "Did yer notice the bloomin' judge? What I calls a 'anging face, 'e's got!"

The crowd elbowed and jostled its way into the street, where the newsboys were shouting "Special edition! Great fraud case—full account."

The barristers were collecting their papers, and Mr. Marshall touched John Dale on the shoulder: "Come on, Mr. Dale, we will go and have a cup of tea together at my own special tea-room. It is only just across the road!"

The old man had sat beside his son's counsel throughout the long day, and as witness succeeded witness and the chain of evidence grew stronger, his face became sterner and sterner, and when the eminent K.C., who represented the Crown, had reviewed it, taking each link in turn and cleverly wielding the whole into one perfect piece—there seemed not a flaw in the chain of evidence against the prisoner. He was already condemned, and it seemed to the old man that even he could no longer believe in his innocence.

Mr. Marshall had watched the old man all day, and his kindly heart had been touched by his loneliness and obvious grief. He felt it would be cruel to let him go to his lonely lodgings without doing something to counteract the effect, which the case for the prosecution was bound to leave on the mind of one who was totally ignorant of Law Court methods. So, after removing his wig and gown, he steered the old man across the crowded Strand into the snug little tea-room. When the pretty, ribbon-bedecked Hebe had placed the pot of fragrant bohé and plate of hot muffins between them, Mr. Marshall spoke:

"Well, Mr. Dale, what do you think of the prosecution?"

The old man sipped his tea, and carefully put down his cup before he replied: "I'm afraid it looks very black for my poor boy. I hardly know what to think. Do you know, sir, that last speech absolutely shook my faith in Rupert's innocence; what, then, must be its effect on the Judge!"

Mr. Marshall laughed heartily. "Good gracious, Mr. Dale, you must not take anything he said seriously; and, besides, it is the jury, not the Judge, that matters. It will be my turn to-morrow. You have not heard the other side yet."

The old man looked up quickly. "Do you really think there is still hope, sir?"

"Hope, Mr. Dale! I am hoping to-morrow to completely pulverise my learned friend, Mathews. Why, bless me! he entirely ignored the fact that the man who sent the cheque to the bank has not yet been found, while the woman, Ruby Strode, who actually received the money, is also not forthcoming. My dear sir, these two facts alone, when—ahem!—skilfully handled, are quite enough to damn the case for the prosecution! Remember this: In English law a man is innocent until he has been proved guilty. I admit there are many very suspicious circumstances, which our learned friend made the most of; but there has been no direct evidence in proof adduced, and that is our strong point. The evidence to-day, however strong, was purely circumstantial. Mind, I do not say as things stand at present that there is no danger of an adverse verdict; but I do say that we have a good case. I wish we could find that young woman. I feel certain that her evidence would go far to clear your son."

"You have greatly relieved my mind," Dale sighed, "for I was feeling very down about it; and now I must be getting back to my rooms. I wonder if I can get a 'bus to Bloomsbury?"

"You are a stranger to London, and it would be most unsafe for you to try to find your way by 'bus. A taxi will only cost you a shilling. Come along, and I will see you safely off."

As the taxi drove off with John Dale, a boy handed Mr. Marshall a telegram:

"The caretaker sent me across with this, sir, as he thought it might be important."

Mr. Marshall nodded, and tore open the envelope.

"Miss Strode here now; can you come at once? Very important.—REDWAY."

Mr. Marshall's face lit up with excitement. The solicitors were only in Chancery Lane, so he decided to walk. Just as he passed the Griffin he found himself on the edge of a large crowd, and he had some difficulty in forcing his way through; so he did not notice that it was caused by an accident. A taxi-cab and a motor-bus had collided, and apparently some one had been injured, for a police ambulance was arriving. When he got clear of the crowd he hurried on, little thinking who it was being lifted on to the ambulance.

* * * * *

John Dale had never been in a taxi-cab before, and when the kindly barrister had shaken his hand and told the driver the address, he lay back with a sigh of satisfaction on the luxurious cushions and resigned himself to enjoy his first drive. It was marvellous to him how the cab managed to dodge in and out of the heavy traffic; more than once the driver stopped with a jerk that nearly sent him off his seat, but he supposed this was the usual experience in London.

