George Manville Fenn (continued 3)

Chester’s heart beat high with hope, and he waited for a few minutes, which seemed to be an hour. Then, telling the man to wait, he was going down the street, when a shout brought him back.

“Beg pardon, sir; you didn’t take my number,” said the driver, with a grin.

“No, why should I?” said Chester, wonderingly.

“So as to be able to find me agin if you forgets to come back, sir.”

“Oh, I see,” said Chester, smiling, and then placing a couple of coins in the man’s hand. “Don’t be afraid; I shall return.”

The opportunity had come, and without hesitation Chester went straight to the door and rang.

The butler answered the bell, after keeping him waiting some minutes, for it was not visiting time; and as soon as the man saw who it was he reddened a little and looked indignant.

“Take my card up to Miss Clareborough,” said Chester, quietly.

“Not at home, sir.”

“Look here, my man, I particularly wish to see your young lady, so have the goodness to take up my card.”

“Not at home, sir,” repeated the butler, pompously.

“To ordinary visitors, perhaps,” said Chester, whose temper was rising at the man’s manner; “but she will see me.”

“I told you twice over that our young lady wasn’t at home, sir,” said the butler, more offensive in speech and manner than ever.

“Yes,” said Chester, still quietly, “and I know perfectly well that this is only the customary formal reply to ordinary callers. My business is important, and I tell you that Miss Clareborough will see me, so take my card up at once.”

“Look here, sir,” said the man, insolently; “I have had my orders, and I know what to do. Once more: not at home.”

“Am I to understand that you refuse to take up my card?”

“Yes, sir; that’s it. They’ve seen your card, and master said he didn’t know you, and if you came again the family was not at home.”

“I have nothing to do with your master or his brother, my good fellow. My business is with Miss Clareborough, and I insist on seeing her.”

“Not at home,” said the man, shortly; and he drew back to close the door.

But firmly convinced that the lady he desired to see was a prisoner, Chester in his excitement stepped forward, and, to the man’s astonishment, entered the hall.

“Now,” he said angrily, “no more of this insolence, sir; take or send my card in to Miss Clareborough.”

“I say, look here,” cried the the butler, whose face grew ruddy and then white, “haven’t I told you she isn’t at home?”

“Yes, more than once, my good fellow, and I tell you now that she is, and that I will not stir from here until I have seen her.”

“Then look here, sir,” cried the butler; “I shall send for the police.”

“Do—at once,” retorted Chester.

The butler’s jaw dropped in his astonishment, but he recovered himself, closed the door, and took a few steps further into the hall, Chester following.

“Come, none of that,” cried the man. “You’ll stop there, and—”

“What’s the meaning of this, Mr Roach?” said a familiar voice, and Chester eagerly pressed forward.

“Ah, the housekeeper,” he cried quickly. “This man has refused again and again to bear my card to Miss Marion. Will you have the goodness to take it to her, and say that I beg she will see me for a few minutes at once?”

The old lady’s white forehead puckered up beneath her grey hair, as she looked in a startled way at the speaker, and then turned to the butler, who was holding Chester’s card between his first and second fingers.

“Who is this gentleman?” she said rather sternly, and for me moment Chester was so completely taken aback that the butler had time to speak.

“Here’s his card, ma’am. He’s been before wanting to see Miss Clareborough. Master’s seen it, ma’am, and says he don’t know anything about the gentleman, and that if he had business he was to write.”

The housekeeper turned to Chester, raising her eyebrows a little, and he had by this time recovered his balance.

“Of course,” he said, “I can quite understand Mr James’s action after his treatment of me, madam.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Let me speak to you alone,” he continued. “I can say nothing before this man.”

“Had you not better write to Mr Clareborough, sir, if you have business with the family?”

“No, certainly not,” said Chester. “My business is with Miss Clareborough, and I insist upon seeing her.”

“Excuse me, sir,” said the housekeeper, calmly; “as a gentleman, you must know that one of the ladies would decline to see a stranger on business unless she knew what that business was.”

“A stranger—on business!” cried Chester, angrily. “My good woman, why do you talk like this to me?”

“Really, sir, I do not understand you,” said the housekeeper, with dignity.

“Let me see you alone,” said Chester, earnestly.

“Certainly not, sir. Have the goodness to say what is your business here.”

“You know it is impossible,” cried Chester. “See me alone—send this man away.”

“Stay where you are, Mr Roach,” said the housekeeper, who might, from her calm, dignified manner, have been the mistress of the house. “Are you not making some mistake, sir? Mr Clareborough evidently does not know you.”

“Nor you either?” said Chester, sarcastically.

“I, sir? Certainly not,” replied the housekeeper.

Chester stared at her angrily.

“Do you dare to tell me this?” he cried.

“Come, sir, none of that, please,” said the butler, interfering. “We can’t have you always coming here and asking to see people who don’t want to see you.”

“Stand back, you insolent scoundrel!” cried Chester, turning upon the butler fiercely; and the man obeyed on the instant.

“There is no occasion to make a scene, sir,” said the housekeeper, gently. “Pray be calm. You have, I see, made a mistake. Had you not better go home and write to Mr Clareborough? If your business is important, he will, no doubt, make an appointment to meet you.”

“But you!” cried Chester, returning to the attack, “you deny that you know me?”

“Certainly, sir, I do not know you,” replied the housekeeper.

“Had you not better dismiss this man?”

“No, no,” said the housekeeper, smiling; and there was a very sweet look on her handsome old face. “There is no occasion for that. Pray take my advice; go back home and write what you wish to say.”

“After what has passed, madam, I can hold no communication with Mr Clareborough.”

“Indeed! Well, sir, of course all you say is foreign to me, but I must tell you that it seems the only course open; so much can be done by letter.”

“Then, as I understand,” said Chester, more quietly, “you refuse to give me a few words alone?”

“Yes, sir; you can have nothing to say to me that Mr Roach, the butler, may not hear.”

Chester looked at the woman fixedly, but she met his gaze in the calmest way—not a muscle moved, not a nerve quivered.

“Very well,” he said at last, “I see you are determined to ignore the past entirely.”

The housekeeper made a slight deprecatory movement toward him, and then signed the butler to open the door, which he did with alacrity, but Chester stood fast, looking past the housekeeper toward the end of the hall, where there was the opening into the great dining-room, the scene of the strange adventure when he first came to the house.

“Very well,” he said at last, as he mastered a wild desire to rush upstairs and call Marion by name until she replied; and he spoke now in a subdued tone of voice which the butler could not hear, “of course you are in the plot, but I shall not let matters rest here. It would have been better if you had met me as a friend—as I believed you to be—of Miss Marion and Mr Robert, but I see that you are bound up with the others. And mind this: I was disposed to assist in hushing up that trouble, but as I am convinced that Miss Marion is receiving foul play, I shall leave no stone unturned to obtain speech with her, even going so far, if necessary, as to call in the aid of the police.”

There was a calm, grave, pitying look upon the housekeeper’s countenance which literally staggered Chester, and he went out quickly and turned to the right, the butler closing the door with a bang.

“He’s a regular lunatic, ma’am,” said the butler. “Got hold of the names from the Directory or the tradesfolk; but I’m very glad you were there.”

“Poor gentleman,” said the housekeeper, gravely, “there seems to be some strange hallucination in his brain.”

