Front matter (continued 5)

Rupert could hear a band playing somewhere ashore, and as though in answer to his thoughts across the water there floated the heart-swelling strain of "Home, Sweet Home." He listened entranced till the air died away and all was silent. Then came the stirring crash of the National Anthem. He remembered the last time he had heard it. At the Moreton flower-show. It brought back in a flash to him the faint damp scent of moss and roses. That happy summer day. Home and all it stood for was here! It was good to be a Briton and feel this glorious freedom, this great sense of fellowship, of ownership.

"You will be getting sunstroke if you stand there with your helmet off, Cotton."

He started—the spell was broken. His fellow-passenger, a grey-haired, clean-shaven man of fifty, with whom he had struck up a friendship during the voyage, stood behind him with a smile on his kindly face, which was lighted by a pair of keen, grey eyes.

"It sounds good to us exiles—the old tune—doesn't it? 'What does he know of England who only England knows?' Eh? The chap who wrote that must have known something of our Empire—what? And yet there are millions of fools in the old country this moment who neither know nor care whether the Empire exists or not; while the very bread they eat is bought with the blood of those who created it! Look at that long wharf over there. See those piles of bales? That is cotton pieces from Manchester. See those chests piled under that big shed? Tea—cheap 'Straits' tea—shilling a pound in any little grocer's shop at home! See that steamer loading those sacks, there, that black-funnelled one? That's sago, that the kiddies eat at home."

"Wonderful!" Rupert echoed, and then he sighed. He had left the old country—a felon. He had found a new world, a free man!—with his country's flag flying a welcome. And yet——

"Do you see that little cruiser over there?" Patterson continued excitedly. "It's hard to realise that she's the only British warship within a thousand miles of this—the most important trade-route in the world. No, that's not a British ship—that big battleship over there is a German, and that other with four big black funnels is a Jap, and the one beyond is a Russian. Bit of a shock, isn't it, when you recognise what a tiny thing the British Navy is compared to the Colonial Empire it has to defend?"

Rupert nodded. His head was in a whirl—and his heart. He had reached the end of his journey. He was free! And yet——

"By the by, have you decided what you're going to do? My offer is still open. Your mining knowledge would be very useful to me in Borneo, although you haven't got the certificate of the School of Mines. It will be rough work—dangerous work at times, as I told you, for we are going up to the unknown interior where the Head-hunting Muruts live, and you may not see civilisation again for twelve months."

Rupert looked him in the face. Patterson was a "white man" he knew. A straight man.

"I have thought it all over, and I decided last night to accept your offer if you are still willing to take me after you have heard why I am here. I can't explain everything, but what I shall tell you is only what you ought to know. Come down to my cabin and I will tell you who I am."

In the saloon of the boat—deserted now—where they had spent so many happy weeks, sharing storm and sunshine, dangers and pleasures, unconsciously growing to know one another, as men ashore never can.

A genuine friendship, backed by respect, had been formed between Rupert and Patterson. The former had only just realised what this friendship had done for him.

What it meant for him now! He, who had been for so many months a convict, cut off from all communications with his fellows—a mere machine, a cypher! Number 381!

Patterson had offered him a job. Work after his own heart. It was only now, at the last moment, that Rupert realised he could not accept it, could not continue the friendship that had commenced, and which meant so much to him, unless he told Patterson who and what he was!

An escaped convict, a felon with a price on his head!

A nice companion for this straight, clean Englishman, who proposed to take him, alone, in the vast interior of wild Borneo.

To speak, to confess, meant losing his first, only friend. It meant losing the chance of work. It might mean that he would be arrested and sent back to England and prison!

But he had to play the game! It is curious how little things affect one at a great crisis of one's life. Rupert had known he would have to leave Patterson and refuse his offer—or else speak and tell him his history, and, sub-consciously, he had decided to say nothing, make some excuse for refusing his offer and just leave Singapore, alone.

It was the sight of the Union Jack flying from the shore, the sound of the old English tune, "Home, Sweet Home," that had suddenly turned the scales and made him decide to leave his fate in Patterson's hands.

He thought of his father, of little Marjorie, his sister. And last of Ruby, the woman he loved!

They would have asked him to play the game.

So, over a final drink in the empty saloon, Rupert told his new friend, already his old friend, Jim Patterson, the story of his life, his imprisonment and escape from Dartmoor. He refrained from mentioning any names; he made no attempt to defend himself.

When he had finished Patterson ordered another drink, and then lit a cheroot. Having got his "smoke" well under way he rose and held out his hand.

Rupert took it hesitatingly. "I'm glad you told me, Cotton," Patterson said. "I rather flatter myself that I'm a judge of character. I knew the moment I saw you that you had a 'history.' I didn't want to know it, but I guess you feel better for having told me. A man who has gone through the fires and has got his fingers burnt is worth twice as much as the fellow who has never fought and blundered, suffered and gone on fighting. Now then, shut down on the past and ... get ashore!"

"You—you still want me to come with you?" Rupert stammered. "You still trust me?"

Patterson laughed. "Now, more than ever."

Half an hour later Rupert's bag was put into a long boat with Mr. Patterson's more bulky luggage. There was a choppy sea on and it was not an easy task to get into the boat as it rose and fell at the ship's gangway. At last they pushed off, Patterson sitting beside Rupert in the stern, with their baggage piled in front of them. The six Malays bent to their long, thin paddles with short, jerky strokes, and the light boat flew through the white-topped waves towards the shore beneath the slopes of Fort Canning, where the Union Jack still fluttered a welcome.

* * * * *

A long canoe cut out of a single giant tree, with a palm leaf awning covering the stern portion, under which two white men inclined on a mat, while eight brawny Malays, sitting crossed-legged with their backs to them, bent their bronze-coloured bodies from which the sweat poured in streams to the regular strokes of their paddles. In the stern, behind the awning, sat the steersman, an old, parchment-faced Dyak with a small white goatee beard, fierce, pig-like eyes, and a broad slit of a mouth which dripped a blood-red juice as he chewed his betelnut quid.

He was the guide, an old "Gutta-hunter" who knew this trackless forest, these giant mountains through which the great river flowed three long weeks' journey to the sea. Here, in the far interior, where no white men had been before, it had become a clear, swift stream, with constant rapids, up which the narrow canoe had to be dragged by the crew waist-deep in the rushing white-foamed water as it swirled and tumbled over the jagged rocks.

Tropical vegetation hung in thick green masses to the water's edge, while the blacker mass of foliage of colossal trees whose huge trunks shot up a hundred feet or more without a branch, shut in the landscape on every hand.

"'This is the forest primeval, only more so,'" Patterson quoted gaily, "and, if it wasn't for the leeches, not a bad place after all."