Presently he saw a policeman ahead put up his hand, but the driver dashed on across the front of a big omnibus that was coming down at right angles from another street. In a moment there was a crash, he felt himself hurled into space and knew no more until he found himself lying in a strange bed, and saw a white-capped woman bending over him.

"Are you feeling better now?" she asked.

His head was aching, and when he raised his hand to it, he found it swathed in bandages: he closed his eyes and asked what had happened.

"You must not talk, but just try and go to sleep," the nurse said. "You have met with an accident, but you will soon be all right."

"Ah! I remember now! The taxi-cab. Yes!" And again he closed his eyes, and the nurse stole softly away.

It was late the next morning when he awoke to find the doctor bending over him.

"Well! You have had a good sleep," he said. "How are you feeling now?"

"I am aching all over, but my head is better, thank you. Where am I?—and what time is it?"

"You are in Charing Cross Hospital, and it is just half-past ten in the morning."

Suddenly he remembered. This was the hour he ought to have been in Court to see his son's honour cleared.

"I must get up," he cried. "I have an important engagement, and am late already."

The doctor smiled. "I am afraid that is impossible. You have broken your leg, and it will be several weeks before you will be able to walk again."

He thought for a few moments, then asked if he could send a telegram. A form was brought him, and with a trembling hand he wrote the message.

* * * * *

The Court was packed from floor to ceiling when Rupert entered the dock between two warders. Not only were most of his fellow students present, but also a number of the chorus ladies from the Ingenue Theatre, who were sprinkled among the crowd, conspicuous by their bizarre hats and ultra-fashionable costumes. He at once noticed that his father was not at the counsels' table, and wondered that he should be late. The jurymen were already in their places, and immediately, on the judge taking his seat, Mr. Marshall rose and opened the case for the defence.

"My Lord and gentlemen of the jury—yesterday you heard the case for the prosecution, and the long chain of circumstantial evidence that all went to show the guilt of the prisoner at the bar. Had I known yesterday the facts I am about to put before you, I need scarcely say I should have interposed at once, and so saved a wasted day. We now have a complete answer to the charge—the best answer possible—the person who altered the cheque has come forward at the eleventh hour and has made a full confession."

A loud burst of conversation mingled with applause greeted this dramatic announcement, and when the ushers had secured silence the Judge spoke:

"If there is any repetition of this most improper demonstration, I shall clear the Court."

Mr. Mathew was already on his feet. "My Lord, may I ask my learned friend if he proposes to put in a written confession?"

Mr. Marshall signified assent.

"Then, m' Lord, I must object."

Mr. Marshall, who was still standing, replied at once: "It is an affidavit, my Lord, and as such is legal evidence."

"I object, m' Lord!" Mr. Mathew interposed.

"Will you state the grounds of your objection?" the Judge said.

"Certainly, m' Lord; I am instructed that the person who has executed the affidavit is merely an accomplice of the prisoner at the bar, and their relationship is such as to warrant the gravest doubts of its genuine nature. I am instructed, m' Lord, not to accept this confession, and I must insist on my right to cross-examine, if this affidavit is put in."

"Are you prepared to call this witness, Mr. Marshall?"

"I am in your Lordship's hands; if your Lordship rules that I cannot put in this affidavit without, I have no alternative."

A buzz of conversation was instantly suppressed by a loud cry of "Silence in Court!" from the usher.

The Judge replied: "I so rule. Let the witness be called!"

"Ruby Strode!" Mr. Marshall said in a loud voice.

"Ruby Strode!" came the stentorious tones of the usher.

Every eye was turned to the door by which witnesses enter, and the strain of expectancy was intensified by a second loud call, "Ruby Strode!" followed a moment later by sounds of scuffling feet and eager whispers, as a slight figure, wearing a small toque, and thick veil, came through the door, and quickly made her way to the witness-box.