Chapter Eighteen.

The Bookworm Tries to Bore.

As it happened, Chester was musing as he went down the steps.

“They treat me as if I were mad. Have I got some strange notion in my head? No woman could possibly meet one with such a—Ah! good-day!” he cried quickly, for, as he was passing the next door, the grey, dreamy-looking old occupant was in the act of inserting the latch-key.

He turned slowly, pushed back his rather broad-brimmed hat, and blinked at the speaker through his spectacles.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, rather wonderingly; “I—can’t see; yes, to be sure, I remember now;” and the old man’s face lit up. “I remember now. My young friend who was making inquiries. Will you step in, sir? I do not have many visitors.”

He threw open the door and stood smiling holding it back, giving Chester a smile of invitation which made him enter—that, in combination with the sudden thought that he might perhaps learn something about the next-door neighbours.

“Really,” he said frankly, “as a perfect stranger, this is somewhat of an intrusion.”

“Not at all, my dear young friend, not at all. Glad to see you. I lead such an old-world, lost kind of life. I am very glad to have a caller. Come in, my dear young friend, come in. No, no; don’t set your hat down there; it will be covered with dust. Let me put it here. Now, then, come in.”

He led the way into the room on their left, and took a couple of very old folios off a chair.

“A dusty place—a very dusty place; but I dare not trust servants. They have no idea of the value of books, my dear sir. I found one had torn out some pages from a very rare specimen of Wynkyn de Worde to burn under some damp fire-wood. Can’t trust them—can’t trust them. I’ve just had a very serious disappointment. Been down to an auction.”

“Indeed?” said Chester, looking at the old man curiously and wondering where he had seen a face something like his before.

“Yes. One of the big sales. There was a priceless copy of one of Marie de Medici’s books in the list, and I fancy it was with a Grolier binding—just his style; but two other people wanted it. I bid up to four hundred and then stopped. A bit of a bibliomaniac, my dear sir, but not book-mad enough to go higher; couldn’t afford it, even for a unique, tall copy. Knocked down for se-ven hun-dred and forty-nine pounds, sir. A fact. Well, did you find your friends whom you were looking for?”

“Yes—no,” said Chester.

“Dear me; but is not that rather contradictory, my dear sir?” said the old man, smiling.

“Perhaps so, but there is a little mystery about the matter, sir,” replied Chester. “By the way, though, can you tell me anything about your next-door neighbours?”

“My next-door neighbours, my dear sir,” said the old man, smiling and rubbing his thin hands together softly; “well, not much, I am so unsociable a body; and here in London one can be so isolated. Let me see, he is something in the House of Commons—a clerk, or master-at-arms, or usher, or something.”

“Mr Clareborough is?” cried Chester, sharply.

“No—no! That is on the other side. Quite a large family party. Very gay people who have plenty of fashionable callers, and carriages, and parties. I fancy they go a great deal to operas and theatres. The confectioner’s people come sometimes, and musicians, and rout seats. Not in my way, my young friend—not in my way,” continued the old gentleman in his quiet, amiable manner, as he took down the great bulky London Directory. “Yes, yes, yes; here we are—Highcombe Street, Clareborough. There’s the name. Very wealthy, gay family, I believe. Clareborough. That’s it, and I think I’ve heard somehow—I don’t quite know how it was, unless one of the tradespeople told me—that they have a fine place somewhere in Kent—The Towers, I think they call it, and they are often down there, and this place is shut up. I like it to be, because it is so much more quiet for a man busy with his books.”

“Have you—have you noticed anything peculiar about the family?” said Chester in a hesitating way.

The old man beamed upon him through his glasses, then took them off deliberately, and wiped each carefully with an old silk handkerchief, gazing at his questioner with his face wrinkled up as if he were puzzled.

“Anything peculiar?” he said at last. “Well, no, I think not, unless it is that they seem to spend a great deal of money in ephemeral pleasures. Yes, I remember now thinking that they must waste a great deal, and that with so much at their command they might accumulate a grand collection of books.”

“Anything more?” said Chester.

“N-no, my dear sir. I think, now you mention it, that I have taken more notice of my neighbour on the other side. Yes, I am sure I have. I remember thinking how bad it must be for his health.”

“Indeed?” said Chester, inquiringly, but with the intention of leading the old man back into talking about his other neighbours.

“Oh yes. You see, I often hear him coming home extremely late in the night. Twelve, one, and two o’clock, sometimes even by broad daylight. Not that I was watching him, but I often lie awake for hours, musing about some particular book that I have not obtained. I’m afraid I shall not sleep to-night for thinking of that book I missed at the sale to-day. But I put it to you, my dear sir; it was too much to give, was it not?”

“Certainly,” said Chester, smiling, as he seized the opportunity to turn back the conversation to the other side; “but I suppose, according to your showing, the sum named would have been a trifle to your other neighbours.”

“Hah! Yes, I suppose it would—yes, I suppose it would. But are you a collector?”

“I? Oh no,” said Chester, smiling, “only a very ignorant body.”

“No, no, no, no,” said the old man, smiling pleasantly. “I know better than that. One gets to know what a person is more or less by his conversation, my dear sir, and I could vouch for it that you are a student.”

“Well, I must own to that, more or less, as to medicine and surgery.”

“I thought so, I thought so,” said the old man, bending down to clasp his hands about one knee and sit as if thinking deeply over something, while Chester gladly availed himself of the silence to give free rein to his own thoughts.

For an idea had suddenly occurred to him which lit up his troubled brain like a flash of light.

He was in the next house—the old man leading his solitary life seemed pleased to have found someone ready to converse with him. Why should he not try and cultivate the old fellow’s acquaintance, and take advantage of the opportunities it would afford him of watching his neighbours?

He had hardly thought this when the old man looked up, smiling at him in a child-like, pleasant way.

“How strange—how very strange it all is, my dear sir. Now, you will hardly credit me when I tell you that for some time past I have been suffering from little symptoms which at their frequent and more frequent recurrence suggest to me that I ought to consult a medical man.”

“Indeed?” said Chester.

“Yes, my dear sir, indeed; but you see, I am a very old man now, and I fear that I have grown weak and vacillating; I may add cowardly too. I have shrunk from going to a doctor for fear that he should tell me that I must give up my studies—that I am failing and coming very near to the end of my span.”

“Oh, surely not,” said Chester. “You look a very healthy subject, sir.”

“I—I don’t know, my dear sir, but I have been afraid to go; and here, all at once, in the most casual way, I suddenly make the acquaintance of a medical man, and find him seated opposite to me, talking in a friendly way which quite invites my confidence. It is strange, is it not?”

“Very strange, indeed,” said Chester, gazing hard in the pleasant, bland old countenance before him. “But really, my dear sir, I do not think you require medical advice.”

The old man returned the fixed gaze and then said appealingly—

“I hope, my dear sir, you are speaking sincerely.”

“Of course,” replied Chester.

“Not as doctors sometimes do, to encourage their patients?”

“Certainly not,” cried Chester. “There is every sign of a vigorous, green old age about you.”

“That is very pleasant to hear, my dear sir,” said the old man, “very pleasant. I don’t think I am one ready to repine, or one who would seek to live for selfish considerations—love of pleasure or the like—but I have so much to do. I want years yet to complete my collection, and I may have to go over to Leyden, Leipsic, Nuremberg, Florence, and several of the other Continental towns which were the birthplaces of many of these old tomes which you see upon my shelves.”

