George Manville Fenn (continued 2)

“The scoundrel!” thought Chester. “That must have been it: he was pursuing her, and the brother was shot down in defending his sister.”

Chester shivered now, and his brain grew hot, as he saw clearly enough all that remained. The cups had been prepared, two of them containing a drug, and Paddy had taken care that they should go to those for whom they were intended. It was all plain enough. Paddy was working in his brother’s interest, and he was the big friend who had taken him first to the Circus, and then placed him in another cab, with instructions to the man.

“Well,” muttered Chester, “I see my way now, and I am not going to sit down calmly over the matter. I must—I will see her again.”

Then he trembled, and the hot burning sensation came once more. But it passed off, and he felt that he must be calm and wait till he had another long sleep, when he hoped to be quite restored.

He lay trying now to forget all that had passed, so as to rest for a while; but sleep would not come, and he could do nothing but dwell upon his adventures at that mysterious house. It was so strange. The servants had evidently been sent away, so that they might know nothing of what threatened for long enough to prove a murder. He wanted to know of none other cause for the quarrel. His patient must have been shot down while defending his sister from some insult offered by the clever, overbearing, unprincipled scoundrel who seemed to lord it over all.

And as Chester lay thinking, an intense desire came over him to learn more of the family who had literally imprisoned him, and kept him there all those days. When there, it had seemed for the most part like some romantic dream; and as he lay now at home thinking, the vague intangibility of those nights and days appeared to him more fanciful and strange than ever; so much so, that there were moments when he was ready to ask himself whether, after all, it was not the result of imagination.

He recalled all the actors in the little social drama—the men whom he had seen on the first night, and who dropped out of sight afterwards; the two ladies—the wives of the brothers—both quiet, startled-looking women, of the type that would be seen exhibiting the latest fashions at some race, at Lord’s, or at a meeting of the Four-in-Hand Club, and evidently slaves of their husbands—and he recalled now how the wife of the elder brother seemed to hold her lord in dread.

“There’s something more about that place than one knows,” Chester thought to himself as he turned from side to side, “and I cannot—I will not, sit down and patiently bear such treatment. To-morrow I’ll go and demand an explanation. I have a good excuse,” he said half aloud and with a bitter laugh; “there is my promised fee, and—Pish!” he exclaimed savagely. “If I am to prove a scoundrel, I will be an honest one. I will ferret out who and what they are. I behaved like a child in not having some explanation earlier—in yielding passively as I did without reason—no, not without reason. I could not help it. Heaven help me! I will—I must see her again. It is fate!”

He jumped up in bed, for a sudden thought now sent a chill of horror through him, as for the first time the drugging which had taken place showed itself in another light.

“To get rid of me,” he muttered, as the great drops of sweat gathered on his face, “and—the last thing I remember—Marion—her head fallen upon the couch beside her brother, helpless now to protect her—drugged, insensible, at the mercy of that villain; and I here without stirring or raising a hand.”

Some little time later, feeling weak and faint, he was standing in the hall reaching down his hat, and for a moment he had a feeling of compunction. Isabel—his sister—what would they think of his strange, base infatuation?

“What they will,” he said between his teeth. “Placed in such circumstances, no man could be master of himself. I must save her, even if we never meet again;” and the door closed after him loudly, as, half mad now with excitement, Marion’s eyes seeming to lure him on, he stepped out into the darkness of the night.

“Whither?” he muttered, as he hurried across the Square. “Heaven help me! it is my fate.”

Chapter Nine.

A Blacker Cloud In Front.

The nearest church clock was striking three as Chester passed into the great west-end artery, which was almost deserted, and he had been walking rapidly, under the influence of his strange excitement, for some minutes before, clear as his head was now, he found himself brought up short by a mental cloud as black and dense as that from which he had suffered when he began to recover from the influence of the drug he had taken.

But there was this difference: the dense obscurity then was relating to the past—this was connected with the future.

“Good heavens!” he muttered. “Whatever he gave me must be acting still; I am half delirious. I am no longer master of my actions. Why am I here? What am I going to do?—To try to save her, for she is at his mercy. But how?”

He stopped short, literally aghast at the horror which encompassed him as he felt that he was utterly helpless.

How was he to save Marion? How take the place of the brother who had defended her and fallen? Where was she?

In the great wilderness of houses which made up the overgrown city in which he dwelt, where was the one he sought?

Utterly dazed, he stood trying to think out in which direction it lay, and moment by moment his feeling of utter helplessness increased.

He had not taken the slightest note of the direction in which the carriage was driven that night, for he had sat listening to his excited companion, half wondering at the way in which he was influenced by her presence.

The carriage, he did remember, was driven very fast, but it must have been at least a quarter of an hour before it was drawn up at the kerb before the old-fashioned mansion.

Yes, he did note that old-fashioned mansion, in a wide street, too—it must have been a wide street to have allowed for so great a distance between the kerb and the two steps up from the pavement; and the house stood back, too, some distance.

That was something, but a chill of despair came over him as he felt that these features applied to thousands of houses.

Still, it was old-fashioned, and the hall was wide, just such a house as he would find in Bloomsbury.

“Or Westminster,” he muttered. “But the cabman was told to drive to Chelsea. A blind to confuse me, on the chance that I did not notice when I was brought there that night.

“Bloomsbury or Westminster,” he said to himself; “and chance or instinct may help me,” he mused, as, feeble as was the clue, he felt that it was something to act upon, something to give him work that might deaden the wild excitement. He set off at once in the direction of the old-fashioned, grim-looking streets half a mile east of where he had stood thinking, ending by taking a passing cab, for he felt faint and bathed in a cold perspiration, and being driven slowly through street and square till long after daylight, and then home, sick at heart in the despondent feeling which came over him.

“It’s hopeless—impossible,” he said to himself, as he wearily let himself in with his latch-key, while the cabman drove slowly off, saying—

“Not bad, as things go. Talk about seeing life, I think we kebbies do. Why, that chap must be about cracked.”

As Chester threw his overcoat on a chair in the hall, a slight rustling on the stairs took his attention.

“Watched!” he said to himself, while turning into his consulting-room, feeling convinced that either Laura or his aunt had been listening for his return.

“They must think me mad,” he said, and after a pause, “are they right?”

He was calmer now, and his mind running in this direction, he could not help feeling there was a strange dash of insanity mingled with his actions since the night when he was called out, and that this last act of hunting through the streets for a house of whose location he was utterly ignorant seemed nearly the culminating point.

“Yes, the height of folly,” he said softly. “I must try and devise some means of finding her. Chance may help me. I can do no more now.”

He rose with the intention of going up to his bedroom, but the sun was now shining brightly, and he opened the shutters before returning to his seat to try and think out some clue which he could follow up.

The light which flooded the room seemed to brighten his intellect, and in spite of the use to which he had put the latter part of the past night, his head felt cool and clear.

“Let’s look the position fairly in the face,” he said to himself. “After all, I have done Isabel no substantial wrong; I was not a free agent. I could not return; and that course is open, to go to her and to her people, frankly explain, and make up to her by my future for the weak lapse of which I have been guilty. For what are these people to me?”

He sat back with his brow knit, feeling, though, that such a course was impossible—that he could not go and humble himself before his betrothed, and that it would be an act of base and cruel hypocrisy to resume their old relations when his heart seemed to have but one desire—to see Marion again.

“No, it is impossible!” he cried angrily. “It was not love. I never could have loved her. Heaven help me! What shall I do? Some clue—some clue!”

He started mentally again from the moment when he was called down to see his visitor, and he seemed to see her once more, standing close by the table—just there! Then he once more entered the brougham with her and tried to get some gleam of the direction they took, but he could only recall that the horses were standing with their heads toward the east. No more. The result was precisely the same as it had been at other times, utterly negative. He had thought of nothing but his companion till they reached the house, and he had not even the clue of the family name.

Then a thought struck him, and he brightened up. Those moments when, after his vain search for the bullet, he had dressed the wound. She had prepared bandages for him, and with eager fingers now he thrust his hand into his breast-pocket for his pocket-book, opened it, and took out a closely-folded, very fine cambric handkerchief, deeply stained with blood. She had given it to him, and he held it to the wound for a few minutes, while a bandage was torn, and had afterwards thrust it into his breast, only in his ecstasy to later on, unseen, take it out, carefully fold it, and place it in one of the pockets of his little Russia case.

His hands trembled as he opened it out and examined the corners, the fourth showing, carefully embroidered, the letters M.E.C.

He had hoped for the full name in marking ink, and with a faint sigh he refolded the delicate piece of fabric, and replaced it in his pocket-book, to sit thinking once more, with the new cloud growing blacker.

There was one way, he thought—the police. Some shrewd officer might make something out of this narrative and trace the house; but he felt that it was doubtful, and shrank from laying bare a mystery which he felt sure Marion was eager to keep hidden. Finally he came to the conclusion that he would know no rest until he had discovered the place of his strange imprisonment himself, and in despair, to relieve the pressure of his brain, he turned to the writing-table, which was pretty well covered with letters from patients, complaining that they had come up to find him away; from others asking him to make appointments; and again others of a tendency which showed him that he was injuring his practice.