These pests hung on every leaf and blade of grass and, with outstretched head, waited the passer-by on whom they instantly fixed, to worm through puttie or breeches, through coat and shirt, until the flesh was reached and the blood-sucking head inserted beneath.

For nearly nine months now Patterson and Rupert had been travelling—prospecting and working—in this wild and dangerous region. For Rupert, nine months of keen excitement, which had almost wiped out the dreadful past. But, deep in his heart, was embedded the memory of the woman he still loved; and the memory of his father and the little homestead among the Devonshire moorlands.

The one thing he could never forget was that he would, perhaps for ever, remain an exile. Yet he dreamed of returning home one day, of seeing his loved ones again—if only for a few brief hours.

The sun was below the mountain tops, and it was almost time to think of selecting a camping-place for the night. Patterson stretched himself and sat up.

"Where shall we land?" he asked in Malay.

"I don't know—wherever your honour wishes," the helmsman replied. "Your honour knows best."

Before Patterson could reply a huge tree on the right bank, not twenty yards ahead, crashed down right across the stream, its great branches throwing up a column of water, while its dense top was locked in the foliage of the other bank.

"Murut! Murut!" shouted the Malays. "Turn quick! Quick!"

The water swirled beneath the swift strokes of the paddles as they turned the canoe in its own length. A sudden crack with the rending sound of a falling tree caused them to pause with paddles in the air, as another giant of the forest crashed down the stream below them. Instantly a shot rang out from the jungle and the air was filled with yells of "Hoot-ka-Poot," the dread war-cry of the Head-hunting Muruts.

Naked figures climbed over the fallen trees that hemmed them in, and musket shots from both banks added to the din, though the bullets whizzed high overhead or harmlessly struck the water.

At the first alarm Rupert and Patterson had seized their rifles and opened fire, Patterson shouting orders to keep the canoe in mid-stream.

"Fire at the men on the tree ahead, Cotton," he said. "We must force a passage up stream.... Good shot!" as a Murut who had reached the middle of the tree threw up his arms and toppled face down into the stream.

Two more were lying limp in the tangle of branches and another went splashing and spluttering past the canoe, the swift running current red with his blood. Suddenly the man in the bows leaped up with a shriek that ran high above the noise of the fight, his eyes starting from his head with horror, as he stared at a tiny bamboo shaft that he held in his left hand, while his right plucked convulsively at his side, from which a few drops of blood were oozing. Slowly he sank to his knees, while his fellow paddlemen huddled away from him, muttering the dread words, "Upas, Upas poison! He's hit!"

As the cruel poison began to work, the poor fellow's face became livid and his limbs contorted with agony, and soon he lay a knotted and inanimate mass of twisted limbs in the bottom of the canoe.

The deadly blow-pipe is the Murut's chief weapon, for guns are few and only obtained where the Arab trader has penetrated to buy "gutta" and other jungle produce. The blow-pipe is about six feet long and is bored with wonderful skill from a perfectly straight piece of seasoned hard wood. Its darts are made from bamboo, thin as a knitting needle, and with a very sharp point, which is nearly cut through, so that it breaks off in the wound before the dart can be withdrawn. A piece of pith that exactly fits the bore of the tube is fixed to the other end of the dart, and so powerful is this primitive weapon that a skilled warrior can blow a dart with extreme accuracy to forty or even fifty yards range.

The Malay next Rupert dropped his paddle, which floated away, and when he looked at him he saw a thin line of blood running down his face from a hole in his left temple. He was stone dead, but still squatted in his place. A bullet now broke the steersman's, Unju's, paddle, and the canoe began to drift towards the bank.

It had all happened so quickly that they had scarcely time to realise their danger, and it was not till a shower of spears had wounded Unju and killed the other two Malays, that Patterson saw they were almost ashore.

"Quick, Cotton, paddle for your life!" he shouted, and, seizing a paddle, he tried to turn the bow of the canoe to the stream again.

But it was too late, a score of naked forms leapt from the bank and threw themselves upon the canoe, which filled with water, and surrounded by shrieking savages was soon fast wedged in the undergrowth on the wear side.

It would have gone hard with the two white men, for a dozen spears were poised against them, when Unju, the Dyack, yelling his war-cry, leapt into the midst of the Muruts, his heavy parang swung by an arm of steel, cleaving through skull and shoulder, breast or back, and sending death and destruction on every side. In a moment he had cleared a circle round the canoe. Suddenly a shot rang out, and Unju collapsed into Rupert's arms, and an instant later a tall native with a Winchester repeating rifle in his hand, stepped from behind a tree, and, signing to the Muruts to keep back, approached the canoe.

He wore a short Arab coat, a pair of tight-fitting "sluar," and a small handkerchief turban of stiff gold embroidery round his head. An acquiline nose, two piercing black eyes set very close together, and a small black moustache that covered but did not hide a thin, cruel mouth, showed that the newcomer was not a Murut. He addressed Patterson in Malay with the peculiar drawl of the Brunie noble.

"Surrender, and the Muruts shall not kill you. Touch not your guns but step up upon the land."

He then turned to the Muruts and gave some orders in their own language. Unju had sat up, and Rupert was trying to staunch the bullet wound in his left shoulder. With Patterson's assistance they lifted him from the canoe and laid him against a tree on the river bank. The Muruts were cutting branches of trees and with a few rattans soon constructed a rough litter.

What fate awaited them Rupert hardly dared to guess. That their lives had been spared was evidently due to the presence of the Brunie chief, whom they learnt later on was an outlaw and a desperado called Mat Salleh, who, in his young days, had been a pirate and was a native of Suloo, an island of the north coast. Old Unju knew him well by reputation, and seemed to fear him far more than he did the Muruts, whom he really despised. Mat Salleh had obtained a great influence over the Muruts of the interior, who believed him to be invulnerable and possessed with supernatural power.

When the litter was ready, Mat Salleh ordered them to march behind it, and surrounded by armed Muruts and preceded by others carrying the gory heads of the poor Malays, they started up a steep mountain track through the gloom of the dark jungle. After about an hour's march they emerged from the forest into a large clearing, where paddy and sweet potatoes were planted. At the top of a conical hill in the centre of the clearing was a high stockade of bamboo enclosing some dozen houses on piles and thatched with palm leaves. As the long procession entered the clearing, a great hubbub arose out in the village. The deep notes of a big war gong mingled with the shrill cries of the women, who poured out of a gateway and danced down towards the approaching warriors. The sun had set and it was nearly dark, though a bright moon lighted up the clearing, throwing the stockade and houses into black relief against the opal sky.

Rupert glanced at Patterson. The latter shrugged his shoulders. "We're in for it, I'm afraid, Cotton. Sorry, old man, but while there's life there's hope!"