“I see no reason why you should not live for years yet, sir,” said Chester, encouragingly.

“But my head—my brain. I find I grow forgetful, my dear sir. I put away books and forget their places. All little symptoms, are they not, of failing powers?”

“To be perfectly candid, certainly they are,” said Chester; “but in a healthy old age these failings come very, very gradually, and nature suggests so many ways of palliating them. For instance, a clever young secretary with a methodical turn of mind would relieve you of a trouble like this. Really I do not think that you have any occasion to trouble yourself about such a symptom as that, any more than you have about the failing powers of sight which compelled you to take to glasses.”

“My dear young friend!” cried the old man, leaning forward to catch at his visitor’s hand, “I cannot find words to express my gratitude. You do not know what a relief your words have been to me. It is wonderful, and upon such a casual acquaintanceship. But I sincerely hope that you will let me see more of you—er—that is, if I am not troublesome to you; such a wearisome old bookworm as I fear I must be. But the mouse helped the lion, you know, and who knows but what I may be able to help you with some information about your friends next door—let me see, I think you said it was the people next door whom you had been trying to find.”

“I did not say so,” said Chester, quietly.

“I beg your pardon; but you do wish to know something about them.”

“Well, frankly, yes, I do,” said Chester.

“Hah! And who knows but what I may be able to help you? I may remember something that does not occur to me now—a trifle or two perhaps, but which may be of importance from your point of view. Come and see me sometimes. Let me show you my library. I think you might be interested in some of my books.”

“I have no doubt but that I should be.”

“To be sure, yes. I have an old copy of Hippocrates on surgery and medicine, and I daresay many others which do not occur to me now. Yes, of course, I have Boerhaave. You will come?”

“I shall be very glad to,” said Chester, warmly, though his conscience smote him for what he felt to be a false pretence.

“I am very, very glad,” said the old man, rising, going to an old cabinet and pulling out a drawer, from which he took a key and at the same time something short and black which he cleverly thrust into the breast of his loosely-made, old-fashioned tail-coat. “Now I am about to ask a favour of you, doctor,” he said, turning with a pleasant, genial smile upon his countenance. “I have other treasures here down below, besides books. Stored up and rarely brought out, bin after bin of very fine old wine. I am going to ask you to drink a glass of exceedingly old port with me.”

“No, no,” said Chester, “you must excuse me. I never drink wine at this time of day. Let me dine with you some time or other, and then—”

“Yes, of course, my dear young friend; I hope many times; but just one glass now. Don’t say no. I feel to need it a little myself, for—don’t think me a feeble old dotard—the fact of telling you of my weakness, of confessing to a doctor my fears of coming to an end, have upset my nerves a little, and I can’t help fancying that a glass of good old wine would do me good.”

“I am sure it would, sir,” said Chester, warmly. “Well, there! I will break a rule, and join you in one glass.”

“Hah!” cried the old man, brightening up; “that is very good of you, doctor—very good. I feel better already in anticipation. Now, let me see—let me see.”

He opened the library table drawer and took out a box of matches and an old-fashioned, curled-up twist of wax taper, such as was the accompaniment of a writing-table in sealing-wax days, fifty years or so ago. This latter he lit, and then hung a large old key upon his little finger.

“The library next time you come, doctor; the cellar this time. A very fine cellar of wines, my dear sir, but wasted upon me. Just a glass now and then as a medicine. This way. I hope you will not mind the dust and cobwebs. An old-fashioned notion, but books seem to need the dust of ages, and it is precious upon them, just as old port ought to have its cobwebs and its crust. You will come with me to get a bottle?”

“Oh yes,” said Chester, and he followed the old man out of the room into the book-encumbered hall, and along to the back, past chest and shelf, to where there was the glass door opening on the stone flight leading down into the basement.

“This way, my dear sir. One moment; there should be a basket here. Yes, here we are; would you mind lighting me? Thank you.”

Chester took the wax taper and lighted the old man, while he took down from behind the glass door, where it hung upon a hook, one of those cradle-like baskets in which a bottle of rich old wine can recline without destroying its fineness.

“You see,” said the old man, “I am a bit of a connoisseur. I like to keep my wine as it has lain in the bin. No decanting for me. Straight on down, my dear sir.”

Chester did not hesitate, but led on down the stone stairs, holding the light on high, the tiny taper shining back upon a pair of flashing eyes and the wrinkles of a now wonderfully wrinkled face, while in the shadows behind a thin, claw-like hand glided to the breast-pocket of the old-fashioned coat, to draw out one of those misnamed weapons formed of twisted whalebone, ending in a weighty leaden knob.

Chester bore the light; behind him seemed to hover upon the dingy walls the Shadow of Death.

Chapter Nineteen.

By the Skin of his Teeth.

The Shadow passed away.

In another moment a crushing blow from a life-preserver, delivered by a vigorous arm, would have fallen upon the back of Chester’s skull, and sent him headlong down the flight of stairs; but the deadly weapon was thrust back into its owner’s breast, and the fierce, vindictive expression passed from his face as there was a violent ringing of the largest of the row of bells hanging to their right, and Chester turned sharply round, taper in hand, to look questioningly at the old man.

“Dear me!” he said, smiling, “how tiresome! This is one of the troubles of living quite alone, my dear young friend. I always have to answer my own door. I’m afraid that I must ask you to come back to the front room. Would you mind bringing the light? Thank you; I will take it.”

He blew out the clear little flame as they reached the glass door, and then set down the basket, before leading the way back into the library, where he glanced from the window.

“Dear me!” he said. “More books. So very late in the day too. They always come at awkward times. Pray sit down or look at some of my works. You’ll find something to interest you, I feel sure. Yes—yes; I’m coming,” he said, as the bell rang loudly again. “Don’t be so impatient, my good men, don’t be so impatient.”

“One moment; if you have business, I will go now,” said Chester.

“Oh, by no means,” said the old man. “I shall not be many moments. Pray take a book and my chair, there. It is only the railway men. I shall soon be done.”

Chester did not take the chair, but began to inspect the dusty shelves, while he heard the front door open and after a time the sound of heavy feet upon the steps, and then the bump down of what sounded like a heavy chest. Then more steps outside, the rattle of a chain belonging to the tail-board of a van, and the steps again.

Then he ceased to hear anything that was going on, for his thoughts had run to the adjoining house and his experiences there, but only to be succeeded by an indescribable sensation of dread—a singular feeling of malaise which troubled his faculties. It was like a portent of something hanging over him, or over her who occupied so much of his thoughts.

“I can’t stay here,” he said to himself. “I must get out into the open air. This place makes me feel sick and faint.”

He picked up one of the many books lying about, and threw it down again impatiently, to walk to the door, where he could hear the old student directing the men who had brought the consignment; while from the sounds it was evident that they were carrying the chests or whatever they were, down into the basement.

Feeling that it would be rude to interrupt his host then, he went back to the table.

“What is the matter with me?” he muttered, as he shivered involuntarily. “Is it from cold, or from over-thought and worry? Not going to be ill, am I, and at such a time?”