Lastly, he picked up a letter which he had put aside, unwilling to open it; and he held it for some minutes, gazing straight before him, thinking deeply, and seeming to lack the resolution to read.

At last with a sigh he tore it open.

It was from Isabel’s mother, telling him that her child was heart-broken, and asking him to give some explanation of the cruel treatment to which they had been subjected.

“Let them think the truth,” he cried passionately as he tore the letter into tiny fragments. “Let them think me half mad, I cannot—I dare not write.”

There were two or three packets on the table, even then, and he winced as he turned them over. One was a bundle of proofs of an article he had written for a medical paper; the next was a carefully-sealed box, registered, and he threw it into a drawer with an angry ejaculation. It was from a jeweller, and contained a pearl bracelet he had bought as a present for his betrothed.

The other was also a box that had come by post, registered, and it was heavy. He did not know what that was; he had ordered no other present, and his curiosity being excited, he cut the green tape, tore off the great seals, and was in the act of opening the cartridge paper in which it was folded, when he stopped and snatched up the tape to which the sealing-wax adhered.

There were three seals, two the coarse splotches of common wax used by postal authorities; the other was fine and had been sealed with arms and crest, but a drop from the coarse postal wax had half covered it and Chester could make nothing of the sender.

The box within was fastened down with brads, and he forced it open with some curiosity, to find a heavy packet of what seemed to be short, thick pieces of pipe, and with a vague idea that they were connected with some surgical instrument sent to him from the maker on trial, he pushed it aside impatiently, and threw himself back in his chair.

The next minute the thought occurred to him that a surgical instrument maker would not seal the packet with armorial bearings, and he would have sent some communication, so, catching up the box, he drew out the carefully-done-up packet within, tore it open, and then let his hands fall on the table, for the contents were rouleaux of sovereigns, all bright and fresh from the mint, the number written upon the packet—“210 pounds.” Two hundred guineas—the fee promised to him for his services.

“Gentlemanly and honourable in this, after all,” he said to himself; and he eagerly searched the papers to see if there was a note.

None, and with an ejaculation of disappointment he unlocked the table drawer, thrust in the rouleaux, locked them up, and then caught up the pieces of green tape again, to examine the blurred red seal.

“Eureka!” he muttered; “then here is the clue.” He carefully cut off the seal and placed it in his pocket-book, after satisfying himself that the crest over the shield of armorial bearings was a mailed arm bent, the elbow only being clear. With this to guide him, he went to a book-case, and took down a Peerage, in the faint hope of finding the arms of some great family there; and he was still vainly searching when the servant knocked at the door to tell him that breakfast was ready.

Laura and his aunt were waiting in the dining-room, and their salute was a formal “Good-morning,” after which the breakfast was partaken of in silence, and he rose to go back to his room.

“Will you see your patients this morning, Frederick?” said his aunt, as he reached the door.

He looked back at her sharply, and then glanced at his sister, who was watching him too.

“No,” he said sharply. “I have important business—I am going out.”

“But—”

Chester closed the door and hurried to his room. He knew what was about to be said, and he was in such an intense state of irritation, that he could not trust himself to reply, but took hat and coat directly, went out, and jumping into the first cab was driven to his club, where he spent the morning in the library, examining books on landed gentry, peerages, baronetages, everything he could find relating to armorial bearings, and finding crest after crest of mailed arms holding swords, daggers, spears, flowers, plumes, hearts, and arrows, but nothing which quite answered to the seal.

After a hasty lunch he went out to resume his search for the house, and for the next fortnight this was his life, seeking, and seeking in vain, for he found hundreds, each of which might very well have been that which he sought, till one afternoon he was walking down formal old streets of gloomy mansions, when his eyes lit upon a house, one of fifty almost alike, double-fronted with a broad entrance, and exactly what he felt the place must be that he sought. He had passed it a dozen times before, but it had never impressed him, and with a strange feeling of elation, as he noted its gloomy aspect, uncleaned windows, and air of neglect, he grew certain that he had made the discovery at last.

The next thing was to note the number and examine a Directory, and walking rapidly on without daring to look for fear of being observed, he went to the end of the street, crossed over, and returned, read the half-obliterated number on the time-worn door as he rapidly passed, and once more had himself driven to his club.

“Found at last,” he muttered, as he opened the great Directory and found the number, and name, “Westcott.”

Not much, but something within him made him feel that he was right, and he closed the book, drawing a deep breath, and went straight to the great grim street.

He had made no plans, but had determined upon a bold attack as the likeliest way of obtaining entrance. The old housekeeper would answer the door, and threats, cajoling, or bribery he was determined should be his pass-key, for see Marion and be assured of her safety he would, even, he told himself, if he had to use force.

For one moment only he hesitated before he plunged into the lion’s jaws, as it were—should he speak to a policeman and tell him how to act if he did not soon return?

“No,” he said; “it would be too cowardly, and I might injure her.”

The next minute he had given a heavy peal on knocker and bell, listened to the hollow echoes raised within the forbidding place, and stood waiting for the opening of the door.

Chapter Ten.

The Bookworm at Home.

As Chester waited for an answer to his summons the thought of the awkwardness of his position struck him, but he was strung up and determined to go on with his quest at all hazards. At the end of a minute there was no reply, and he knocked and rang again, with the hope rising that he was on the right tack at last, for the silence accorded with the mystery of the place he sought.

It was not until he had roused the echoes within the house for the third time that he heard the rattle of a chain being taken down; then the door was opened slowly, and Chester’s heart sank as he found himself face to face with a dim-eyed, sleepy-looking old man, thin, stooping, and untidy of aspect, in his long, dusty dressing-gown and slippers. He was wearing an old-fashioned pair of round glass, silver-rimmed spectacles, whose ends were secured by a piece of black ribbon; and these he pushed up on his forehead as he turned his head side-wise and peered at the visitor.

“I’m afraid you knocked before, sir,” he said in a quiet, dreamy tone.

“Yes—yes. I ought not to have come in this unceremonious way.”

“Pray do not apologise,” said the old gentleman, mildly. “I was busy reading, and did not hear.”

He pushed his glasses a little higher and smiled in a pleasant, benevolent fashion, while at the first glance Chester saw that he was quite off the scent. For he gazed past the old man into the great hall whose walls were covered with book-shelves, while parcels and piles of volumes were heaped up in every available corner.

“I see that I have made a mistake,” said Chester, hastily.

“Indeed?”

“I have come to the wrong house. I am very sorry. I am trying to find some people here.”

“Yes? Well, houses are very much alike. Will you step in? I can perhaps help you. I think I have a Directory somewhere—somewhere, if I can lay my hand upon it, for I seldom use such a work, and I have so many books.”

The old gentleman, whose appearance branded him as a dreamy, absorbed bookworm, drew back, and Chester involuntarily entered the hall, to note that with the book-cases away it would be such a place as he had visited; but while that was magnificently furnished, and pervaded by the soft glow of electric light, here all was dust and mouldering knowledge, the entrance suggesting that the rest of the house must be the same.

“Pray come in,” said the old man, after closing the door; and he led the way into what had been intended for a large dining-room, but had been turned by its occupant into a library, packed with books from floor to ceiling; piles were upon the tables and chairs, and heaps here and there upon the dusty old Turkey carpet.

“Directory—Directory,” said the old man, looking slowly round. “Books, books, books, but not the one we want.”

“You seem to have a large and valuable library,” Chester ventured to observe.

“Eh? Yes, I suppose so. The work of a long life, sir. But very dusty all over the house. What did you say was the name of the people you wanted?”

“I—that is,” stammered Chester, confusedly, “I do not know their name. Some patients whom I want to find out.”

“Are you a doctor, sir?” said the old man, looking at his visitor with a benevolent smile. “Grand profession. I should have liked to have been a doctor. But is not that a very vague description? Names are so useful for distinguishing one person, place, or thing, from another. But it was in this street, you say?”

“Well—er—no, I am not sure,” said Chester, hurriedly.

“Dear me! that is rather perplexing,” said the old man, taking off his spectacles and beginning to wipe them upon the tail of his dressing-gown. “But,” he added, as if relieved, “the Directory would be of no use if you do not know the name.”

“None whatever,” said Chester, who was smarting with the thought that this pleasant old gentleman must take him for a lunatic. “Pray forgive me for troubling you in this unceremonious way.”

“Oh, not at all, my dear sir, not at all. I have so few visitors, though,” he added, “as you see I am surrounded by old friends.”

“The same style of house—the same sort of hall,” thought Chester, as he went out after a few more words had been exchanged. “Could it have been in this street?”

He looked up sharply at a heavy-faced butler and a tall, smart, powdered-headed footman, who were standing at the door of the next house, doing nothing, with the air of two men whose employers were out.

Chester looked eagerly at them and passed by, but the door was nearly closed, and he could not see inside.

His sharp look was returned with interest, the two men evidently expecting him to come up the steps and address them, but he went on for a short distance in an undecided way, thinking deeply, and trying hard to see through the mental mist which shut him in. But a short time before he had felt convinced that he had found the house and been disappointed; now he felt quite as sure that the mansion where the two servants were standing must be the place. He had no special reason for coming to the conclusion, but all the same a curious feeling of attraction made him slacken his pace, angry and annoyed the while that he had not stopped and spoken to the men.