Rupert, who was clutching the rail in front of him, was white to the lips; and the Judge, noticing his condition, ordered a chair to be given him, and he at once sank on to it gratefully. He was stunned by the course things had taken, for Mr. Marshall had purposely kept the news of Ruby's return from him, fearing the consequences.

Was this the reason his father was absent? But no! surely the joy at the proof of his innocence would overcome any resentment he might feel at his secret engagement.

He dared not meet Ruby's eyes—with every one watching them so intently. He was furious with his counsel, and determined to prevent Ruby convicting herself at all costs. He drank in every word, and his brain was busy endeavouring to see how he could defeat her loving sacrifice, and prevent her confession from being her ruin. She had taken the oath, given her name and calling, and was now listening to the reading of her affidavit by Mr. Marshall. When he had finished he handed it to the Judge, and asked her a few questions, to which she replied in monosyllables.

Presently he asked her: "Did you see Mr. Despard that day?"

"Yes."

"Did he see the cheque in your hand?"

"I object, m' Lord!" said Mr. Mathews.

"I am not leading," replied Mr. Marshall.

"I submit it is a leading question, m' Lord, and, further, that it is not evidence, unless my learned friend intends to call Mr. Despard."

"Will you put your questions in another form, Mr. Marshall?"

"Certainly, my Lord, though I had no intention of leading at all. Did you have anything in your hand when Mr. Despard called?"

"Yes," said Ruby, "the cheque."

"Did he see it?"

"I object!"—from Mr. Mathews.

"Really, my Lord, I must protest at this continual interruption," Mr. Marshall said.

The Judge interposed, and the question was put in another form.

"Do you think he saw the cheque in your hand?"

"Yes, I feel sure he did."

Mr. Marshall at last finished, and Mr. Mathews at once rose and cross-examined. His questions were very searching; he asked about her engagement to Rupert, and she admitted with pride that she loved him devotedly.

"Yes, she was deeply affected by his present position—she knew he was innocent."

"Supposing he had been guilty—she would willingly take his place?"

"Yes."

"There was no sacrifice too great to make for him—her future husband?"

"None."

"She had come to-day with no other object than to save him?"

"Yes," Ruby replied again. "That is why I made the affidavit now before the Court."

Then the counsel's manner, entirely changed, and instead of leading her easily and pleasantly with smiling questions that she had only to agree to with an eager "Yes," he began to ask her questions which she found it difficult to answer at all; and presently he made her contradict herself.

"Now, please be careful, Miss Strode; you distinctly told us just now that you wrote the note to the bank asking them to give the money to the messenger boy, and now you say that it was written by the prisoner. What are we to understand?"

Poor Ruby was by now thoroughly frightened, and hardly knew what she was saying. "I—I mean Mr. Dale wrote it for us, and I sent it. You see, I did not want him to get into trouble!"

"Oh! So you knew he would get into trouble if he was found out?"

"Yes, of course—I mean—that is—Oh, dear, you know he did not do it, and I swear I did it all—all myself. Oh, Rupert, Rupert, they won't believe me after all!" She burst into a storm of tears.

Mr. Mathews sat down with a significant smile at the jury, and Ruby was led sobbing out of Court.

"Robert Despard!"

He stepped into the box—dressed in a dark tweed suit—cut in the newest fashion—the latest thing in ties, and a blue velour hat in his hand. He might have stepped out of a tailor's fashion plate, which accurately described his appearance as "Smart Gents. The latest!"

He looked round the Court quite at his ease, and nodded to a friend whose eye he caught; but he studiously avoided catching Rupert's.

He gave his evidence quietly, and without the slightest hesitation. He admitted visiting his friend's rooms on the day of the races—he came to condone with him on his loss over the big race. Yes, he knew he was heavily involved. He found Miss Strode there alone; he spoke to her of the loss. No, he did not remember her telling him she had won over "Ambuscade." He was certain of this. Yes, he waited till Rupert came in. He sat alone in the room for a few moments after Miss Strode had gone and before Rupert came in.

He did not notice anything in Miss Strode's hand.

"Did you notice a cheque or slip of paper—in her hand?" Mr. Marshall asked.