“I know,” he thought, at the end of a few minutes; “it is this place. The air is close and mephitic. I don’t believe the windows are ever open. I cannot stay here. I feel as if I should faint. Rude or not, I must go.”

He had sunk into a chair, and now started up, just as the old man re-entered.

“Just done,” he said cheerfully. “One moment. Heavy boxes, and these men like to have a glass. Not my old port, though. They would not appreciate it. A little of this—a little of this brandy.”

He kept on talking softly as he took out a bottle and glasses from a cellarette, filled a couple, set the bottle down again, and carried the glasses out; and as the door swung to, Chester caught up the bottle quickly, held it to his lips, and gulped down a mouthful.

“Hah!” he muttered, as he set the brandy down and sank back in the chair; “that is stimulating. But how strange that I should feel like this. Ugh!”

He shuddered, for a cold chill ran through him, and the sensation of fear increased.

“Can it be something threatening her?” he muttered. “How strange! I have not felt like this since I lost my first patient,” and the chill of coming dissolution seemed to hang in the air.

“Pooh! Fancy. It is a slight chill. That brandy will soon take it off.”

The voices reached him again, and the steps were heard outside; then the front door was closed, and the old man came in smiling.

“Always at such inconvenient times,” he said. “Generally when I am studying some intricate passage by an old author; but to-day when I have had my first visitor for months. I’m afraid you have found me very long.”

“Oh no, don’t name it,” said Chester, hurriedly, “but—”

“Ah! your kindness of heart makes you speak thus,” said the old man, hastily. “Two heavy chests of books, and I was obliged to make the men take them downstairs, or they would block the passage. But now for the glass of wine and our chat.”

“I’m afraid that I shall be obliged to ask you to excuse me to-day,” said Chester, who had risen.

“Oh, surely not,” cried the old man in a disappointed tone. “I was reckoning so upon asking your opinion, my dear sir. Like liquid rubies. It will not take long.”

“No, it would not take long,” replied Chester, who now spoke rather excitedly, while the old man’s eyes glittered strangely behind his glasses; “but I have been here some time now, and I must get back.”

“But, my dear sir—”

“Don’t press me, please. I, am rather unwell.”

“You are not offended at my leaving you?”

“No, absurd!” cried Chester, hastily. “I have had a good deal of trouble lately, and my nerves have been shaken.”

“Your nerves have been shaken?” said the old man, gazing at him in a peculiar way.

“Yes,” said Chester; “but another day you must let me come; and perhaps you can tell me a little more about your neighbours.”

The old man smiled sadly.

“Ah!” he said, “I am growing old and garrulous, and I have bored you, as you young people call it. You will not come again.”

“Indeed, I will,” cried Chester, holding out his hand to take his host’s, which was extended unwillingly, and felt like ice. “Oh yes, I will come to-morrow or the next day. This is no paltry excuse. You may trust me.”

“Ah, well, I will,” said the old man, who seemed to be satisfied with his scrutiny. “Pray come, then, and put up with my strange, unworldly ways; and you must give me some more hints about my health. In the meantime I will look out some of the old medical and surgical works. You will find them interesting.”

“Yes, I hope we shall spend many hours together,” said Chester, frankly, as he moved toward the door, the old man walking by his side with his hands under the tails of his coat, where a looker-on would have seen that they were crooked and opening and shutting spasmodically.

It was very dim now in the book-burdened room, the evening light having hard work to pierce the uncleaned panes of the windows; but there was light enough to show that, and also that the old bookworm’s claw-like right hand went into the coat-pocket and half drew from it something small and hard.

But nothing followed as they walked into the gloomy hall and away to the front door, where, after a friendly shake of the hand, Chester uttered a sigh of relief as he turned away from the house, seeming to breathe more freely as he walked briskly along.

“Pah! the old place felt like a sepulchre,” he muttered. “It was just as if the hand of death were clutching at me. I believe that if I had not taken that brandy I should have fainted. What a state my nerves must be in. Why, it is the most fortunate thing that could have happened. Once gain the old man’s confidence, I can stay there and watch the next house as long as I like.”

There was something ominous about the old bookworm’s act as he went softly back into his half-dark, dusty room, evidently thinking deeply, till he stopped short in the middle to stand gazing down at the floor.

“Yes, he said he was ill; he looked ill when he came up to the door—half mad. He will come back again, perhaps to-morrow—perhaps to-morrow. Hah! it was very near.”

He raised his head now, went to the drawer from which he had taken the key, and placed back in it the heavy life-preserver, and then taking from the tail of the coat one of the short, old-fashioned pocket pistols which were loaded by unscrewing the little barrel by means of a key. This he examined, taking off the cap, after raising the hammer and putting a fresh one in its place. After this he closed the drawer and sat down to think.

“Yes,” he said, half aloud, “it was very near. The next time he comes perhaps he’ll stay. He is getting to be a nuisance, and a dangerous one, as well.”

Chapter Twenty.

Strangely Mysterious Proceedings.

The Clareboroughs’ carriage was at the door, and the well-matched, handsome pair of horses were impatiently pawing the ground, in spite of sundry admonitions from the plump coachman of the faultless turn-out to be “steady there!” “hold still!” and the like.

Mr Roach, the butler, had appeared for a minute on the step, looking very pompous and important, exchanged nods with the coachman, and gone in again to wait for the descent of their people, bound for one of Lord Gale’s dinner-parties in Grosvenor Place.

All was still in the hall as the door was closed, and the marble statues and bodiless busts did not move upon their pedestals, nor their blank faces display the slightest wonder at the proceedings which followed, even though they were enough to startle them out of their equanimity.

For all at once the pompous, stolid butler and the stiff, military-looking footman, in his good, refined livery, suddenly seemed to have been stricken with a kind of delirious attack. The expression upon their faces changed from its customary social diplomatic calm to one of wild delight, and they both broke into a spasmodic dance, a combination of the wildest step of the can-can and the mad angulations of a nigger breakdown, with the accompaniment of snapping of fingers at each other and the final kick-up and flop of the right foot upon the floor.

Then they rushed at each other and embraced—the solemn, middle-aged butler and the tall young footman—theatrically, after which they seemed to come to their normal senses, and quietly shook hands.

“’Bliged to let some of the steam off, old man?” whispered the footman.

“Yes, Orthur, my boy, had to open the safety valve,” replied the butler. “We’re made men, eh?”

“Not quite,” said the footman, grinning, “but getting into shape. Three hundred a-piece. I say, ain’t it grand?”

“Splendid,” said the butler, with a broad smile. “But steady now.”

“I say; wasn’t the idea right?”

“Right as right, my boy.”

“Ah,” said the footman, with a knowing wink, “who’d be without a good only uncle to tip you when you want a few pounds to invest? I say, though, you’ll go and pay the old boy as soon as we’re gone?”

“Won’t be time.”

“Oh yes; you’ll be all right. Get it done. Make it easy if we want to do it again, eh?”

“All right; I’ll go. I say, Orthur, ain’t I like a father to you?”

“Dear old man!” whispered the gentleman addressed, with a grin. “Me long-lost forther!”

“Steady!” said the butler, sternly, and their masks of servitude were on their faces again, with the elder stern and pompous, the younger respectful and steady as a rock. “Yes; I’ll go and put that right. Must take a cab. You’ll pay half?”