“Great heavens! What a vacillating moral coward I have grown,” he said to himself. “What would have been easier?”

He said this but felt that the task was terribly hard, for it seemed such a childish thing to do—to go about asking folk if that was the house where some people lived who had fetched him to attend a man who had been shot, and kept him a prisoner for days and days before drugging him and having him shut up in a cab to be driven about in the middle of the night.

“Why, if I could explain all this to them,” he said to himself at last, “they’d think I was a harmless kind of madman, troubled with memories of the Arabian Nights Entertainments, which I was trying to drag into everyday life like a Barber’s hundredth brother, or a one-eyed Calendar. Come, come, old fellow,” he continued, as he mentally apostrophised himself; “go back home and prescribe for yourself, and then begin to show someone that you have been suffering from a strange mental vagary, brought about by over-excitement. She will believe it in time, and all may come right again. Ah! how like.”

He started and hurried after an open carriage in which two ladies were seated. He only saw the profile of one of them very slightly, and her back as she passed, but there was a turn of the figure—a particularly graceful air, as she leaned forward to give some instruction to the coachman—which struck him as being exactly similar to attitudes he had seen Marion assume again and again when attending upon her brother.

He jumped into a cab and told the man to follow the victoria, with the result that the latter came to a standstill in front of one of the fashionable West-End drapery establishments.

Chester was close up as the lady alighted, and he sprang out excitedly to go and speak to her.

There was every opportunity, for the carriage drove on with her companion, and she crossed the pavement alone, to walk a few steps alone in front of the great plate-glass window, gazing carelessly in at the various costumes displayed.

“A woman after all,” he said to himself, bitterly annoyed at what he considered her frivolity in thinking of dress at a time when her brother was in all probability suffering still.

“But it is their nature, or the result of their education,” he said the next minute, as he went close up behind her, and saw her face reflected clearly in the long series of mirrors at the back.

Chapter Eleven.

Mr Roach Lowers Himself.

“Bah!” ejaculated Chester in his rage and despair, as he swung round and hurried away. “Fool, idiot! No more like her than that miserable flower-seller is. Am I suffering from the shock of the drug they gave me? Well, if I am, she must be found all the same, for I cannot go on like this and live!”

He hurried along, without heeding which way he went, and as if by instinct made for his own house, reached it, started as if in surprise, and then turned to enter, but altered his mind after a pause, and drew the door to, after which he walked swiftly away in the direction of Westminster.

For the meeting had raised thoughts which he felt that he would only obliterate by plunging once more into the mazes of his wild search.

He was not long in reaching the old street which had so taken up his attention before, and he looked long and attentively at the mansion adjoining that occupied by the collector. The contrast was curious, the one with bright, well-curtained windows, the door glistening in its fresh graining and varnish, the other dim, unpainted, looking as if it were quite unoccupied, the very steps as if they had not been cleaned for years.

Chester went and studied a Directory, and with the name Clareborough upon his lips, he determined, after passing through the street two or three times, to risk making a call.

“Why should I mind?” he muttered. “If I am wrong, I have only made a mistake.”

He walked on till he reached the house, perfectly unconscious that the footman was standing a little back from one of the narrow windows, and after having his attention drawn to the vacillating, rather haggard personage who had been taking so much interest in the house, was ready to look upon him with suspicion.

“Begging letter dodges, or something to sell,” said the footman to himself, as the visitors’ bell was rung, and after waiting a sufficient time to suggest that he had come from downstairs, the fellow opened the door, to receive Chester with a calm stare.

“Mr Clareborough in?”

“Not at home, sir.”

“Mr Robert is, of course?”

“Out of town, sir.”

“Well, I must see somebody,” said Chester, who had been checked for the moment by the announcement that Mr Robert was out of town, but encouraged by the fact that two shots went home. “Ask Mr Paddy if he will see me.”

The nickname made the footman raise his eyebrows, but he replied coolly—

“Not at home, sir.”

“Well, then, one of the ladies.”

“On the Continent, sir.”

“Tut, tut, how tiresome!” cried Chester, impatiently. “Look here, my man; how is Mr Robert?”

“Quite well, thank you, sir,” said the man, superciliously.

Chester stared at the man. He had evidently been schooled what to say, and for the moment the visitor hesitated, but recovering his sang-froid the next moment, he said—

“Rather strange that, after so serious an accident.”

At that moment the butler came forward from the back of the hall, pulling the door a little more open, and Chester drew a deep breath full of satisfaction, as he caught sight of one of the statues and a chair, on the back of which was emblazoned the same crest as he had seen upon the seal.

“What is it, Orthur,” said the butler in a deep, mellow voice suggestive of port wine.

“Gentleman asking to see Mr Robert, sir.”

“Yes, I particularly wish to see him,” said Chester. “I am the medical man who attended him after his accident.”

“I beg pardon, sir.”

“I say I am the medical man who attended him after his late accident, and I wish to see my patient again.”

The butler glared at the speaker in a heavy, solemn way, and then turned slowly to his subordinate, who raised his eyebrows and drew down the corners of his lips.

“I beg pardon, sir,” said the butler, turning his eyes again on the visitor, who was beginning to lose temper. “There is a Mr Robert here—Mr Robert Clareborough. You must mean some other gentleman. Our Mr Robert is quite well, and on the Continent just now.”

“Impossible!” cried Chester, angrily. “Look here, my man, take this for yourself and my card in to Mr Robert. Say I beg that he will give me a few minutes’ conversation.”

The butler glanced at the card and the coin held out, but took neither.

“Beg pardon, sir. I told you that Mr Robert is on the Continent.”

“Yes; and I tell you that you are not speaking the truth. Do as I tell you. I will wait till he sees me.”

Chester took a couple of steps forward as he spoke, with the intention of entering the hall, but the butler stood firm, and the footman closed up to his side, the pair effectually barring the way. Chester stopped, feeling that he could do no more, for the servants must have been instructed to deny everybody to him. He thought, too, of his position; he had attended his patient and retained the heavy fee paid him, having, had he so wished, been debarred from returning it by his ignorance of the sender’s address.

While he was musing the butler said haughtily—

“If you like to leave your card, sir, I’ll lay it on the ’all table, and if one of the gentlemen wishes to see you, I daresay he’ll write or call.”

“No,” said Chester, irritably. “Tell Mr Robert that I came, and—no, say nothing; I daresay I can find Mr Robert Clareborough at his club, or I shall meet him somewhere else.”

He turned upon his heel, and walked sharply away, satisfied now that he had found the house, and feeling more eager than ever to obtain an interview with his patient, who would, he felt sure, have his sister by his side.

The thought of her position sent the hot blood coursing to the doctor’s head, and a chill of horror and anxiety ran through him once more. But he felt that he must wait a little longer and devise some way of obtaining speech with Marion, life being unendurable till he had seen her once again.

“New dodge, Mr Roach, sir?” said the footman, when Chester had disappeared.

“I don’t quite know what to make of it, Orthur,” replied the butler, solemnly. “It does seem like a new way of raising the wind. It ain’t books nor engravings.”

“What about being Mr Robert’s medical man, though. What do you make of that?”

“Well, Orthur, putting that and that together—his quick, jerky, excited way, and his fierce-looking eyes, and his ignorance of Society etiquette as to strangers calling, and wanting to see everybody, just as if he was one of the oldest friends of the family—I should say that he’s one of those chaps who get a few names o’ people out o’ Directories, and then goes and calls.”

“For swindling and picking up anything as is not out of his reach, sir, or about money?”

“Well, say a bit touched in the head, Orthur.” The butler put his hand to his throat to try whether the tie of his white cravat was in its place, and looked up the street and down, acts imitated exactly by his lieutenant, and for some minutes nothing more was said. Then the footman in very respectful tones—

“Ever try your ’and, Mr Roach, sir, at any of those gambling shops abroad?”

“Well, once or twice, Orthur,” said the butler, relaxing a little to his junior. “I was with a young nobleman out at Homburg and Baden and one or two other places.”

“And how did you get on, sir?”

“Oh, I made a few louis, Orthur, and I should have made more if we had stopped, I daresay.”

“Lor’! How I should like to have a bit of a try there, sir,” said the footman, eagerly.

“You would, Orthur, eh? You mean it?”

“Mean it, sir? I should just think I should. That’s what Mr Robert’s after now, I’ll bet; and look at the money, Mr Dennis—Mr Paddy—pockets over his flutters there, let alone over every race and event coming off. Ah, it’s fine to be them.”

“Well, yes, Orthur, my good lad, I suppose they do pretty well. You see, if I or you were disposed to put a sov’rin or two on the next event—”

“Half-a-crown’s ’bout my figure, sir.”

“Ah, well, say half-a-crown, Orthur; it may turn up a pound, or two pound, or three pound. It might even be a fiver. But with them when they win, it’s hundreds or thousands.”

“Ah!” ejaculated the footman, smacking his lips.

“By the way, there’s Newmarket coming again next week.”

“Yes, sir; got anything on?”

“Well, no, not yet, Orthur; perhaps I may.”