As they entered the stockade flames shot up from a huge fire that had just been lit inside, and the ruddy glow thrown on the bronze figures of the men and the naked bodies of the women who surrounded them, made a scene so weird and eerie that Rupert's blood ran cold with dread of what was about to happen in this devils' cauldron. At one end of the enclosure was a long house with an open verandah about six feet above the ground, against which was placed a single bamboo in which notches had been cut to form steps.

By this Mat Salleh and the Murut chiefs mounted, and squatting round a huge jar began to refresh themselves by sucking a reed that was inserted in the top. Similar jars were placed near the fire, and groups of warriors quickly surrounded them. Patterson and Rupert were dragged to the fire, and poor wounded Unju was also dragged there by a horrible old hag, who appeared to be the mistress of the ceremonies. The women now took the heads, still dripping with blood, and began to slowly dance round the fire, chanting a deep song with a high wailing note at the end of each stave. Their long black hair hung straight to their waists, they were naked save for a dark cloth of bark round their loins. The great wooden gong beat time and throbbed on the still night air. Gradually the time became faster, and men and women from the drinking jars joined in the dance. The gory heads were tossed from hand to hand, and it was evident to the unfortunate prisoners that the drink was beginning to inflame the dancers.

Spears and parangs flashed in the firelight, and old Unju, who had hitherto remained motionless, stirred uneasily and at last spoke to Patterson in a low voice.

"Beware, O chief, for they will take our heads presently when their blood is fired by drink."

Patterson nodded. "I'm afraid I've given you a poor run for your money, Cotton," he whispered. Rupert smiled. "I'm all right. Glad we're together."

At this moment a band of women were seen advancing from the chief's house, leading two youths who were to be initiated as warriors. They each carried a head by the hair and were led into the circle of dancers. The same old hag who had conducted the dance now smeared the youths with blood, shrieking an invocation, to which the crowd replied at intervals with a shout of "Augh!" Next an old warrior stepped forward and broke off their two front teeth with the aid of a stone and a short iron instrument, afterwards filing the stumps off to the gums.

This was done to enable the sumpitan or blowpipe to be used with greater facility and is the sign of manhood. More jars of tapi (rice spirit) were broached, and every one gave themselves up to drinking.

Patterson whispered to Unju and asked him if he was able to walk, to which the old man replied that he could walk all night if his head remained on his shoulders—about which he expressed some misgivings.

"Listen," said Patterson, "in a short time the moon will be down. They have put green boughs on the fires to smoke the heads while they drink. It is pitch dark under the stockade, and most of the men are already drunk. If we can crawl one by one to the stockade, without being seen, we can overpower the man at the gate, and, once outside, Unju must guide us to the river. It is a desperate venture, but to remain here is certain death."

Unju shook his head. On the whole, he preferred to remain where he was. Their lives were in the hands of fate. To go or stay—it would come to the same thing in the end.

Patterson turned impatiently to Rupert. "What do you say? At least we shall be doing something, and, anyway, get a fight for our lives. This inaction is getting on my nerves."

Rupert managed to laugh. "It is a bit dull. I almost feel as if I were watching my own head being smoke-dried over that beastly fire."

It was agreed that at a signal from Patterson each man should begin to creep towards the stockade, keeping as far apart as possible. If one was discovered and caught the other two were to make a dash for it, trusting to the excitement and drunken confusion to get away.

Patterson drew a ring off his finger, a plain gold band, and gave it to Rupert, asking him (in the event of his getting away and Patterson being caught) to give it to a certain person he named and whose address Rupert would find at the National Bank, Singapore.

"Anything I can do for you, old man, if—if you're unlucky?"

Rupert thought for a moment. "There is a girl I love called Ruby Strode. You will probably find her at the Ingenue Theatre, London. Tell her that I understood and appreciated everything she did on my behalf—tell her she was my last thought."

"Right-ho," Patterson replied cheerily. "Now, crawl a few feet away and lie low until you hear me whistle twice. Then make for the stockade on your hands and knees. Each man for himself, remember. It's our only chance."

Rupert gripped his hand. The next moment he found himself alone. By the faint light of the flames from the fire he could see the hideous, naked figures of the Muruts dancing to and fro, men and women. They reeled, leapt, staggered. The rice spirit was doing its deadly work, and already they were mad with excitement.

Suddenly above the noise Rupert heard two long, low whistles. He turned over on his hands and knees. But, as he did so, he heard a wild yell.

The hag-like woman had seen him. Patterson was discovered, too.

A score of writhing, steel-coloured, blood-stained bodies reeled towards them, closed round them, cutting off all chance of escape.

Rupert saw Patterson rise to his feet. He followed his example, giving himself up for lost. The flames from the bough-fed fire leaped up brightly for a moment, then died down again, making the night inky-black.

CHAPTER XXVI.

AN ARGUMENT.

Despard sat in the den, as he called it, of his new chambers in Duke Street, London. A shaded electric light shone on his desk. A mass of papers and a private account-book lay before him, a half-smoked Havana cigar was in his mouth, a whisky and soda by his side.

The gold travelling clock on the mantelshelf struck the hour. Nine o'clock. Despard pushed back his chair, took a pull at his cigar, sighed, and then, looking at the clock, frowned. Evidently the visitor he expected was not coming.

Nearly two years had passed since he successfully floated the radium mine at Blackthorn Farm. For several months his little venture had threatened to sink. It had been more difficult than he supposed to get people to believe in radium. The public wanted something they could see and handle for their money. Radium was a little too elusive.

But Despard, for all his faults, was a fighter, especially when he had something for which to fight. He had got two or three people with a small amount of money to believe in him—and in radium. Some of those people had influence. So, after many weary months of working up a slow but steady boom, and by a brilliant system of advertisement, the company had been successfully floated and launched, and the public had come in at first slowly and hesitatingly, but eventually with a rush which was accelerated by an unexpected boom on the Stock Exchange.

The one-pound shares in the radium mine, fully paid up, mounted from five shillings to par. From this they suddenly boomed to twenty-five shillings, and then gradually and steadily rose until they were quoted at three pound ten. Sir Reginald Crichton and one or two other members of the original syndicate, though honestly believing in the venture, were surprised. So far, no radium had been extracted from the pitch-blende—though the reports were excellent and full of encouragement. But Crichton expected he would have to wait some years before he got a return for his money.

Now, if he chose to sell his shares he knew he might realise a small fortune. But Despard begged him to wait.

"They'll touch five pounds yet," he said.

His nerve, which had never deserted him during the early days of the venture, when people had frankly laughed at the idea of radium being discovered in Devonshire, when there was real danger of utter failure, and rumours of fraud echoed in his ears, now began to fail him.

He knew he could trust old Dale, Sir Reginald Crichton, and a few other men who had been nothing more nor less than his dupes. It was his friends in the City, sharks like himself, whom he could not trust. Men who had helped finance the company and boom it; the men who had forced up the price of shares originally when they were worth as many pennies as they were quoted in shillings.