“Of course; that’s all right, sir. Fair shares in everything. I say, Bob’s got something else on. Hadn’t a chance to tell you before.”

“Eh? What is that?”

“Goodwood. He’s had a letter. I say, shall we be on there? Oh no, not at all.”

“Pst! coming down,” whispered the butler; and the footman opened the door and went out to the carriage, which soon after dashed off, while the butler, after the regular glance up street and down, closed the door. He descended to his pantry, where he drew a glossy hat from a box, took an empty Gladstone bag from a cupboard and went out to hail the first hansom round the corner. This rattled him away in the direction of Bloomsbury, where he descended close to the great grim portico of the church, and told the man to wait.

The driver gave a glance at him, but the butler looked too respectable for a bilker, and he settled down for a quiet smoke, muttering, “Grapes or pears.”

But cabby was wrong. Mr Roach was not the class of domestic to lower his dignity by engaging in a kind of commerce which could be properly carried on by the fruiterer. He made for a quiet street, turned up a narrow court, and passed in through a glazed swing door upon whose embossed pane appeared the blazon of the Medici family—the three golden pills—the crest of the generous relative—“mine uncle” of the borrower high and low, and the minute after he stood in darkness in a narrow box.

A sharp-faced young man with a pen behind his ear came from the right and stretched out his hand across the broad counter.

“Send the guv’nor,” said Roach, importantly.

A sharp look was the answer, the shopman went away, and his place was taken directly by a keen, dark man, with a gaslight complexion, and to him Roach handed a little white ticket.

“Hullo! So soon!” said the man, showing his teeth, which matched his skin.

“Well, didn’t I tell you so?” said Roach, importantly.

“Yes, but I don’t quite believe everything my clients say.”

“No, and you were precious uppish and hold-offish the other day,” said Roach, shortly.

“Obliged to be careful, Mr Smith, in my profession,” said the pawnbroker, with a peculiar smile. “There’s a law against receiving stolen goods, and one don’t want to get into trouble.”

“Well, you needn’t begin to suspect everybody who wants money, if there is. Do you suppose gentry don’t run short of money sometimes?”

“Oh no. I know they do, Mr Smith. I could show you some jewellery that would open your eyes.”

“And I dessay I could show you something that would open yours. May have to bring it to you some day. Who knows?”

“Glad to do business on the square any time, Mr Smith,” said the pawnbroker.

“Of course you are; so’s lots more. People thinks there’s no card-playing going on now, and gents and ladies running short.”

“We don’t think so, Mr Smith.”

“No, I suppose not,” said Roach. “I did make up my mind I wouldn’t come here again after what passed.”

“Only business caution, Mr Smith.”

“Oh, well, if that’s all, perhaps I may. This was a commission; hundred pound wanted on the nail, and security worth five offered. Money’s come in again, and my people want the security. Here’s the cash and interest, and the sooner I’m off the better.”

“Soon done, Mr Smith,” said the pawnbroker, “and I shall be happy to do business with you again any time.” The man made some memoranda on the card, and went into a back room to a safe, from which he brought a carefully-done-up packet.

“Rather I hadn’t fetched it, eh?” said Roach, after having the packet opened and satisfied himself that the gold contents were intact.

“Don’t you make that mistake, Mr Smith,” said the pawnbroker. “We don’t want unredeemed pledges to sell, but to have them taken out and receive our interest. That’s the way money is made, sir.”

“I dessay,” said the butler, paying over the sum needed in notes and gold, and then packing the security in the Gladstone bag; “but it’s a free country, and people have a right to believe what they like.”

“Of course, my dear sir, of course.”

“Now look here,” whispered Roach; “if there happens to be an emergency, mister, and I’m disposed to come here again with something for an advance, is it to be prompt business, or a lot of humbugging questions?”

“Prompt business, Mr Smith, with approved customers, and to any amount.”

“That will do then. I’ll come. Private and confidential, eh?”

“Private and confidential, sir. Good-evening.—Jobson, shut up.”

“Yes, and I shut him up,” muttered Roach, as he went out with his Gladstone bag feeling weighty, and sought his cab, but not without looking back once or twice and choosing another way for his return.

But he saw nothing to excite his suspicions of being followed, for it was not likely that the homely-looking woman with a thickish umbrella had come from the pawnbroker’s. But somehow she had.

An hour later, Roach’s carefully-done-up parcel was denuded of its wrappings, and its golden glories were hidden in the iron plate-closet at the back of his pantry. And then he came upon Arthur, not long returned from setting down their people at Grosvenor Place.

“Hullo! Didn’t know you’d come back. Got it?” said the footman.

The butler nodded.

“Shut the door,” he said; and as soon as they were alone in the pantry, Roach unlocked the iron closet which contained the plate under his charge, and pointed to a handsome centre-piece standing on the shelf.

Then it was that the younger man so far forgot the respect due to his elder as to slap him on the back, an act not in the least resented, but responded to by a playful dig in the ribs.

“But I say, my boy,” whispered the butler, “it won’t do, you know. I’ve funked horribly for fear that they should ask for it.”

“Likely!” said the footman, scornfully. “It’s never been used but once.”

“More likely to be asked for to be put away with the rest in the vault. Jemmy’s safe to remember it some day.”

The footman was thoughtful as the butler locked up the iron closet.

“We ought to put away something not likely to be asked for, eh?”

“Yes,” said the butler, shaking his head sagely; “but what is there? We may have a dinner-party any day, and everything have to be shown.”

“Must be lots of things in the vault.”

“Course there is.”

“I say, ain’t it rum that they don’t send the things to their bankers?”

“Not a bit, when they’ve got a strong closet of their own, Orthur, my boy. I heard ’em talking about it one day at dinner, and Jemmy said something about their old bank breaking, and a lot of the family plate and jewels being lost. The rogues had been hard up for long enough and sold it.”

“Ah! there’s a sight o’ rogues in the world,” said Arthur, quietly.

“We’ve got some capital now.”

“Yes, but let’s think of a rainy day. Now, look here, there must be no end of things in the vault as they’re never like to ask for.”

“No end,” said the butler.

“Never been in it?”

“Never.”

“Well, couldn’t we have a look in, and pick out something small and handy?—say jools. They do lock them there when they go down to The Towers. I do know that.”

“Yes, my lad, they do; and I believe there’s a lot of old gold, family plate and diamonds as they never do want.”

“That’s the stuff for us—in case we want it, of course. Don’t hurt them to borrow it, and it finds us the capital to do us good.”

“Yes, but how are we to get at it?”

“Keys.”

“Where are they kept?”

“Oh, we could soon find out that.”

“Well, I can’t. I’ve been on the look-out this two years, and I believe Jemmy keeps ’em somewhere, but I never could find out where.”

“Then you had thought of that plan, old man?”

“Of course I had. Where you ain’t trusted it sets you thinking. They’re well-bred, but somehow the Clareboroughs ain’t real gentlemen. They trust me with some of the plate, and I’m supposed to be butler, but what about the wine? Do they ever let me have the key of the cellar?”

“No, that’s Bob’s job,” said the footman, thoughtfully.

“Yes, and a couple of paltry dozen at a time. How am I to know if the wine’s keeping sound or not? But there are ways, Orthur,” continued Roach, with a wink, and he rose slowly, went to a chest of drawers, unlocked it, took out a box, unlocked that, and drew forth a couple of new-looking keys.