“Do, sir, and I will, too. Mr Roach, sir,” whispered the young man behind his hand, as the butler turned upon him with a look of reproof for his assumption, “Black Pepper, sir.”

“What, my good boy! Why, that horse is at fifty to one.”

“That’s it, sir; and I’m going half-a-crown on him.”

“Better keep it in your pocket, my lad,” said the butler, blandly.

“No, sir; I think not. I’ve got the tip.”

“Eh?” said the butler, eagerly. “Where from?”

“I heered Mr Paddy tell Mr James, sir, that it was a sure thing, and Mr James gave him gold out of his cash-box in the lib’ry—little rolls out of that big tin box of his. I didn’t hear no more, but that was quite enough for me.”

“Eh? Yes,” said the butler, dropping his superior way of speaking to whisper confidentially, “it will do for me too, Orthur. I’ll give you half-a-sovereign to put on at the same time. Let me see, Orthur, we’re not very busy this afternoon, and I shall be about to answer the door. Come down to the pantry, and I’ll give you the money, and you can go and make the bets before they get to a different price.”

“All right, sir, I will,” said the footman excitedly. “Beg pardon, sir,” he continued, as the door closed and they stood together in the elaborately-furnished hall. “Yes, Orthur, what is it?”

“Could you oblige me with half-a-crown, sir, till I get my wages?”

“Humph! Well, my lad, I do make it a rule never to lend money, but seeing that it is you, Orthur, a lad that I can trust—”

“Oh, yes, sir, you may trust me.”

“I will let you have the money.”

“Thank ye, sir, and I’ll go at once.”

Chapter Twelve.

A Fatal Attraction.

“You, Isabel dear!” cried Laura one day, as the visitor whom she had looked upon as a sister was shown into the room.

“Yes, dear, I felt obliged to come. Don’t, pray don’t be ashamed of me and think me weak,” pleaded the poor girl, as they embraced and then sat down together upon the couch.

“How can you say such things!” cried Laura, warmly, as she passed her arm about her friend’s waist.

“Because I feel that I deserve it, dear. I know how weak and foolish I am. I have been watching for an hour till I saw him go out.”

“You have been watching, Bel?”

“Yes, dear; from a brougham with the blinds partly drawn down. We are in town now. Papa says I must have a change, and we are staying here for a few days before they take me over to Paris. Laura dear, I was obliged to come. Don’t betray me, please, to anyone. They would be so angry if they knew, and say that I was shameless. I suppose I am, dear, but I hope you can sympathise with me a little.”

“Not a little, Bel dear,” cried Laura, warmly, and Isabel flung her arms about her friend’s neck, buried her face in her breast and sobbed violently for a few minutes before she raised her thin white face and said quite calmly, with a piteous smile on her lip—

“There, I told you how weak I was. I feel so much better now. I would have given anything for days and days to cry like that, but I could not. My head has been hot, and my brain seemed dry and burnt up. Now I can talk. But tell me, is—is he likely to come back?”

“No,” said Laura, shaking her head. “He will not be back till night, and even if he did return he would not come here, but go straight to his room and shut himself in.”

“Has—has he told you anything?”

“No, dear; he hardly ever speaks either to me or aunt. He did say that he was kept away to attend an important patient.”

“Yes, yes, of course. That must be it.”

Laura was silent. Aunt Grace had sown a seed in her heart which had begun to grow rapidly, in spite of her sisterly efforts to check it as a noxious weed.

“Well, why don’t you speak?” cried the visitor, sharply.

“Because I have nothing to say.”

Isabel flushed up, and Laura stared at her, wondering whether this was the placid, gentle girl whom she had known so long.

“Then why have you nothing to say?” cried Isabel, angrily. “He is your brother, and if all the world is turning against him, is it not your duty to defend—to try and find excuses for his conduct?”

“Isabel!”

“Well, I mean what I say. It is quite enough that I turn against him and that everything between us is at an end. I hate him now, for he has used me cruelly, and it seems to have changed my nature; but I cannot forget the past, and would not be malignant and cruel too.”

Laura took the hand that was resigned to her, and the pair sat in silence for some minutes.

Isabel’s lips moved several times, as if she were about to speak, but no words came, till, with a desperate effort, she said in a husky whisper—

“Have you seen her, Laura?”

“I? No!” cried the girl, who was startled by the question.

“But you know she is beautiful, and rich, and aristocratic?”

“I only know what aunt has said, dear; but if she were the most beautiful woman that ever breathed, it is no excuse for Fred treating you as he did.”

“I don’t know,” said Isabel, sadly. “He is wise and clever, while I have often felt that it was more than I could expect for a man like him to care for me, so simple and homely as I am.”

“Fred ought to have been only too proud to have won such a girl,” cried Laura, sharply, but her visitor shook her head.

“It was only a brief fancy of his, dear, and as soon as the right woman came across his path he forgot me. Well, I am patient if I am not proud, for I cannot resent it, dear, only try to bear it, for I loved him very dearly; but it is very hard for the little romance of one’s poor homely life to be so soon brought to an end.”

“It was cruel—cruel in the extreme,” cried Laura, angrily. “I would not have believed that my brother, whom I almost worshipped, could have behaved so ill.”

“These things are a mystery,” said Isabel, gently; “and perhaps it is better that it should have happened now than later on when we were married. But tell me about him, dear. Has he settled down to seeing his patients again? You wrote to me saying that he was neglecting everything.”

“So he is, nearly everything, now. Bel dear, I will not be so hard upon him any more. You must be right, that he cannot help himself, or he would never have behaved so ill. He must be mad.”

Isabel clung to her with a startled look in her eyes.

“It is the only way in which I can account for the change,” continued Laura, “for I will not believe what Aunt Grace says, that all men are bad at heart. If they are, women must be as wicked too.”

Isabel shivered slightly.

“Tell me about what he does now.”

“I can’t, dear,” cried Laura, piteously. “I seem to know so little. Only that he goes out soon after breakfast, and does not come back till dinner-time, and so wet sometimes that he must have been walking about the streets for hours.”

Isabel sighed.

“I’ve tried—oh, how I’ve tried!—to win his confidence; but he says nothing, only turns away, and goes out. It is just as if he had lost something of which he is always in search, and every day he grows more moody and strange.”

“Then he is ill—mentally ill,” cried Isabel, excitedly. “I knew that there must be some excuse for his strange behaviour. Laura dear, my heart has misgiven me from the first. It is all so directly opposed to his nature and character. I will not believe that he could be so false to everything that he has said to me.”

Laura was silent again, and Isabel’s careworn face flushed once more.

“You are not sisterly and true,” she cried. “The world is censorious enough without those who are nearest and dearest to us turning away and becoming our enemies.”

“I am not Fred’s enemy, Bel,” said Laura, gently.

“Then why are you so hard against him?”

“Because I feel that by his conduct he has put us all to shame.”

“Yes, all to shame—all to shame, my dear,” cried Aunt Grace, who had entered the room unnoticed. “It’s a wicked, wicked world; but it’s very good of you to come and see us, my dear, heart-broken as we are. You have come to stop a few days, of course?”

“I? Oh, no no, no. We are staying in town,” said Isabel, hurriedly, “and I must go directly.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” said Aunt Grace in rather an offended tone. “I did not think you would turn away from us in our trouble, Isabel; I thought better of you.”

“I turn away from you and Laura, Aunt Grace? Oh no, no, no.”

“I’m glad to hear it, my dear, because if you would stay we should be very glad.”

“Oh, auntie!” whispered Laura, “impossible.”

“It is not impossible, Laura,” cried the old lady; “and I beg that you will not interfere. Isabel, my child, I shall be very glad indeed if you will stay, and you need not be at all afraid of meeting that dissolute, dissipated young man.”

“Mrs Crane”—began Isabel, agitatedly, but she was interrupted at once.

“No, no, no, my dear; pray don’t apologise and make excuses. Laura and I would be very pleased, and we see nothing whatever of Frederick now from breakfast-time to dinner. I don’t know where he spends his days, but he is after no good.”

“Aunt dear, I really must interfere once more,” cried Laura, warmly. “It is, as I said, impossible for Isabel to stoop to meet Fred again; and as to staying in the house—my dear aunt, of what can you be thinking?”

“That we are beginning to live in evil times, Laura,” cried the old lady, indignantly, “when little girls so far forget the respect due to their elders as to speak as you did just now. I ought to be the best judge, miss, of what is correct, if you please.”

“Pray say no more, Mrs Crane,” cried Isabel, earnestly. “I must go back to the hotel where we are staying. It would indeed be impossible for me to visit here now.”

“Oh, very well, my dear, very well,” cried the old lady, drawing herself up. “I can see very plainly that you have allowed yourself to be impressed by what Laura has said. Young people will hold together, and think that they are wiser than their elders. There is one comfort, though, for us old folk: you all find out your mistake.”

“Good-bye, dear Mrs Crane,” said Isabel, advancing with open hands.

“Good-day, Miss Lee,” said the old lady, frigidly, as she held out her fingers limply.

But Isabel did not take them. She laid her hands upon her shoulders, and, with tears in her eyes, kissed her affectionately twice.