Gold had been the god at whose shrine Despard had always worshipped. For he believed that money could purchase anything, even the love of woman.

Even the love of the woman he had grown to desire more than any other, more than anything else in the world, save wealth—Marjorie Dale.

The frown on Despard's face deepened as the clock ticked cheerfully on and the hands slowly but inexorably pointed to the fleeting minutes. In spite of all opposition, in spite of all the influence he had been able to bring to bear on her father and on Jim's father; in spite of threats and promises she still refused to listen to him or to consider him for one moment as her lover or her future husband.

The announcement of her engagement to Lieutenant James Crichton had been made, only to be contradicted by Sir Reginald. Her father had sent her to London to stay with some wealthy friends they had made—through Sir Reginald's introduction and the fame the mine had brought them. He had hoped that a season in the great city would help her to forget and make her more amenable to his wishes.

But he did not know his own daughter. It had always been his boast that when a Dale gave his word he never went back on it. Perhaps he forgot that though his daughter was a woman she nevertheless inherited the same proud, obstinate spirit that he and his forefathers possessed.

He had almost given her up as hopeless, had frankly told Sir Reginald he could do no more.

Society has a conveniently short memory on occasions, and those members of it, who knew the history of the Dales and the story of the convict brother who had escaped from Dartmoor and successfully disappeared from the country, quickly forgot all about him. Those who had not heard asked no questions. Miss Dale was young, rich, beautiful, and apparently well-bred. That was enough. Even Sir Reginald was in his heart of hearts beginning to relent, though, outwardly, he showed no signs of it.

But Despard knew this, and it encouraged him to play his last card. A desperate one and a dangerous.

That was why he now glanced impatiently at the clock and the frown on his forehead gradually deepened. That morning he had commenced to unload—to sell his shares in the radium mine. He had gone to work cautiously so as not to alarm the public. It was important that no one should know that he was clearing out of the venture until he had realised every penny he possibly could. As soon as the shares began to drop he knew there would be a rush by those behind the scenes to sell. And eventually there would be a scramble by the public to get rid of the shares that he believed were not worth seventy pence, much less seventy shillings. By that time Despard hoped to be out of the country—travelling for his health! And he fondly dreamed that Marjorie Dale would be with him, too. As his wife—or, if she proved obstinate, he intended to try what force would do.

He had made up his mind that Jim Crichton should never have her. For he hated him. And he had good reason. Jim had kept his promise to Ruby Strode and had left no stone unturned to try and force Despard to prove Rupert Dale's innocence.

But it had been of no avail. Sir Reginald's suspicions of Despard had been lulled to rest again. Money talks, and it had successfully lured the elder man into the comfortable belief that things were best left as they were, and that Rupert Dale, having escaped and apparently been forgotten, his memory was best left in oblivion.

The clock on the mantelshelf struck the half-hour. Despard closed his books, folded up his papers and put them away. He had realised a tidy little fortune, and for the moment the frown disappeared and he gave a sigh of satisfaction. To-morrow, he decided, he would warn Sir Reginald to sell; but if Marjorie Dale did not come to his rooms that evening in reply to the letter he had sent her, he would let her father be stranded with a few thousand worthless shares, and the old tin mine at Blackthorn Farm as a reminder of his folly.

He had warned Marjorie in the letter he had sent her that unless she came to his rooms that evening to hear what he had to say he would ruin her father, ruin him utterly and irretrievably.

He crossed the room and opened the door which led into his bedroom. His trunk was packed, everything was ready to start for the Continent at a moment's notice. It looked now as though that start would be made within twelve hours. For he knew that if Marjorie did not respond to his letter in person, she would either send it to her father or else show it to her lover, Jim, and in that case—in Mr. Despard's own language—"the fat would be in the fire," and the sooner he got out of the country for a few months' change of air the better.

He knew Marjorie had no fear for herself. Poverty had no terror for her, and she had shown by her loyalty to her brother that she was ready to face disgrace. But he believed that she would come for her father's sake.

Just as the hands of the clock pointed to a quarter to ten there was a knock at the front door. Despard started, and a smile flitted across his thin lips.

She had come after all!

He closed the bedroom door and glanced round the room. There was a little too much light, so he switched off the hanging lamp. He glanced at himself in the mirror, smoothed his hair and straightened his tie.

She had come. He knew, as he noiselessly crossed the hall, that she would not leave his rooms until he had obtained her promise to marry him, or, failing that, until he had obtained a promise more certain of fulfilment.

His fingers trembled a little as he turned the Chubb lock and opened the door.

The woman standing outside entered quickly. Despard closed the door, and, turning, held out his hand.

"I was afraid you were not coming, Marjorie——"

"You have made a mistake. I am not Miss Dale. I am Ruby—Ruby Strode."

Despard's teeth met in his lip. He repressed an oath. "You—what do you want with me?"

He hesitated a moment, then pulled himself together and opened the sitting-room door. Ruby entered and he followed her.

"Won't you sit down? Have a whisky and soda?"

She nodded. "Thanks, I would like a drink."

While he mixed it she stared round the room. "I've not been here before. Rather a nice place. You have made a lot of money, haven't you?"

She spoke nervously, in short, sharp sentences. Despard realised something was wrong. He wondered what. He looked at her more critically as he handed her the tumbler. She was smartly dressed. Her face looked very white, her eyes large and brilliant. If anything, she was more beautiful than when he had last seen her. She had always attracted him. He remembered how once he had wanted to marry her.

And the thought crossed his mind that if Marjorie did not come Ruby Strode would not make a bad travelling companion for an enforced holiday.

"It's a long time since we've met," he said easily. "Though your friends have been busy on your behalf—or perhaps I should say on behalf of your quondam convict lover."

He saw her face grow scarlet for a moment, her eyes flash, then she veiled them, and, shrugging her shoulders, laughed easily.

"It's about my quondam lover, as you call him, that I've come to see you."

Despard yawned, and, taking a fresh cigar, lit it. "How disappointing! I thought you had come to see me for myself alone. You are just as beautiful as ever you were, Ruby."

She emptied the glass he had given her, then pulled her chair closer to his and looked at him eagerly.

"Mr. Despard—Bob—you are rich now and powerful. You've got everything you want in the world."

"Not quite," he said, leaning towards her.

"Nearly everything," she continued. "You've got money, and that buys most things."

"Yes," Despard grinned. There was a moment's pause, and again he leaned towards her. "Have you anything you want to sell?"

Once more the colour mounted her cheeks.

"Perhaps," she stammered. "I'll tell you straight out. There's nothing I wouldn't do in order to clear Rupert Dale's name."