“Hullo!” said the footman in a whisper; “cellar?”

“That one is,” replied the butler, as his companion turned over the big bright key he had taken up.

“Good. And what’s this?”

“One I got made to try the vault.”

“Phe-ew!” whistled Arthur, excitedly. “Then you have been in?”

“No, my lad; that only opens the wooden door at the end of the passage. Then you’re in a bit of a lobby, with a big iron door on one side.”

“Well, didn’t you get a key made for that?”

“No, my lad. I couldn’t. It’s a rum one. I don’t believe you could get one made by anybody but them as sold the safe.”

“Don’t believe it,” cried the footman, contemptuously, “Let me have a look.”

“Nay, nay, you’d better not.”

“Gammon. Where’s the old woman?”

“In her room, up atop.”

“Who’s in the kitchen?”

“Only the scullery-maid. T’others are all gone out.”

“Then let’s go and have a look,” cried Arthur. “I want to be a man. I’m sick of being a mouse.”

The butler seemed disposed to sit still, but the energy of his young companion stirred him to action, and he placed the keys in his pocket and stood hesitating.

“Go and see first what that gal’s doing,” he whispered, “while I make sure the old woman’s up in her room.”

The footman nodded, and both went their ways, to meet again with a nod indicating that all was right, and then the butler led on along one of the passages of the extensive basement to where another struck off at right angles, ending in an ordinary stout oak-grained door. This readily yielded to the key the butler brought, and after lighting a bit of candle the pair stepped into a little stone-walled room of about ten feet square, with a closely-fitting drab-painted door on their right, standing flush with the iron frame which filled up the centre.

“That’s a tight one, Orthur, lad,” said the butler.

“Yes, to them as has no key,” said the footman, quietly, after going down on one knee and examining the key-hole by holding the loose cover on one side. “I’m a-going to have a key to fit that lock, old man, afore long.”

“You are, my boy?”

“I am, guv’nor. You and I’s got together and we’ve got to stick together and make our fortunes. There’s horses and carriages and plate chests and cellars o’ wine for them as likes to be enterprising, and we’re enterprising now.”

“But we mustn’t do anything shady, Orthur.”

“Shady, guv’nor!” cried the footman, contemptuously; “not us. It’s to be sunshiny. Don’t you be afraid o’ that. We sha’n’t do nothing to make us afraid to look a bobby in the face. Only a bit of speckylation—a bit o’ borrowing now and then to raise the wind, and paying of it back. Give us your hand on it, old man. We sticks together through thick and thin.”

There were vinous tears in the butler’s eyes as he extended his plump white hand to be grasped hard, and the two speculators looked each in the other’s face, seeing a gilded future before them, the glare of which hid everything else.

“That’ll do for the present, guv’nor,” said Arthur.

He drew open the door, and was about to pass out, when a short cough came echoing along the passage, and he pushed the door close again.

“Hist!” he whispered, as he blew out the light; “the old woman’s coming down.”

“Quick! take out the key, and lock it from inside,” whispered the butler. “She’s always coming along here to see if this place is all right and try the door.”

The footman obeyed, making a faint rattle with the key, after which he closed the door, leaving them in darkness.

“Have you locked it?”

“No, there ain’t no key-hole on this side. Hist! she’s coming straight here.”

The next moment the footman’s shoulder was placed against the door to keep it fast.

The men stood holding their breath and feeling the perspiration gather upon their faces like a heavy dew, as they waited, hearing nothing now but the throbbing of their own hearts for what seemed to be an interminable time, before there came the sound as of something soft being dabbed against the door, followed by a sudden heavy push which, in spite of his strength, sent a jarring thrill through every nerve of the footman’s body.

Chapter Twenty One.

Going Shares.

Mr Roach confessed to being an admirer of the fair sex; and consequent upon his position, not from any special attraction of mind or person, the butler’s advances were in more than one instance favourably received; but he also confessed, in the strictest personal confidence, to a feeling of jealousy against Arthur.

“He’s big, and he’s not bad-looking, but he’s very weak and young, and there’s a want of manly tone about him. I can’t see why they should make so much fuss over the fellow.”

“They” embraced the lady members of the Clareborough household staff; and in spite of what the butler might say, Arthur was distinctly high in favour and enjoyed his popularity.

There were reasons, of course, more than the great display of affability, and one day Mr Roach took his fellow-servant seriously to task.

“Look here, Orthur, my lad,” he said confidentially; “you’re having a fine old time of it just now, but recollect this: the sex is soft, and smooth, and pleasant, and as you may say sweet, but don’t you make a mistake and think that girls are fools.”

“I don’t,” said Arthur, complacently—“Old boy’s a bit jealous,” he added to himself.

“Then don’t act as if you did. They’re sharp enough, and before long they’ll begin talking. One of ’em ’ll be jealous of you taking out another, and then out’ll come the claw from the soft paws, and there’ll be a row.”

“Well, they must settle it among themselves if there is.”

“But don’t you see that the disappointed one that you’ve made an enemy ’ll begin to talk nasty-like and she’ll know what your wages are.”

“Eh?”

“That’s it, my boy; she’ll be wanting to know how you can be treating some of ’em to music-halls, and paying for cabs and railway fares, and supper afterwards, on five pound a quarter.”

“Dash it!” cried Arthur.

“Yes, that’s it, my lad. You and me’s doing very nicely just now; don’t spoil a good thing. See what I mean?”

“Yes, I see what you mean, old chap,” said Arthur, who had suddenly become sobered.

“That’s right. You see, you gave Maria Blay a gold watch.”

“Only a second-’and ’un, and I bought the pawn-ticket cheap.”

“Maybe, but there’s a big sound about a gold watch. Then you gave cook a brooch, and Betsy Dellow a gold ring, and it ain’t wise, my lad, it ain’t wise. We’re on the road to fortune, so don’t you get looking back for the sake of a bit of nonsense, or you and me may have to part. Don’t do foolish things.”

“No, Mr Roach, I won’t, sir. I’m very sorry, and I’ll be a bit more careful.”

“That’s right, Orthur,” said the butler, importantly. “I shouldn’t like for anything to come between us two.”

“Of course not, sir. It wouldn’t do,” cried the footman, eagerly.

“Got anything new?”

“Well, no, Mr Roach, sir. I haven’t seen the chance of a tip lately.”

The butler smiled triumphantly.

“You don’t mean to say you have, sir?”

“But I do, Orthur,” he replied in a hoarse whisper. “It isn’t Mr Rob’s or Mr Paddy’s this time, but a put-up thing of the guv’nor’s.”

Arthur whistled in his excitement.

“It means a big stroke, Orthur. I’ve got the tip, and if you and me’s got the pluck to do it we’re made men.”

“Oh, we’ve got the pluck,” said the footman, huskily. “What’s the ’orse?”

“Not a horse at all, my lad. It’s a company. They’re working it to rights, and I’ve found out all about it, Orthur. I’ve seen the letters. They’re going to blow the thing up full of wind, and buy up all the shares they can. Then when the thing’s at the height, they sell, and make thousands.”

“Phew!” whistled the footman.

“S’pose we make a couple o’ thou, a-piece; that’s better than backing horses.”