There was magic in the touch, for in an instant she was snatched to the old lady’s breast and kissed passionately again and again.

“Oh, my dear, my dear!” was sobbed; “I didn’t think I was such an ill-tempered, wicked old woman. Pray, pray forgive me. I don’t know what comes to me sometimes. And you in such sorrow and pain! Oh, that wicked, miserable, faithless boy! Something will come upon him some day like a judgment.”

“Oh no, no, no!” cried Isabel, wildly. “Don’t—pray don’t say that.”

“But I have said it, my dear. Ah, well, I won’t think it, then, any more, for I don’t see what greater judgment could fall upon him than losing you.”

Isabel could not trust herself to speak, but hurried out of the room and downstairs with Laura.

“Don’t speak to me, dear; let me go now,” whispered the poor girl, faintly. “I am weak and ill, and can bear no more now. I ought not to have come, but the impulse was too strong. Good-bye, dear sister, good-bye!”

The two girls were locked in a loving embrace, and then, with Isabel turning sick with dread, they sprang apart, for there was the rattle of a latch-key at the door, it was thrown open, and Chester strode in.

He stood for a few moments aghast, as he saw Isabel recoil from him. Then, drawing down her veil, she tottered out, and was half-way to the brougham, drawn up by the kerb, before he recollected himself and sprang after her to open the door and try to hand her in. But she shrank from him as if in dread, and gathering her veil closely over her white, drawn face, she sank back in the carriage, and her betrothed stood gazing after her as she was rapidly driven away.

Chapter Thirteen.

Workers at a Train.

“Of course, Orthur, the different grades in this service have to be kept distinct, and the inferiors have to look up to their superiors just as it is in the army.”

“Oh yes, sir, of course,” said the gentleman addressed, squeezing his left eyelids together slightly, unseen by the pompous individual addressing him; “but you can’t say as I haven’t always been respectful and kept my place.”

“Always, Orthur, always, and that’s why I come down a little to you and meet you on equal terms when we are alone, for I have always found you a very respectable, intelligent young man. What’s that chap staring at?”

“Us, seemingly, Mr Roach, sir,” said the younger man, with a grin. “Book canvasser, that’s what he is; been taking orders of the old chap next door, but didn’t like the look of us, and didn’t try it on. I had a peep through the open door there one day, and it was packed full o’ books like a warehouse, sir.”

“Yes, yes, but never mind that,” said the butler, impatiently. “But as I was saying, I’ve always found you a very respectable young man, Orthur, and I’m disposed to trust you. Service is all very well, Orthur, but there’s no saving money; and when one sees these bookmakers—coarse, beefy-faced butcher or publican sort of fellows—keeping their broughams and driving their phe-aytons, it is tempting.”

“Tempting, Mr Roach,” said the young footman in a quick whisper; “it gives me the agonies. Look at the guv’nors. Why, I met a young chap as I used to know when he was a page in buttons—he’s a six-footer now. Well, he says he knowed our people ten years ago when they were regular hard up. His people used to visit ’em. And now look at ’em. They’re on with some of the knowing ones, and putting money on all the good things. Always winning, they must be. Why, if you and me, Mr Roach, was to put the pot on as they do we should be rich men in five years.”

“Don’t talk so loud, Orthur; some of the women may be up at the windows.”

“All right, sir. But don’t you see?”

“Yes, I see; it’s right enough, Orthur, when you win; but I look at the risks.”

“Warn’t much risk over that last flutter, sir. Put down five shillings a-piece and took up each of us a tenner.”

“Yes, Orthur, that was very nice; but it mightn’t always happen so.”

“Why not, sir? They always win, and all we have to do is to back the same as they do—take their tips, and it’s as safe as safe.”

“H’m! Well, they do always seem to win, Orthur,” said the butler, slowly, and he indulged in a pinch of snuff as he stood on the step.

“Seem, sir? They do. I believe if it warn’t for the odds they’d be as poor as church mice.”

“But how are we to get the tips, my son?”

“Keep our ears open when we’re waiting table, sir, or another way.”

“The same as you got that last one?”

“That’s it, sir. Don’t do them any harm, and if a gent leaves his betting-book in the breast-pocket of the coat as has to go down to be brushed, I don’t see anything in it. ’Tain’t robbery.”

“H’m!” coughed the butler, glancing behind him; “no, it isn’t robbery, Orthur.”

“Lor’! Mr Roach, sir; it’s as easy as easy,” whispered the footman, eagerly. “I can’t think what we’ve been about—I beg pardon, sir—what I’ve been about all these months not to have put a little money on here and there. Want o’ capital mostly, sir, but with all doo respect to my superiors, sir, if you and me was to make a sort o’ Co. of it, and I was to tell you all I heard and found out by accident like, and you was to do the same with me, then we could talk it over together in the pantry, and settle how much we’d put on the race.”

The butler frowned, shook his head, and looked dissatisfied.

“I know it’s asking a deal of you, Mr Roach, sir, but it would only be like business and I should never presume, you know.”

“I must think about it, Orthur; I must think about it,” said the butler, importantly.

“Do, sir; and I wouldn’t lose no time about it. You see, we can’t do much when we’re down at The Towers, and the Randan Stakes is on next week.”

“H’m, yes,” said the butler, relaxing a little, and condescending to a smile. “Orthur, I’ve got a sovereign on the favourite.”

“You have, sir? What! on Ajax?”

“That’s right, my lad; and I advise you to put half-a-crown or five shillings on ’im too. There’s a tip for you.”

“Yah!” ejaculated the footman in disgust. “I wouldn’t put the price of a glass of ale on that ’orse.”

“Eh, why?” cried the butler, looking startled.

“’Cause Ajax won’t run.”

“What? How do you know?”

“I heard the guv’nor tell the little ’un so last night, and that he was to back Ducrow.”

“Phew!” whistled the butler.

“Put two quids on Ducrow, sir, and it’ll be all right. I’ve got ten shillings on, and I’d have made it two tens if I’d had a friend who’d ha’ lent me the coin.”

“Orthur,” whispered the butler, effusively; “you’re a good lad, and I’ll lend you the money.”

“You will, sir? And go on as I said?”

The butler nodded.

“Carriage, sir,” said the footman, sharply, and they both drew back into the hall ready for the brougham which was driven up, and from which two ladies descended.

Chapter Fourteen.

Face to Face Again.

“That’s the house,” said Chester to himself; “I can swear to it. Highcombe Street, Number 44.”

He laughed in his excitement—an unpleasant, harsh laugh which startled him; for as a doctor he had had to deal with strange patients beside the one at the mysterious house, and he knew pretty well how a man acted who had been overwrought and whose nerves were in that state which borders upon insanity.

“This will not do,” he muttered. “I must be careful,” and, trying to pull himself together and make his plans in a matter-of-fact way, his startled feeling grew into a sensation of alarm, and he awakened fully now to the fact that the strain from which he had suffered had been too great.

“I must pull up short,” he said to himself. “This last month I have been acting like a madman. Well, love—the real passion—is a kind of madness, and I could not have acted otherwise with the horror of the position in which I left her upon my mind.”

As he walked home, though, he grew cooler, and made up his mind to watch the house until he obtained an interview with Marion.

He shrugged his shoulders as he entered his own door, and shut himself in his consulting-room, to sit for an hour trying to grow calmer; but there was a wild throbbing in his excited brain which he could not master, and try how he would, even to the extent of taking a sedative, he could not keep down the feeling of mad exultation at having at last discovered the place.

“I shall see her again,” he muttered; “I shall see her again!”

A pair of soft dark eyes in a sweet, pale face seemed to rise reproachfully before him, but he mentally turned from the piteous look.

“I cannot help it. Fate—fate,” he muttered; and at last, after mastering the intense desire to rush off and try and bribe the servants into speaking, he grew calmer, and obeyed the summons sent by the maid, joining his aunt and sister in the drawing-room, and afterwards formally taking the old lady down to the silent meal.

Poor Aunt Grace’s plan was not succeeding.

“Don’t speak to him, Laura,” she had said. “It will show how we despise him for his disgraceful conduct, and make him the sooner come creeping to our knees in sackcloth and ashes.”

But the days had glided on, and Chester had bought no sackcloth and had not told the cook to sift him any ashes. For the perfect silence with which he was treated was the one great satisfaction now of his life.

That night he found his sister watching him once, and as he met her eyes there was for the moment a feeling of uneasiness akin to remorse; but it passed off directly, swept away by the exciting thought that he had at last attained the goal of his desires, and must now sooner or later encounter Marion.

A week then passed, and he was still no farther, when one evening as he turned into Highcombe Street, he saw a carriage at the door; and a minute later three ladies in evening dress came and stepped in, the footman mounted to his place, and the horses sprang off.

“The brougham I was fetched in,” muttered Chester, and hailing a cab he said sharply, “Follow that carriage at a short distance till I tell you to stop.”

He was not surprised at the direction taken by the carriage in front, which was kept just in sight till it turned into Bow Street, when Chester signed to his driver to stop, and sprang out, turning the corner just in time to see the carriage slowly passing in its turn through the gateway leading under the portico of the opera.

He followed to find that the occupants had alighted, and upon entering the lobby he caught sight of the back of Marion’s dress as she swept through one of the great baize-covered doors.