Despard leaned back and flicked the ash off his cigar. "The same old subject. Gad, one would think you believed I altered the cheque, I'm the guilty person. I've told you and your pal, Jim Crichton, that I can do nothing, that I know nothing."

Ruby drew still a little closer to him. In the dimly-lit room she looked exceedingly beautiful. Yes, he admitted that she still fascinated him as she had done a year or two ago.

"Listen," she whispered. "I know if you had spoken at the trial you would have saved Rupert."

"Supposing for the sake of argument that I could have. What then?"

CHAPTER XXVII.

RUBY'S HEROISM.

Despard knew exactly what Ruby Strode had come to ask. He saw his opportunity "for getting a little of his own back," as he would have put it. He smiled to himself as he watched her sitting there, nervously twisting up the gloves she had taken off, and, obviously, at a loss to continue.

A more generous man would have tried to make it easier for her, to have helped her. But Despard was not that sort. He merely calculated how much he might ask, how far he might go without meeting a rebuff. The cards all seemed to be in his hand.

Here he was in his own flat, alone, with a beautiful woman who had come to ask, to beg, or to purchase a favour of him! He glanced at the clock; it was now past ten o'clock. In a few minutes the outer door would be locked and the hall-porter gone! He rose, and, crossing over to the table, poured himself out a stiff whisky. As he placed his glass under the syphon he broke the long silence.

"Won't you have another, Ruby?" he asked in a soft voice.

Ruby started, and the blood rushed to her face. Her courage oozed away. Then she thought of her mission—she must not fail. She must keep cool and play this man with his own game. She must fool him, deceive him—appear to give in to him; permit him to make love to her, anything, everything so long as she could persuade him to come forward with the evidence that would save her lover from the crime that now dishonoured his good name; that had ruined his life and threatened to ruin his sister's.

"Thank you, I will have a tiny drop, please, with plenty of soda."

Despard turned his back on her and half filled her tumbler with spirit, he then frothed it over the brim with soda.

"Now then, go ahead," he laughed.

"I have come to you to-night to throw myself on your honour, to appeal to your generosity—to beg you, to pray you, on my knees if necessary, to help me to undo the great wrong that I have done to an innocent man. Oh, Mr. Despard, I know you don't like him, but I do not ask a favour for him. I ask it for myself. You once said you were fond of me, that you loved me. Think then what it means to me when I love Rupert Dale more than life—more than honour—more than anything in this world or the next. Think of my feelings—-night and day, night and day, never a moment's rest—never a moment's peace; always the same terrible thought clutching my heart, tearing my very soul. That I—I, his chosen love, his future wife, have ruined him, blasted his life, branded his name with dishonour, made him an outcast, an outlaw, hiding in shame from his fellow-men. And Marjorie, his sister, she is suffering, too. I cannot bear it any longer. I should have killed myself long ago if that would have helped; but it would only end it for me, while he would live on, never able to clear himself, without hope, doomed to life-long suffering by my act. My statements were not believed. Your evidence contradicted mine, or, at least, threw doubt on what I said. The jury would not believe me, and an innocent man was condemned to penal servitude for my crime. I know you saw the cheque in my hand because you frightened me by asking me if it was my winnings. When I went out of the room I turned as I reached the door and saw you looking at the blotting-pad. You looked up and our eyes met. I knew you had seen the figures on it as surely as though you had told me. For some reason you denied all this in court. I thought at the time it was to screen me, I know now that you had another motive. I have been to my solicitors and to Sir Reginald's; they both tell me that it is quite useless appealing to the Home Secretary for a re-hearing or a pardon or anything, unless there is some new evidence that was not given at the trial and that will conclusively prove my guilt. You can give that evidence—you can prove that what I said at the trial was true—you can save the man I love from worse than death. God help me, but you will, you will!"

She stopped. Despard struck a match and lit his cigar and puffed the smoke in rings to the ceiling. When the silence had lasted till she could bear it no longer Ruby's eyes fell upon her tumbler, and with a trembling hand she raised and emptied it. It burned her throat like fire, but her strained nerves hardly noticed it. She lay back in her chair and closed her eyes. She heard, as from a distance, Despard's voice, soft and coaxing.

"My dear little girl, I had no idea you felt it like that. You have always treated me so harshly, so coldly, I thought you had no heart, that you were incapable of feeling the passion that consumed me, or of understanding why I refused to speak. I will confess to you now that I did it because I love you—there, don't move, hear me out. I couldn't bear to send you to prison, to make you suffer. I thought you would forget this fellow Dale, now that he has gone out of your life for ever. For remember, that whatever happens, he can never marry you after this. Even if he was pardoned and returned to England—yes, I know he's abroad—the proof of his innocence is your condemnation, don't forget that! So it's not much good clearing his name of crime only to tie him to a felonious wife. Now, I have a little proposal to make to you. I have made some money out of this mine in Devonshire. I have a nice little flat here, a capital little car round at the garage, but no one to share them."

He rose and crossed the room, standing behind her chair so that he could see her face in the mirror above the fireplace, but she could not see him.

"Now, in order to clear Rupert Dale's name, to give him his freedom—which, by the way, he has already taken—I shall have to confess that I committed perjury two years ago. And they make it rather hot for perjurers. They would certainly send me to prison. And you will get there without a shadow of doubt. Nobody knows where Rupert is, nobody cares. He has probably married and settled down in some remote corner of the earth perfectly happy and content. By raking up this wretched affair we shall be merely making several people very uncomfortable, do ourselves an incalculable amount of harm, and benefit Rupert no whit whatever."

In the mirror he saw the colour mount to Ruby's pale cheeks. The suggestion that Rupert was happily married had not been tactful. He waited a moment, but she did not speak.

"Now, supposing I make a statement for private circulation only. It can be witnessed and made quite a legal document if you like, but only those interested should see it—Rupert's father and sister, for example; Sir Reginald, if you can guarantee that he will hold his tongue."

"A statement which will absolutely exonerate Rupert?" Ruby's voice seemed to come with an effort.

"Of course."

"You admit, then, that you saw me alter the cheque in Rupert's rooms that afternoon?"

Despard shrugged his shoulders. "Well, as far as I remember I was just coming into the room and I saw you sitting at the bureau scribbling on a piece of paper. You blotted it and I saw it was a cheque. I hesitated a moment, and as I entered you rolled it up and put it in your glove. There was a guilty look on your face and I suspected something. That was why I questioned you. I took the opportunity of examining the blotting-pad with a little hand-mirror—of course, I could not tell anything was wrong, but I had a pretty shrewd suspicion. You may be a good actress, Ruby, but you gave yourself away that afternoon."

He turned round as he spoke and looked straight at her. Her face was contorted with rage, her eyes were flaming.