“Yes; but could we?”

“Don’t they, my lad? Isn’t all this place run that way? Why shouldn’t we do it as well as them? They ain’t so precious clever after all.”

“Not as I see,” said the younger man, contemptuously.

“Then what do you say? Shall we venture?”

“I’m on,” said Arthur, eagerly. “How much does it want?”

“Two hundred a-piece. How much have you got?”

The footman gave him a curious look, and then said drily—

“Nothing at all.”

“Why, you don’t mean to say you’ve spent all we’ve made, Arthur?”

“Every penny. Haven’t you?”

The butler was silent, and frowned; but his companion followed up his question.

“Well, why don’t you answer a fellow?”

“I haven’t exactly spent it, Orthur,” said the butler at last, coughing to clear his voice.

“Well, what have you done with it?”

“’Orses.”

“Without saying a word to me?”

“Well, I didn’t know I was bound to tell you everything, Orthur.”

“Well, I did; and it serves you right. If you’d gone by my advice and taken my tips you’d ha’ won.”

“Yes, it was a mistake,” said the butler, humbly. “I was tempted to have just one little flutter on my own account, Orthur.”

“Well, don’t you do it again. That’s worse than giving the gals presents, old man. Then I suppose it will have to be your uncle again?”

“Yes, Orthur; but it’s a pity we couldn’t manage about a key for that door.”

“Ah! it is; but it ain’t to be done, only with a big hammer and wedges, I’m afraid. I’m trying still, though, to get a key made, and it may turn up trumps. Never mind; raise something on what you can take.”

“But it won’t be enough, my boy.”

“Never mind; let’s do what we can. A little’s more than none. Half a loaf’s better than no bread, old man.”

“Very well, my boy; I’ll take what I can to-night.”

“I say, you’re sure this’ll turn out all right?”

“Certain. It’s as safe as safe. I’ll make him let me have a little more—put something else up—and then we’ll take all the shares we can get.”

“And about selling out at the right time?”

“You leave that to me,” said the butler, smiling confidently. “Look here.”

He took out a letter and held it to his companion, who read it with his face lighting up, and clapped it back in the butler’s hands.

“That’s right, isn’t it?” said Roach.

“Splendid, old man. But stop; why, that’s your writing.”

“Of course it is; I copied it.”

“Oh, I see. Well, then, that’s all right. Go on ahead.”

“But I wish it wasn’t that centre-piece again. I’m always afraid of its being wanted.”

“Oh, it won’t be wanted,” said the footman, impatiently.

“If you could only have managed about that key.”

“Well, give me time. I say, that was a narrow squeak, when the old woman nearly caught us.”

“Yes, it was horrible,” said the butler, wiping his forehead. “Fancy her telling Jemmy, and him sending for us to come up in the lib’ry afore the lot of them!”

“Easy enough for him to send,” said the footman, with a grin, “but it would have taken a lot of pulling to get us there.”

“Yes, Orthur, my boy, the game would have been up.”

“And before we’d made our pile, old man. There, you want a glass of wine to pull you together. You mustn’t go and see our dear old relative looking like that.”

“No,” said Roach, brightening up; “that would not do, Orthur. The old woman did not find us out.”

“I held the door too fast for her, and a miss is as good as a mile, eh, guv’nor? I say, old man, don’t you think we might wet it?”

The butler smiled blandly.

“Well, just one glass wouldn’t be amiss, my boy. What shall it be?”

“Can’t beat a glass o’ port, old man. What do you say?”

“I say ditto, my dear boy,” and the butler, smiling, drew out his keys, unlocked a cupboard, lifted out a cobwebby bottle with a dab of whitewash on its end, and with a great deal of ceremony drew the cork, while Arthur fetched and gave a finishing touch to a couple of glasses as the cork was presented to him.

But it was only to smell, and Arthur inhaled the fragrance and sighed. Then the rich wine came gurgling out into the glasses, and these latter were raised.

“Well, old man, here’s success to speculation,” said Arthur.

“Suck-cess to speculation,” said the butler, and the glasses were slowly drained. Lips were smacked and the glasses refilled. “A very fine wine, Orthur.”

“Tip-top. How much is there of it?”

“Over six hundred dozen, my lad.”

“Well, we’ll help ’em drink it, old man. It’s fine. Sets a fellow thinking. Now, look here. We’re not going to stand still, eh?”

“Not a bit of it, dear boy. We’ll make our hay while the sun shines.”

“Ah, yes,” said the butler, filling another glass of the port; “and some people shoot a long time before folks get hit, eh, Orthur?”

“That’s so, guv’nor; you’ve only to keep going, and the chances are that they can’t hit you at all.”

The result of the emptying of that bottle of wine was that the gold epergne and several other pieces of plate went into the charge of the none too particular descendant of the Medici, a gentleman who, having been exceedingly unfortunate in carrying on what he called a square trade, had of late gone in for the risky and round, with the result that he was making money fast, and calming his conscience by chuckling to himself and saying—

“What harm is there, so long as you’re not found out?”

That evening Mr Roach returned with a sufficient amount to dip slightly into the new speculation in which the Clareboroughs were engaged, but he did not sleep any better for that. He dreamed about brokers who dealt in stock, and by a steady descent of thought he went on to brokers who put executions into houses. They suggested debtors’ prisons—debtors’ prisons brought up Holloway, and Holloway the criminal side—the criminal side, penal Portland, with irons, and costumes ornamented with broad arrows, shortcut hair, chain-gangs, and an awakening in a violent perspiration.

Mr Roach had no appetite next morning, but on behalf of footman Arthur and himself, a couple of hundred pounds were invested in the shares of the gaseous company which had nothing whatever to do with gas.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Man Masters.

“At last!” muttered Chester, as he stood, pale and careworn, leaning upon the iron rail in the Row, watching the carriages slowly filing by, or stopping from time to time.

For after days and days of watching, he was once more about to give up in despair and venture, in spite of all rebuffs, upon another call at the house, when in the distance he caught sight of the Clareborough’s light victoria approaching, and to his great delight he found that it only contained one occupant.

He hesitated for a few moments as to what he should do—wait, or advance to meet it, and decided now upon a bold attack, for every nerve was on the strain.

“I will not be put off this time,” he said to himself. “She shall acknowledge me.”

As he approached his heart began to beat fast and he gazed upon the elegantly-dressed figure leaning carelessly back with her face shaded by the tinted parasol she held, and, as yet unobserved, Chester saw that she looked pale, troubled and weary, her half-closed eyes dreamy and thoughtful.

Fate favoured him, for there was a block somewhere ahead, and the horses were stopped only a few yards away.

He passed under the rail, walked up quickly, still unobserved, till his hand was upon the carriage door.

“Marion!” he whispered.

She gave a violent start, the blood suffused her cheeks, and then fled, leaving her deadly pale, as she gazed at him with dilating eyes.

“I beg your pardon,” she said coldly, “you addressed me?”

“Yes,” he said in a low voice which trembled a little from the excess of his emotion, “but we are alone now, Marion. For pity’s sake let there be an end to this.”

“Ah, I remember,” she said in her low, musical tones, “you are the strange gentleman who addressed me before. You are repeating your mistake, sir.”

“Indeed!” he said reproachfully, as he fixed her eyes with his. “Do you think I could ever be mistaken?”