Here there was a check. The door-keeper held out his hand for the customary ticket, and Chester turned impatiently away, to go to the box-office, when for the first time it struck him that he was not in evening dress, and could not pass into the stalls.

He stood biting his lips, and hesitating as to whether he should take a cab back home, to dress, and return, but he felt that he could not do that. A dozen things might happen to prevent his catching sight of Marion again; and snatching at the first idea that came, he took a ticket for the upper part of the house, hired an opera-glass and then climbed nearly to the top.

Here upon taking a seat he came out again in despair. Even with the aid of the glass he found he could not get a glimpse of a third of the house, and feeling that at all costs he must get into the stalls in as central a position as possible, he descended again to the box-office, and secured a stall nearly in the centre of the third row.

Having made sure of his seat, he hurried back to Raybeck Square calculating that he could be back within an hour.

Bidding the cabman wait, he sprang up to his room, conscious of the fact that Aunt Grace was watching; and after his hurried change he knew by the ajar door of the drawing-room that she was there watching still.

But this passed almost unnoticed in the excitement, and once more he was in the cab, eager and with his imagination running riot.

“What an idiot I was not to ask the number of their box,” he said to himself.

He did ask as soon as he reached the opera house, and found it was almost central on the grand tier; but after taking his place he had no opportunity for turning round till the end of the act in progress, and he sat trembling with excitement and wondering whether Marion had recognised him as he entered.

The stage, the music, the house crowded with a fashionable assembly, were non-existent to Chester, as he sat there gazing in imagination at a face—the face of the woman who from their first encounter seemed to have taken entire possession of his faculties, enchaining his spirit so that he seemed to live and breathe for her alone.

“Will this wretched singing never end?” he said to himself, as one of the great Italian singers filled the vast place with the clear, vibrating tones of her voice. “The fools! The idiots!” he muttered angrily as the plaudits rang out at the end of the scene; and then he sat waiting till at last the drop scene descended and, lorgnette in hand, he rose and, to avoid the air of being too sudden, he slowly swept the grand tier of boxes, beginning on his right near the stage, feeling that Marion must be watching him, and profoundly unconscious of the fact that scores to right and left were doing the same.

When the field of his glass drew nearer to the box upon which he sought to focus it, he grew slower in his movements, as if desirous of delaying the supreme delight for a few moments longer, but at last he stopped short, gazing with every fibre thrilling at the beautiful, imperious face which held him as if fascinated.

The faces of her companions were to right and left, each occupying a corner of the box, while Marion was seated a little back, looking dull and preoccupied, while she slowly waved a large black fan, which threw her face into partial shadow from time to time.

For the first minute, as he drank in the various beauties of the countenance which seemed to be so near, Chester felt that she must be seeing him, but directly after he knew that she was looking dull and listless, and as if she felt the scene before her wearisome in the extreme.

There could be no mistake. It was she. There was not such another face in the wide world; and yet he hesitated to go round to the box, asking himself whether he could—whether he had any right to force himself upon the notice of those who had plainly enough their reasons for wishing to cut all connection with him as soon as his patient was out of danger.

“They may wish to, but she cannot. It is impossible. She must be ready to place her hand in mine. Perhaps even now that dull, weary look may be connected with our sudden parting. Who knows? Yes, come what may, I will go.”

Chester passed slowly along the row and out into the entry, went up the broad stairs, and with his heart increasing its pulsations rapidly, he stopped at last at the door of a box, drew a deep breath, and then tapped lightly.

There was no reply and he tapped again.

This time there was a movement within, the catch was drawn back, the door thrown open, and a deep voice exclaimed—

“How late you are! Hallo!”

Chester had been in the act of stepping in, but paused on the threshold, completely taken aback at finding a gentleman in the box, while the speaker, who had not risen, but leaned back, balancing himself on two legs of his chair, fell over side-wise in his astonishment, but saved himself by catching at the partition.

He sprang up the next moment, as Chester recovered himself and advanced, but neither of the three ladies, who had turned, made the slightest movement towards acknowledging him, and left it to their companion to speak.

“May I ask whom you wish to see, sir?”

“Certainly,” replied Chester, quietly, “Mrs James, Mrs Dennis, Miss Clareborough—”

No one moved. He might have been addressing so many statues, as he went on—

“And Mr Dennis Clareborough.”

“You seem to have our names right, sir,” said the stalwart young fellow, shortly, “but I have not the pleasure of knowing you.”

“Indeed!” said Chester. “Is your memory so short, sir? May I ask after your cousin’s wound?”

“Certainly, if you like, sir,” replied the young man, with a little laugh, “but I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”

Chester felt nettled and turned to the lady in the centre, who sat looking over the back of her chair.

“Perhaps Miss Marion Clareborough will tell me how her brother is progressing?”

“Dennis,” said one of the ladies, before any reply could be made, “is this a friend of yours? If so, introduce us.”

“Friend of mine? Hang it, no! Gentleman has got into the wrong box. Never saw him before in my life. What number did you want, sir?”

“This,” said Chester, sternly, as he looked the young man fiercely in the eyes. “Perhaps Miss Clareborough will speak. Believe me, I took great interest in your brother’s case. Can I see him again?”

The lady he addressed turned to one of her companions and whispered a few words, whereupon Mrs James said coldly—

“Will you help this gentleman to find the box he is in search of, Dennis? The place is so dark now the curtain is down, and he does not see the mistake he has made.”

“No, that’s it,” said the young man. “Ah, here you are, then, at last,” he cried, as the entrance was darkened by another figure. “Come in. This gentleman wants to find some friends of his, and he has come to this box by mistake.”

“Indeed!” and Chester at that one word felt the blood surge up to his temples, and a fierce sensation of passion began to make his nerves tingle.

“Well,” continued the speaker, “it’s very easy, dear boy. Places are so confoundedly dark. Couldn’t get here sooner, girls; man detained me at the club—I beg pardon, sir; the box-keeper could no doubt help you.”

The cool, contemptuous manner of the man took away Chester’s breath, and he felt himself almost compelled to give place.

“Thanks, much,” said the newcomer, drawing slightly aside for Chester to back out. “Don’t apologise. They ought to light up the house more when the curtain is down.”

The next moment the door was thrust to, the catch snapped, and as Chester stood there, undecided what to do, he could hear the voices within carrying on a conversation which sounded so calm and matter-of-fact that in his excited state the listener asked himself whether he was in his right senses, and at last hurried away, to pause in the refreshment-room and drink off a glass of brandy to steady his nerves.

He did not return to his seat in the stalls, but stopped in the entry, where, invisible in the gloom, partially hidden by one of the curtains, he stood using his glass upon the occupants of the box he had so lately quitted.

As he stood there, feeling half stunned, he went over the words that had passed and the action of the inmates, forgetting that all was quite consistent with the conduct he might have expected from people whose whole behaviour had been mysterious and strange.

At last he saw a movement among those he was watching, and, desperate almost with rage and despair, he hurried round to station himself in the lobby, where he felt certain that the party must pass. But they were so long in coming that he was about to seek another doorway.

Then he saw that he was right, for the big, bluff-looking brother and cousin came by without seeing him, spoke to the footman Chester had seen at the house, and then returned, as if to join their party.

A few minutes later they came out slowly amongst the crowd, the tide turning them quite to the outside, so that they were close to him who watched them intently, as if in doubt of his own sanity, wondering whether he could have made any mistake.

“No,” he whispered to himself, as he fixed his eyes on the beautiful woman, upon whose arm he could have laid his hand, so close was she to him as she passed.

It was as if his steady gaze influenced her, for when she was just abreast she turned her head quickly, and her eyes met his full as she rested her hand upon the stalwart young fellow’s arm.

Chester’s look seemed to fascinate her, for her eyes were fixed and strange in those brief moments. Then she passed on, gazing straight before her. There was no start, no sign of the slightest emotion. It was simply the inquiring look of one who seemed to fancy he was the personage who had made his appearance in their box, otherwise one whom she had never before seen.

The impulse was strong upon Chester to follow, but for quite a minute he stood feeling as if he had been stunned.

Then, with a strange, harsh utterance, he forced himself roughly through the well-dressed crowd in his endeavours to follow the party, but weeks of anxiety and abnormal excitement were taking their toll at last; a sudden giddiness attacked him, and with a heavy groan he reeled and fell in the midst of the pleasure-seeking throng.

Chapter Fifteen.

Aunt Grace’s Cure.

Chester was borne into the box-office, and a medical man sent for, under whose ministrations he recovered consciousness, and soon after was able to declare who he was and his ability to return home unaided.

In the short conversation, the doctor, upon learning that his patient was a fellow-practitioner, took upon himself to utter a few words of warning.

“Mustn’t trifle with this sort of thing, my friend,” he said. “You know that as well as I can tell you, eh?”

“Yes, yes,” said Chester, irritably; “I’ll take more care. I have been over-doing it lately, but,” he added, with a curious laugh, “you see I was taking a little relaxation to-night.”

“Humph! Yes, I see,” said the doctor, watching him curiously. “Well, you feel that you can go home alone?”