"You coward! You actually saw me alter the cheque and you examined the blotting-pad! You knew Rupert was innocent. You knew I did it. Yet, at the trial you would not speak. You let an innocent man, your friend, go to prison.... Why did you do it? Why, answer me? Why?"

Her sudden passion alarmed him. She had risen to her feet and was standing close to him, gazing straight into his eyes. He strained his ears fearing lest some one had overheard her.

"I've got the truth at last," she cried. "Every one shall know it now."

Despard moved, placing himself between Ruby and the door. He was afraid what she might do in her passion.

"You asked why I let an innocent man go to prison?" he said softly, in a gentle, reassuring voice. It was almost wistful in its tenderness. "I had to choose between my friend and—and the woman I love. You, Ruby."

"You never loved me," she cried. "Rupert was my lover and you know it. You came between us. You were jealous of him."

"That's true," he replied with a sigh. "But I would have been loyal to him if my love for you had not been the strongest thing in my life."

Ruby laughed sarcastically, then checked herself. What did it matter how Despard lied? What did it matter if she let him believe that he was fooling her? For two years she had been trying to get the confession he now made. She had tried every means but one. She had done everything but come to him herself and plead with him, bargain with him. Nothing mattered if she could get him to put in writing the confession he had just made.

She turned away as if overcome, and with an unsteady hand poured some more whisky into her tumbler and raised it to her lips.

"I laughed because I found it difficult to believe you really loved me, Mr. Despard."

Stepping forward he seized her wrist and swung her round. He had just called her a bad actress, but she acted well enough now to deceive him.

"You knew I wanted you," he said huskily.

The colour ebbed and flowed from her face. "Oh, yes, I knew that, but——"

"I want you now," he whispered.

She pretended to try and drag her hand away. "Why have you only just said so?"

"Because I knew Dale still stood between us. Because you have done your best to avoid me, and have tried to set Rupert's father and Sir Reginald Crichton against me."

"Oh, can't you understand my feelings," she cried piteously. "I loved Rupert and I knew that he loved me, and I had injured him in trying to save him. It was my duty before everything else to clear his name.... And I was always a little afraid of you—perhaps because I knew you were Rupert's rival."

Despard drew in his breath sharply as he inhaled the perfume of her hair. She raised her eyes an instant, then lowered them. In every way she was the direct antithesis of Marjorie Dale. The latter was gentle, innocent.

Ruby knew how to love as she knew how to hate; a woman with hot blood in her veins, a woman with passion. Her lips gleamed moist and red in the dull light.

Suddenly he flung his arms around her and kissed her. She gave a little cry, struggled for a few moments, then lay quite still and limp.

Despard bent over her, feasting his eyes on her beauty. Again he pressed his lips to hers.

"I'm leaving London to-morrow for a holiday abroad. I'm going where there's sunshine, flowers, and music. You'll come with me, Ruby—far away from this dull, prosaic city. We'll go where there's life and colour and amusement. I'm rich now, there isn't a whim of yours I can't satisfy."

She started, stared, and wrenched herself free. She was still acting superbly. "No—you mustn't tempt me. I can't—not until Rupert's innocence is proved.... Duty must come before love—though I don't even know whether I do love you."

Despard advanced, but she retreated. "I'll make you love me," he whispered.

The clock struck. He glanced at it. Eleven! Marjorie would not come now. To-morrow she would probably show his letter to her lover or her father. They would realise quickly enough the threat it contained. The sooner he got away the better.

"I'll teach you to love me, Ruby. Come, let me kiss your lips again—they are sweeter than wine and more intoxicating."

She laughed hysterically. The spirit had gone to her head, but she fought to keep her brain clear.

"Prove your love!" she cried, stretching out her hands to keep him off. "Prove it!"

"Gad, what an obstinate little vixen it is!" he said between his teeth. "What does this fellow Rupert Dale matter to you?"

She forced herself to smile at him. "Perhaps I'm thinking of myself. I told you I've been in hell these two years. My conscience has given me no peace. I can't rest, be happy, until I have at least given his father proof of his innocence. It would be no use coming away with you; I couldn't love you or make you happy."

A moment Despard hesitated. He felt with the fascination a return of the desire he had always known for Ruby Strode. She was worth winning—worth purchasing.

"You want me to make a declaration that will clear Rupert's name, should he ever return to England?"

"Yes. Write down what you said to me just now. It must be witnessed and sent to Mr. John Dale."

Despard sat down at his table and picked up a pen. Rupert was never likely to show his face in England again, he was sure of that. But there was a risk. It was greater for Ruby than for himself. He glanced at her over his shoulder. He wanted her now—but in six months' time he might tire of her.

Dipping his pen into the ink, he commenced to write. Ruby stood beside him and watched him. When he had finished he signed his name with a flourish and handed it to her.

"Will that do?"

She read it carefully. "Yes, that's perfectly clear," she said, and there was a trace of surprise in her voice. "It must be witnessed."

He rose and stood by her side. "To-morrow morning. I'll get the hall-porter or some one. By the way, we'll have to catch the ten o'clock boat train. It's no use your going back to your flat. It's nearly midnight; you must stop here, dear."

He put his arm around her; she repressed a shudder. She commenced to fold up the statement he had made.

"I must go back in order to pack," she said with a little laugh. "Besides, Iris Colyer—I share a flat with her now—she'll be wondering what's happening to me."

"That will be all right. You can write and explain from Paris. And as for clothes, why, I'll buy a trousseau there fit for a queen. Come, Ruby, now I've got you I'm not going to let you go."

She shrank back, and Despard held her closer. He thought she was only a little frightened—and her fear was fuel to the fire of his desire.

She slipped the statement she had now folded up inside her blouse. Despard kissed her again and again. Then suddenly with a quick movement she escaped from his arms and ran to the door.

"Until to-morrow," she cried feverishly, trying to fasten her coat. "I must get back to-night——"

Despard followed her as she opened the door. "Oh, no, you don't," he cried grimly. "You might oversleep yourself or forget, my dear."

"I shall not do that," she replied boldly. "I love you."

In her anxiety she over-acted. Suspicion flashed in Despard's eyes.

"I don't trust you; I don't trust any woman living. To-morrow you might alter your mind. Your love may change and leave you cold. I want you now. I've kept my part of the bargain; you must keep yours."

Exerting all her strength, she tried to wrench herself free. "Let me go—you are hurting me!"

Her voice rose shrilly.

Despard lost his temper. "Very well—if you'll swear to be here to-morrow by nine o'clock!"

"I swear!" she cried eagerly.

"And give me back that piece of paper—my statement. If I have it in my possession it will help you to remember your promise."

Ruby ceased struggling and put her hands up to his face caressingly. "Don't you trust me, Bob?"

"I don't!" he grinned, and as he spoke he caught the neck of her blouse with one hand and with the other tried to snatch the folded sheet of paper hidden there.