"I must object to that, m' Lord," interrupted Mr. Mathews.

"I submit the witness is hostile, m' Lord," replied Mr. Marshall.

"I think Mr. Marshall is entitled to treat this witness as hostile," the Judge said. And Mr. Marshall again put the question.

"No, I did not see a cheque or slip of paper in her hand."

"Come, Mr. Despard, think again: did you not remark to Miss Strode that it was a cheque for her winnings?"

"I have no recollection of any such conversation," Despard replied curtly.

"Did you notice the blotter on the writing table, Mr. Despard?"

"Yes."

"Was it much used?"

"No, it was perfectly clean."

"Will you swear that it had never been used?"

"No, I can't swear that; but I thought——"

Mr. Marshall broke in: "Never mind your thoughts; what we want to know is that you will not swear that the blotter was clean? ... Thank you, that is all."

Mr. Marshall sat down.

Mr. Mathews with a smile asked two questions only. "You said that this blotting paper was perfectly clean, but that you could not swear that it had never been used? Will you kindly tell us why you noticed this pad at all, Mr. Despard?"

"I noticed it because the last time I saw it, it was covered with ink—worn out, in fact—and I naturally noticed the clean white sheet."

"And you feel sure it had not been used?"

"Yes—I feel sure I should have noticed it."

"Thank you; you can sit down!" And Mr. Mathews resumed his seat.

Other witnesses followed to prove that Rupert was not the man who sent the note to the bank; that the money was given to Miss Strode; that the word "hundred" on the cheque was not his writing. But here a difficulty arose, because Ruby had tried to copy the writing on the cheque, so that it was not recognisable as her writing either.

When the last witness had stepped down, Mr. Mathews addressed the Court. He pointed out that Ruby was Rupert's sweetheart, that she herself admitted, under cross-examination; that she had made this confession to save her lover.

"While doubtless she had been his accomplice in the crime, and as such received the money," he went on to say, "the letter to the bank was in the prisoner's own handwriting, and bore his signature. This had been admitted by the defence, though they gave a clumsy and wholly unbelievable explanation, namely, that it referred to a bookmaker and a bet that he had apparently never made!

"The evidence of their own witness, Despard, was perhaps the strongest proof of the unreliability of Miss Strode's statements. He distinctly denies seeing the cheque she states she had in her hand. He says there was no mention made of winning a bet, and he declares that the blotting-pad—that should have been stained as it now appears in Court, was perfectly clean! So careful is this witness as to the accuracy of what he gives in evidence, that he actually declines to positively swear that the blotter had not been used, although sure in his own mind that it was quite clean. Contrast this straightforward evidence with the statements made by Miss Strode herself! Why, she cannot tell her story without contradicting her own evidence, and then when she is asked to say which statement is true, she breaks down and gives up her attempt to save her lover! Gentlemen of the jury, I should be the last to take advantage of a woman's weakness—of the unfortunate position in which she has placed herself; I cannot but admire her heroism, her self-sacrifice in trying to save her lover by taking the crime on herself; but I should not be doing my duty—nay, I should be defeating justice itself, were I to permit this loving woman to condemn herself of a crime, of which she is only the innocent accomplice."

He sat down, and Mr. Marshall rose. He was a young man with his reputation to make, and this was his first big case.

He began quietly by reviewing bit by bit the evidence for the prosecution. He cleverly seized each point in which a witness had said anything indirectly injurious to the prisoner, and pointed out that it was equally true if applied to Ruby Strode. He asked the jury if there was one single piece of direct evidence against his client. And, after a dramatic pause, he answered: "No, gentlemen, there is not! Circumstantial evidence there is in abundance, but nothing—absolutely nothing—that can justify you in finding this man guilty."

Then he took the evidence for the defence. He drew a pathetic picture of the prisoner suffering in silence to screen his sweetheart; of his refusal at first to make any defence; of his determination to plead guilty; and finally, his consent when he believed his sweetheart safe on the Continent, solely because of his aged father's grief at the dishonour and the stigma that would attach to his sister's good name.