“Oh yes; see me into a cab, please. Thanks for all you have done. Only a touch of vertigo.”

“‘Only a touch of vertigo,’” said the strange doctor, as he saw the hansom driven off. “‘Only a touch of vertigo’ means sometimes the first step towards a lunatic asylum.”

“Ah!” muttered Chester, while being driven homewards, “people look at me as if I were going wrong in my head. I wonder whether I am.”

He laughed as he let himself in and heard a rustle on the stairs. “Watching again,” he said to himself. “And they think I’m going wrong, I suppose. But how strange! That utter denial of all knowledge of me. Even she!”

He went into his room, and sat thinking of the incidents of the day and evening for some hours before throwing himself upon his bed, but was down at the usual time in the morning, partook of the unsocial breakfast and rose almost without saying a word.

“Yes, what is it?” said Chester, sharply, for Laura hurried to his side and laid her hand upon his arm. “Money for housekeeping?”

“No—no!” cried his sister, angrily, and there she paused.

“Well, speak, then; don’t stop me. I am busy this morning.”

“I must stop you, Fred,” cried Laura, passionately. “We cannot go on like this.”

“Why?” he said calmly. “Because we are brother and sister. We have always been as one together. You have had no secrets from me. I have had none from you. I have always been so proud of my brother’s love for me, but now all at once everything comes to an end. You withhold your confidence.”

“No; my confidence, perhaps, for the time being,” he said gravely; “not my love from you. God forbid.”

“But you do, Fred.”

“No; it is more the other way on,” he replied. “You have withheld your love from me, and checked any disposition I might have felt to confide in you.”

“Fred!”

“Don’t deny it,” he said quietly. “Since I was called away so strangely, and kept away against my will—”

“Against your will!” cried Laura, scornfully.

“Hah!” he cried, “it is of no use to argue with you, my child. Poor old aunt has so thoroughly imbued you with her doctrines of suspicion that everything I say will be in vain.”

“Imbued me with her suspicions!” cried Laura, angrily. “That is it; because I am quite a girl still you treat me as if I were a child. Do you—oh, I cannot say it!—yes, I will; I am your sister, and it is my duty to try and save you from something which will cause you regret to the end of your days. Do you dare to deny that you have got into some wretched entanglement—something which has suddenly turned you half mad?”

“No,” he said quietly. “That is so.”

“Then how can you go on like this? You have broken poor Isabel’s heart, estranged everybody’s love from you, and are running headlong to ruin. Fred—brother, for all our sakes, stop before it is too late.”

He looked at her mournfully, took her hand and kissed it, and with a passionate burst of sobbing she flung her arms about his neck and clung there.

“Then you do repent, Fred? You will go there no more. Listen, dear; I forgive you everything now, because you are going to be my true, brave, noble brother again, and after a time—some day—Isabel will forgive you too; for she does love you still, Fred, in spite of all. There—there,” she cried, kissing him again and again, “it is all over now.”

Chester loosened her hands from his neck and shook his head sadly.

“No, Laury,” he said, “it is not all over now.”

“What!” she cried quickly. “You will not—you cannot go back now.”

“Yes,” he said, “even if you do not forgive me, I must.”

“Fred!”

“Look here, little one,” he said wearily; “you have grown to think and act like a woman, and you complain that I do not confide in you. Well, I will be frank with you to some extent. Laura dear, I am not my own master. I cannot do as you wish.”

“Fred, you must.”

“Say that to some poor creature who is smitten with a terrible mental complaint; tell him he must be ill no longer, but cast off the ailment. What will he reply?”

He paused for an answer, but his sister stood gazing at him without a word.

“He will tell you that he would do so gladly, but that it is impossible.”

“But this is not impossible, Fred,” cried Laura; “and you are again treating me like a child. Yes, I have begun to think like a woman, and though it may sound shameless I will speak out. Do you think that we do not know that all this is wicked dissipation?”

He laughed bitterly, as he pressed his hand to his weary head.

“You do not know—you do not know.”

“Yes,” cried Laura, embracing him again; “I know that my poor brother has yielded to some temptation, but I know, too, that it only needs a strong, brave, manly effort to throw it all off; and then we might be happy once more.”

He took her face between his hands and looked down at her lovingly for a few minutes, then kissed her brow tenderly.

“No,” he said; “you do not understand, my child. I am not master of my actions now.”

He hurried from the room. Then she heard the door close, and his footsteps hurrying up the stairs followed by the banging of his door.

“Lost, lost!” she wailed; and she threw herself sobbing upon the couch.

“Well!” said a sharp voice, and the girl started up and tried hard to remove all traces of her tears.

“I did not hear you come in, aunt dear.”

“Perhaps not, my love, but I have been waiting and listening. Well, what does he say about coming home in that state last night? I’m sure, my dear, that was wine! Is he going to be a good boy now?”

Laura uttered a passionate sob.

“Oh no, aunt, oh no!” she cried.

“Because if he is and will repent very seriously, I may some day, perhaps, forgive him. But I must have full assurance that he is really sorry for all his wickedness. What did he say, child?”

“Nothing, aunt. It is hopeless—hopeless.”

“Then I was right at first. He has gone quite out of his mind, and I fully believe that it is our duty to have him put under restraint.”

“Aunt!” cried Laura, wildly.

“Yes, my dear. That is the only cure for such a complaint as his. A private asylum, Laury dear.”

“Oh, aunt, impossible! How can you say anything so horrible?”

“My dearest child, nothing can be horrible that is to do a person good. It is quite evident to me that he can no longer control his actions.”

“No, he said so,” sobbed Laura.

“Hah! I knew I was right. Well, then, my dear, we must think it over seriously. You see, the weakness must have come on suddenly. How, he and somebody else best know,” said the lady, with asperity. “You see, attacks like that are only temporary, and his would, I am sure, yield to proper treatment. Now let me see what ought to be the first steps? This is a valuable practice, if he has not completely wrecked it by his wicked dissipation, and I think it ought to be our first duty, my dear, to get a permanent locum tenens—a man of some eminence, who might be induced to come if some hope were held out to him of a future partnership. Then we could consult him about what to do, for I believe certificates have to be obtained before a patient is sent to an asylum.”

“Aunt! Are you going mad too?” cried Laura, angrily.

“Laura! my child!”

“Well, then, you should not say such horrid things about Fred. Consult a perfect stranger about putting him into a lunatic asylum! Oh, shame!”

“Shame to you, Laura, for daring to speak to me as you do. Do you want him to have one of those what-do-you-call-thems?—Para-para-para-dox—no, no, paroxysms; and then do as mad people always do, turn against those they love best? Do you want him to come some night and murder us both in our beds?”

“No, aunt, of course not,” said Laura, growing more cool and matter-of-fact now.

“Then do not from any false sentiment begin to oppose me. A few months under proper treatment in a good private asylum, and he would come back completely strengthened and cured. Now, let me see; I think under the circumstances that we ought first of all, my dear, to take poor dear Isabel into our confidences.”

“Aunt!” cried Laura; “if you dare to tell Isabel that you think such a dreadful thing of poor Fred I don’t know what I will not do.”

“Dare, Laura, dare?” said Aunt Grace, sternly.

“Yes, aunt, dare!” cried the girl. “If you do I’ll tell poor Bel that it is one of your hallucinations, and that you have got softening of the brain.”

“Laura!” shrieked the old lady, as she sank back in the nearest chair. “Oh, that I should live to hear such words! You horrible, abandoned child!”

“I’m very sorry, auntie,” said Laura, coolly, “but you always impressed upon me that I should tell the truth. You must be getting imbecile, or you would never have proposed such a dreadful thing.”

“Laura!”

“Yes, aunt; it is a sign, too, that you know it is coming on. You must have been thinking of madhouses, and that made you speak.”

“Worse and worse!” wailed the old lady. “You must be getting as bad as your brother. Actually siding with him now!”

“No, aunt, only pitying him, for I am beginning to believe that he is suffering worse than we are.”

Chapter Sixteen.

A Dangerous Case.

“It’s all over,” said Chester to himself. “That doctor’s correct, and I must not trifle or I shall be laid by with something wrong in the head. That drugging began it, and I’m not right. I won’t give up the quest, but I must get square first, and I can’t do so here. I’ll pack up and go on the Continent for a bit. Change may make me able to think consistently. Now my brain is in a whirl.”

He tried to reason calmly, and at last, not feeling in the humour to see and explain to his sister, he wrote to her briefly, telling her that the anxiety and worry of the case to which he had been called that night had completely unhinged him, and he found that the only thing he could do to recover his tone was to get right away for a time. He was going, he said, to see a colleague that morning, who would come and take charge of the practice, and he would write again from abroad.

This done, he fastened down the envelope and left the letter upon the table, after which he went to his room, threw a few necessaries into a portmanteau, brought it down, with Aunt Grace carefully watching from the top of the staircase, and sent the servant for a cab.

Five minutes later he was on his way to his club to consult the time-tables and guide-book as to the route to take.

He was not long in deciding upon Tyrol as the starting-place for a long mountain tramp. There was a train at night, and without returning home he would dine at the club and start from there.