Ruby staggered back, and clenching her fists, hit him in the face. Her cheeks burned with shame and indignation. "You coward! How dare you! I hate you!" She backed towards the door as she spoke. "I shan't come to you to-morrow, but I shall take your statement straight to my solicitors, who will show it to the police. You thought I would sell myself to you—you of all men in the world!"

She flung open the door and ran across the hall. Before she could escape Despard overtook her and seized her left arm. As he swung her round her right hand slipped into the pocket of her coat. She whipped out a tiny revolver and pointed it into his face:

"Let me go, or I'll fire!"

Instinctively he stepped back. Then, as he recovered from his surprise he laughed: "You little devil! So that's the stuff you're made of. Well, I like it. Put that toy away and come back immediately. If you don't I'll take that paper from you if I have to tear the clothes off your back."

"If you touch me, I'll shoot you!" she cried between her teeth.

As she spoke Despard jumped forward and hit up her arm. But she kept a tight grip on the revolver. He tried to snatch it from her. They struggled.

"Let me go, or I'll shoot!" she panted. "I warn you! I'll kill you!"

Neither of them heard footsteps outside, nor the ringing of the front-door bell.

Despard seized the hand which held the revolver and slowly forced it back. A faint cry of agony escaped Ruby as she felt her wrist twisting.

Suddenly there was a sharp report. The revolver rattled to the ground. Ruby ceased struggling, twirled round, then fell in a heap at Despard's feet.

The front-door bell rang again. There was a loud knocking. Despard stood staring at the limp body at his feet. Then he knelt down and seized Ruby's hands—spoke to her. He felt for her heart—and his fingers touched something warm and wet.

There were voices outside shouting for admittance. He rose to his feet and gazed round. There was no help for it—he would have to open the door.

He did so.

"Quick—there has been an accident!"

His voice rattled in his throat as he found himself face to face with a tall, bronzed, bearded man—a man he did not recognise, yet whose features caused a thrill of fear in his heart.

"An accident!" he mumbled thickly. "Are you—who are you?"

The man brushed past him and flung himself on his knees at Ruby's side. "I am Rupert Dale!"

Despard staggered back and almost fell. The hall-porter who was just behind put out his hand and caught him by the arm.

* * * * *

Ruby Strode opened her eyes and looked into the bronzed face bending over her. A little light came into them as she gazed into the eyes watching her so tenderly.

"I—he shot me—an accident, I think; but he tried to steal——" She moistened her lips and tried to raise herself. Her eyes grew brighter. "Who are you?" she whispered.

"Don't you know me, Ruby?" Rupert said brokenly. "I am your lover, dear. I'm Rupert. I've come for you—I've come back to take you away with me, out to the home in the East I've made for you.... Ruby! Ruby!"

With an effort she raised her arms and fastened them around his neck. "Thank God you have come!" Her voice was growing very faint. "Don't believe what Mr. Despard tells you. Here, inside my blouse, there's a paper signed by him. It completely exonerates you. It tells the truth which he concealed at the trial. Listen, Rupert, don't speak. You are free now—I've saved you at last in spite of all. Say you forgive me. I did it because I loved you, dear. Say you forgive me."

He lifted her and rested her head on his breast. He kissed her lips. "I came back to take you with me, Ruby. I made good out in the East, dear. A home for you. I only landed this morning. I went to your rooms. Miss Colyer told me you had come here. Hush, don't speak, you'll be all right by and by."

She shook her head. "I'm dying. But you'll take me with you, Rupert?"

His lips trembled. The words stuck in his throat, "I came home for you. I'll take you with me, Ruby darling.... I'll take you with me."

A smile flitted across her lips. Her eyes closed—almost as if she were tired and falling asleep. Then her head rolled and fell back. Gently laying her down, Rupert put his face close to hers.

* * * * *

When he stood up there was a crumpled piece of paper in his hand. He turned and saw Robert Despard standing in the centre of the sitting-room, on either side of him a police constable. An inspector came forward and said something, but Rupert scarcely heard. He unfolded the paper and handed it to him.

"I've just found this tucked inside the lady's dress," he said, fighting for control of his voice. "She told me ... it may throw some light ... on the affair."

"You know her, sir?" the inspector said.

Rupert bowed his head. He was silent a moment. Down his tanned, weather-stained cheeks tears were silently falling.

"She was my affianced wife."

CHAPTER XXVIII.

FINIS.

Robert Despard was taken before the magistrate at Bow Street Police Court and was remanded, bail being refused. At the inquest on Ruby Strode the jury returned a verdict of manslaughter. On Despard's next appearance at the police court he was committed for trial.

This took place some weeks later, but in the meantime something like a panic seized the shareholders in the radium mine at Blackthorn Farm. There was a wild rush to "get out." The early birds in the City—those who were prepared and had merely gambled—managed to do so, and to make a small profit: others lost heavily. Here and there in Devonshire there were rumours of men and women who had lost all their savings in the venture.

But the real sufferers who said nothing at all were old John Dale and Sir Reginald Crichton. They were utterly unprepared, and the tragedy that had occurred at Despard's flat engaged their whole attention.

They were too shocked and horrified to think of themselves, and even when they knew what was happening and saw the sudden drop in the shares, which were eventually knocked down to nothing, they made no attempt to save themselves. The thought of ruin never entered John Dale's head. And when it was slowly born upon him that he was ruined he merely shrugged his shoulders and said no word.

For his son had come back—had risen, as it were, from the dead.

Fate was kind, and they were allowed to meet for a few brief moments before Rupert was re-arrested and taken back to prison. And though by the laws of his country he was still guilty and a convict, yet John Dale had the satisfaction of knowing that his son had always been innocent.

And on his knees he thanked his God that he had been spared. And very humbly, too, he prayed for forgiveness for having ever doubted his own flesh and blood, for having, no matter what proof was given him, believed that his son could have been guilty of so mean and despicable a crime.

A fortnight before the trial of Robert Despard took place, Sir Reginald arranged a meeting between his son Jim, John Dale, and Marjorie.

"Repentance comes too late, I know," he said, "and it's no use my trying to explain; but I hope it's not too late to ask Miss Dale to forgive an old man whose greatest crime after all has been a foolish, unbending pride. I know now that it was false pride."

Marjorie shook her head, and when Sir Reginald would have continued she stopped him. "There's no need to say anything. Your attitude was perfectly natural. If I had been a woman instead of merely a girl and Jim had been my son instead of my lover I should have felt just the same, behaved just the same. So long as you and father understand—and will forgive us if our love has made us a little selfish sometimes—nothing else matters." She looked at her lover: "Does it, Jim?"

Sir Reginald glanced at John Dale. But the old yeoman farmer said nothing.