He followed out the earlier portion of his programme, even to dining at the club, but afterwards, upon entering the smoking-room and taking a cigar, he found the place half full, and, longing for solitude, he went out to stroll down the steps and into the Park for an hour, ending by taking one of the seats under an old elm in the Mall and sitting back thinking of all that had happened during the past few weeks.

He was once more going over the scenes by the wounded man’s couch, and seeing again the every movement and look of his anxious sister, when he shrank back against the trunk of the great tree and let his chin sink upon his breast, for there were steps just to the right, and two gentlemen strolled by, one of them talking aloud angrily, and the following words smote like blows upon the listener’s ears—

“Look here, if you want to quarrel, say so, Paddy. But you’re no saint, so don’t you begin preaching morality. I repeat I have taken a tremendous fancy to her; what then? As for Rob, curse him for a miserable prig! If it were not for the consequences I’m ready to wish that the shot had ended it, and I swear I’ll—”

The last words died out into the night air, and, save for the preternaturally excited state of his brain, Chester would not have heard so much.

He sat up, and saw the figures of the brothers, who had passed him, growing indistinct as they went beyond the next lamp; and then he rose and followed.

“‘And I swear I’ll—’ what?” said Chester to himself. “Shoot me? Well, let him. There, it’s all over. I can’t go away; I must see this out to the very end.”

Chester followed the pair with the full intention of demanding an explanation and having a scene with the elder brother, for his resentment seemed to be making the blood bubble up through his veins. They were walking through the Palace Yard, and directly after they crossed the road and went up St James’s Street, talking angrily; and he was just about to join them when he saw the younger turn angrily off into the road, as if about to separate, but in an instant the elder had him by the arm and after a faint resistance led him back on to the pavement, where Chester was awaiting them.

“Mr Clareborough,” he said sharply, and both brothers turned upon him in surprise.

“Yes; what is it?” cried the elder. “Oh, the man in the wrong box! Come along, boy.”

He turned short off, and before Chester could recover from his surprise, the brothers had passed through the swinging doors of one of the clubhouses and disappeared in the great hall.

Chester was about to follow, but checked himself upon the threshold as the question arose in his mind, What for?

To demand an explanation of their conduct toward him.

Well, he felt that he might demand it, but he knew that they would preserve the same attitude as before, and treat him with contempt—treat him as if he were some half-witted being who claimed acquaintance; and how could he get people to believe in his strange story—how could he advance his position with respect to Marion?

He calmed down as quickly as he had grown excited and began to feel that to force a quarrel in the club to which these men belonged could have but one ending, that of the police being called in and his being ejected.

“And what then?” he asked himself. “Possibly the whole business would be dragged into the police court, then into the daily papers, and if Marion were ready to continue her intimacy with the man who had saved her brother’s life, would she not be hurt and annoyed with him for forcing into publicity an affair which the conduct of all concerned showed them to be eager to keep hushed up?”

Chester walked down St James’s Street again, with the intention of cooling his burning head in the quiet gloom of the Park; but he altered his mind and turned off to his left, along Pall Mall, re-entered his club and went up to the smoking-room, which proved to be a little more full than before, but this did not trouble him now. He sat down and took a cigar and began smoking, thinking, trying to argue out the reason for the strange behaviour of these Clareboroughs. He could understand that there had been a desperate quarrel, resulting in the use of the revolver, and he was ready to grant that the elder brother’s conduct toward Marion had been the moving cause for that. But he felt convinced that there was something more behind; else why all the secrecy?

Here they were, a wealthy family, evidently moving in good society, and living in a magnificently-appointed mansion; but during all the days of his enforced stay, with the exception of the old housekeeper, he had not seen a single servant, and nothing to suggest that any were in the place. That they kept domestics was plain enough, for he had since seen the butler and footman. Then, too, there had been the coachman who drove the carriage that night, though he, as an out-door servant, might easily have been kept in ignorance of all that took place in the house. But where were the others, the staff which would be necessary for carrying on such an establishment?

There was no answer to the question, even at the finishing of a second cigar, and he gave it up, and then smiled to himself as he rose.

“How absurd!” he muttered. “Everything else passed out of my head. I meant to cross to-night. Well, it is not too late, is it? Pish! Two hours. Oh, impossible! I cannot leave town. How could I go knowing that even now she may be praying for my help?”

Chester passed out again into the cool night, and involuntarily turned in the direction of the Park, crossed it, and walked slowly toward Highcombe Street, where, he hardly knew why, he began to promenade the pavement on the opposite side of the road, stopping at last just inside a doorway when a cab came sharply along; and his nerves began to thrill as he saw it pulled up at the door of the mansion.

Two gentlemen sprang out, and while one paid the driver, the other strolled up the steps, there was the rattle of the latch-key, the door was flung wide, and from where he stood Chester had a glimpse of the handsome hall, now looking sombre and strange with the lights half turned down.

Directly after the door was closed, and the chimes of the Palace clock rang out four times, followed by two deep, booming strokes on the great cracked bell.

“Two o’clock!” thought Chester, as he walked along past the house, fancying that there was a face at the open window of a room on the second floor, but he could not be sure, and as he turned back it was gone.

“Go abroad!” he said to himself. “At such a time. It would be madness.”

Then giving way to a sudden impulse, he hurried back to the front of the house, went up to the door and rang the bell sharply.

“Fool!” he muttered. “Why did I not speak to them then? I will have an explanation. I have a right, and it is evident that I have the whip-hand of them, or they would not act their parts like this.”

He knew that he was wildly excited and doing a foolish thing, but his actions were beyond his control now, and he was ready for Marion’s sake to take the maddest steps on her behalf, or he would not have stood at that moment where he did.

“Too late,” he muttered, as there was no reply. “I’ve let my opportunity slip.”

But all the same he dragged sharply at the bell again, and as his hand fell to his side the door was opened and he found himself face to face with the man he sought.

“Yes, what is it?” cried James Clareborough, sharply. “What! you again? Here, what the devil—Who are you? What do you want?”

“You,” said Chester, firmly, “you and your brother. I will have an explanation with you both. I will see—I will not be put off like this.”

“Confound him!” muttered James Clareborough between his teeth.

“Here, I say, old chap,” growled his brother, who now appeared, “have you been dining somewhere and over-doing it a bit? Hadn’t you better go home quietly? We don’t want to whistle for a policeman and have you locked up.”

“You hold your tongue!” cried James Clareborough. “I’ll soon settle with this gentleman. Now then, my tipsy individual, you want a few words with me—an explanation?”

“Yes and at once,” cried Chester, beside himself with rage at the very sight of the man whose conduct toward Marion absolutely maddened him.

As he spoke he pressed forward to enter, but the brothers barred the way.

“No, no,” said the elder, “none of that. We’re not going to have the house disturbed by your ravings. It’s only a few minutes to the Park—come on there and we’ll have it out, and done with it.”

“No; we won’t,” growled the younger brother, fiercely, and, placing his hands suddenly upon Chester’s breast, he gave him a heavy thrust, drove him staggering back, and almost in the one effort snatched his brother aside and banged to the door.

“What the devil do you mean by that?” cried James Clareborough, savagely, as he tried to reopen the door, but his brother placed his back to it and held him off.

“To keep you cool, old man,” growled the younger. “Get him in the Park at this time, with no one near! What did you mean to do?”

“Do what I’ll do now.”

“Got something in your pocket, old chap?”

“Yes, I have. Let me go out.”

“And have a paragraph in the papers to-morrow morning about a discovery in the Park?”

“Yes. Curse him! he’s getting dangerous. If he is not silenced, what’s to happen next? Let me go, boy. There, he’s ringing again. Let me go.”

“Not if I can stop it, old man. We’ve got risks enough as it is.”

“Curse you, Paddy, for a fool!” cried the other; and he seized his brother and tried to drag him away, while the great fellow reached down and drew a pistol from his brother’s pocket.

“Got your sting, Jem,” he cried. “You don’t use that to-night.”

“Wrong!” cried the other, snatching it away; and as the bell was rung violently again he made for the door.

Chapter Seventeen.

Assaulting the Castle.

Chester stood on the doorstep for some minutes, thinking, in perfect ignorance of what was taking place inside, and twice over he rang the bell, in the determination to enter and confront these men.

But reason stepped in.

“No,” he thought, “I could do nothing. For Marion’s sake I must bring subtlety to bear, not brute force. And this is leaving England, to try and forget everything,” he added, with a mocking laugh. “No; I must stay and unravel it all.”

He went home, had recourse to a drug again, and slept heavily till morning, and then, with his brain throbbing painfully from his anxious thoughts, he had left the house, determined to make another effort to obtain speech of Marion. That she was completely under the influence of her friends he felt sure, but if, he told himself, he could only obtain an interview, all might be well.

To this end and full of a fresh project, he took a four-wheeled cab and had himself driven to the end of Highcombe Street, where he bade the driver draw up and wait.

Here he threw himself back in one corner of the vehicle, opened a newspaper so as to screen his face and at the same time enable him to keep a strict watch upon the house.

Fortune favoured him. At the end of an hour he saw the carriage drawn up, and soon after the brothers and their wives came out and were driven off; then the butler stood airing himself upon the step for a time, and finally went in and closed the door.