"Is it too late," the former said, "to ask you to take my boy and make him happy? Remember, he hasn't a penny now to bless himself with, except what he can earn. I was never one to believe in love in a cottage, but perhaps I've been converted. Anyway Jim has brains, and I'm glad to say—I hope it isn't false pride again—that his country has already recognised it, and I think there's a big career before him. It will be still bigger, my dear, if he has you beside him as his wife."

Marjorie's eyes filled with tears as Jim took her in his arms and kissed her lips.

"When my brother's innocence has been completely and legally proved and he is set free we will be married, but not till then," she whispered.

And John Dale took his daughter's hand and kissed it.

Rupert was, of course, a most important witness when Despard's trial took place. The document found on Ruby Strode which proved that Rupert had been wrongfully convicted more than three years ago was sufficient to convince the jury that Despard, though he had not contemplated murder, was nevertheless responsible for causing the woman's death. The fact that his trunks were packed and that he was ready to leave the country at a moment's notice without anyone being aware of his intention to do so made the case look black against him. It was on his solicitor's advice that he made a perfectly frank and complete confession of the part he had played three years ago when Rupert Dale stood his trial for tampering with Sir Reginald Crichton's cheque.

But Despard's record was a black one, and the Counsel for the Crown did not hesitate to show him up in his true colours.

He was found guilty and sentenced to seven years' penal servitude.

A fortnight later Rupert Dale received the King's pardon and was set free. As it happened the very first man to greet him outside the prison doors was his friend, Patterson. He shook Rupert's hand almost casually, then gave him a hearty pat on the back.

"Gad, we've been in some tight corners together, Dale," he laughed. "But I thought when we got back to the old country we should find things a bit tame—no more fighting, no more narrow squeaks for our lives, no more excitement. I was wrong, eh? At any rate you stepped right into the thick of it. Glad I was here to see you come out top dog."

And Rupert nodded and gripped Patterson's hand tightly. "You're the best friend I ever had," he said huskily.

"I ought to be," Patterson grinned, "since I owe you my life. But for you I should never have got away on that black night when the Muruts were dancing round the fire ready to cut our heads off and smoke 'em over the burning embers. Lord, what a fine game it is! Think of it, this scalp of mine might have adorned some chief's sword now; or the old hag who played mistress of ceremonies might be using it on state occasions as the latest fashion in evening dress."

* * * * *

It was on a warm, spring morning in April that Marjorie Dale and Captain James Crichton were quietly married at Princetown, within sight of the prisons which had played such a strange and important part in their lives. Erstwhile Convict 381 was Captain Crichton's best man.

As soon as the happy pair had left for the honeymoon—destination unknown—Patterson, Rupert, and John Dale returned to Blackthorn Farm, and over mugs of old brown ale again drank their health.

The farmhouse itself remained unchanged, but outside there was a scene of desolation. The mine, which a few months ago had been a scene of activity, was now deserted. It was a blot on the beautiful moorlands. Though the great plant still remained, silence now brooded.

"Best thing you can do, Dale," Patterson said, "is to come out East again and bring your father with you."

"Take my boy," the old man whispered, "he'll succeed there, I know. The old country's played out, I'm afraid. But I—I'm too old now. I'd only be a drag upon him."

But Rupert shook his head and laughed. "I'm not going to desert you, guv'nor. We've been parted long enough. And, what's more, I'm not going to desert the old farm, or the rotten old mine, as far as that goes. After all, I'm responsible, for I made the discovery of pitch-blende and got the radium idea in my head."

"What will happen to the property now?" Patterson asked.

And old Dale explained just how matters stood. He was the largest shareholder and he had not parted with a single share. They had been quoted that day on the Stock Exchange at threepence!

"Seems to me the scare came at the very moment that hope was held out that radium would be extracted," Patterson said. "I was talking to one of the fellows who had made the first report on it the other day, a German, I daresay you remember him, Mr. Dale. He backed out of it because he objected to Mr. Despard and certain other men who were behind the scenes. He says he is perfectly certain there is radium and that it can be extracted. I don't pretend to know much about the subject, but I'd like to have a look round to-morrow morning, and it wouldn't be a bad idea to get hold of this fellow—Swartz is his name—and see what he has to say. By jove, I've put away a bit of money, and I'd just like to gamble! Think of picking up a few thousand shares in a radium mine in England at threepence a piece. Gee whiz!"

And that is just what Mr. Patterson did. Mr. Swartz was called in, and on his advice the company was reconstructed. Sir Reginald Crichton and John Dale held on to their shares and even bought a few more. The new company took over the whole concern, buying it at a merely nominal price.

After six months of ceaseless work and research; of hope and despair, a rich strain of pitch-blende was discovered with radium emanations. The shares of the newly named "Blackthorn" Mine were daily quoted on the Stock Exchange. At first their behaviour was erratic, jumping from pence to shillings, shillings to pounds, and back again in a way that suggested that the market was once again being rigged.

But it was not. Patterson, working quietly and secretly with Mr. Swartz, discovered a new method of extracting radium-ore, which reduced the cost of production of the element by fifty per cent.

And shortly after Captain and Mrs. James Crichton returned from a very prolonged honeymoon, the Blackthorn Mine had produced enough radium to assure them they need have no fear as to their future—unless it were the fear that such great and unexpected wealth might rob them of the simple love and happiness they had found. John Dale was overwhelmed.

When, metaphorically, the rats had left the sinking ship, he had found himself with several thousand worthless shares. These shares were soon quoted at a hundred per cent. premium.

"I don't like it," he said in his old-fashioned way, wagging his head. "It don't seem right somehow. All I want now is a few pounds a week and the old farm, my son by my side, and my girl happily married."

"Well, you've got all that," Patterson laughed. "And whenever you feel worried by your wealth, you've only got to step outside your front door, walk over the East Dart, buy five thousand pounds worth of your own radium, and send it to one of the great hospitals in London. They'll know what to do with it there. Blackthorn Farm means life for thousands of poor creatures who have abandoned hope. We can give 'em life, John Dale, so don't worry about being rich. Money's an awful nuisance I know, but one always has the consolation that one can get rid of it as quickly as one likes—which is more than a poor man can do, anyway!"

Dale admitted that he had never thought of it in that way. But he has taken Patterson's advice, and he finds that it answers very well.

And he is still to be found at Blackthorn Farm, Dartmoor, living principally on old ale and brown bread and cheese, and—so the gossips affirm at the village inn—dividing his time between reclaiming the waste land and turning it into pasture, and signing cheques for the benefit of certain schemes and institutions, which he keeps a secret from everyone but his son Rupert.

Robert Despard is also living on Dartmoor—but not at Blackthorn Farm. His country keeps him—for his country's good. And he wears a very pretty uniform and attends church-parade regularly.