She bowed slightly and drew a little back, glancing hurriedly at the driver, and then looking ahead as if eager for the carriage to proceed.

“How can you be so cruel?” he whispered. “Marion, you are maddening me!”

He saw her wince, but with wonderful self-command she sat rigid as she said slowly—

“I beg, sir, that there may be an end of this. Can you not see that you are making a mistake, and are insulting an unprotected woman?”

She looked him fully in the eyes now with a calm air of wonderment, and for the moment he was in doubt.

But the next moment his heart said no, and his pulses increased their beat. No accidental resemblance could have produced that effect upon him. He knew that there was something which he could not explain—a strange vitality or occult force which bound him to her, and, though his eyes might have erred, his nature could have made no such blunder, and he was eager to continue the attack now the opportunity was there.

“Mistaken?” he said in a low, impassioned tone; “how could I be mistaken? From the first moment you came to me, your looks, the tones of your voice in your appeal to me for help, awoke something which till then had slumbered within me. I had lived in ignorance of the reality of such a passion, one which has gone on growing like a torrent ever since. It has swept all before it since the hour I knew that I had found my fate.”

“My good sir,” she said firmly and gently; “indeed you are taking me for someone else.”

He smiled as he gazed at her intently.

“For whom?” he said.

“I cannot say; some friend. It is an accidental resemblance, and once more—I appeal to you as a gentleman to cease this persecution.”

He shook his head sadly.

“Accidental resemblance? No. There is but one Marion on earth. No woman ever resembled you in any way. This is impossible. Marion, be merciful. After the night on which I saw you last, what must you think of me? Of what manner of man could I be if, after striving so hard to gain an interview like this, I could let you throw me over in so cruel a way? Marion, for pity’s sake. There must be stronger reasons than I already know of to make you act like this.”

She glanced round wildly for a moment or two, as if in dread that they were being observed and his words were taking the attention of the people around, then up at the coachman, but he sat erect and stolid, too well schooled in his duties to have a thought or eyes for anything but the beautiful pair of horses under his charge. Then, as she realised the fact that they were perfectly unobserved by the busy throng around, she recovered her passing composure, and said quite calmly, and with a suggestion of pity in her tone for one who seemed to her to be suffering from some slight mental aberration—

“Can you not see that you are mistaken?”

“No,” he said, smiling sadly; “only that it is impossible.”

There was a faint quiver of the lips, but it passed off, and her beautiful eyes flashed, and the colour rose in her cheeks, as she made a strong effort to be firm. Then there was a touch of anger in her voice as she said coldly—

“Must I appeal to someone passing, sir, or to one of the police?”

Her words stung him to the quick, “No,” he whispered huskily; “there is no need. If you are made of steel and can act to me like this, I must suffer; but do not insult me by treating me as if I were insane. I could bear it from your brother; not from you, Miss Clareborough.”

She winced slightly at the utterance of her name, and he fancied that there was the light of compassion for one brief moment in her eyes.

His own face hardened now in the bitterness and despair of the moment as he took out his pocket-book, and in spite of her self-command she watched his action narrowly as he drew out the carefully-folded handkerchief stained with blood.

“I saved this inadvertently,” he continued. “Yours; marked with your initials.”

He looked her full in the eyes as he spoke, bitterly now.

“When I found it where I had hurriedly thrust it into my pocket that night, it seemed to offer itself as an excellent clue for the police to track out the mystery of the house to which I was taken.”

She leaned forward quickly and caught at the handkerchief to cover it with her hand, while he still retained his hold.

“For God’s sake, no!” she whispered, and her face convulsed with fear. “Don’t do that—the police!”

The stained scrap of cambric formed a bond between them as he gazed deeply in her eyes now, while a faint smile dawned upon his lip.

“I checked the thought at once,” he said softly. “I told myself that such an act might hurt you—might give you pain; and I set to and tried to track you without, all through the months of agony and dread for what you might have to fear from him. Take it, to destroy or save, as you will. It is yours; but do not do me the injustice to think I would retain it to hold over you in terrorem. Marion, I love you too well.”

He breathed these words in the faintest tones, but he could read that they fell heavily upon her ears, for in spite of her rigid position he saw that her eyes looked wildly and imploringly into his.

“For Heaven’s sake be silent!” she whispered faintly.

“I am your slave,” he said softly. “Take the handkerchief.”

“No, no; I trust you,” she whispered back. “I will not try to dissimulate any longer. It is impossible; but you must never speak to me again—never recognise me. I cannot explain—I am not my own mistress. It would injure others. Be merciful to me, for I have suffered deeply. Think of all that has passed as some dream. I cannot—must never see you more.”

The carriage began to move on, but he walked by the side as she continued—

“Spare me—spare those I love. I ask it of you. Now, farewell for ever, for your own sake—for mine.”

“No,” he said softly, as he walked on, unnoticed by the many they passed, for it was a commonplace thing enough to see a gentleman by a carriage door talking to its occupant. “No. You have made me more happy then I can express. The dense black cloud that has been over my life has passed away, for I know now that you have been wearing this mask for the sake of others whom you wish to spare. But you have let me see behind it; just one glimpse, but enough to show me the true nature of the woman I love.”

“Oh, hush!” she whispered. “Believe me, that is impossible. Now leave me, pray.”

“Nothing is impossible to a man who loves as I love you,” he whispered.

“No, no; once more, I tell you that we must never meet again.”

“And I tell you,” he whispered back, “that you are part of my life, and that while my heart beats I will never give you up. Marion, we must meet again sooner or later; I live for nothing else. Your hand one moment.”

“No, no!” she moaned.

“Your hand—life of my life,” he whispered softly; and as she gazed at him wildly, her hand, as if drawn by the magnetism of his nature, glided slowly into his, and was clasped in his nervous grasp.

“I am going to wait.”

“No,” she said more firmly. “This for the last time. They would kill me—they would kill you.”

“No,” he said. “An hour ago I would have welcomed death; now life opens before me in its fullest sunshine of joy. They shall not kill you; they shall not kill me, for I know you love me and have suffered, and it has made me strong.”

“Impossible, impossible,” she whispered, with her eyes fixed upon his.

Then he loosed his hold of her gloved hand, dropping back and raising his hat as the carriage rolled on.

He stood and watched it for a few minutes till it had passed out of sight, and then drawing himself up, feeling that a breach of invigorating life had run through his being, he turned to walk back across the path, and found himself nearly confronting the man who had occupied so much of his waking thoughts, and whose eyes now seemed to flash as they gazed fiercely in his.

“Well,” said Chester to himself, as he set his teeth hard, “I am ready for the worst. Am I to learn the mystery of the big house now?” And he took a step forward to meet the man he felt to be the great enemy of both their lives.

Chapter Twenty Three.

The Game is up.

To Chester’s surprise James Clareborough’s face hardened and grew stony as they approached, and the next moment he had passed him without a word or the slightest sign of recognition, and when, stung by jealous solicitude for the woman he loved, Chester turned and followed, he saw his enemy take another direction to that in which Marion was being driven.

Then days passed—then weeks; and in spite of constant watchfulness Chester could not get a glimpse of her who filled his thoughts. The reason was patent—the family had left town, and he had once more to track them out. But this was easy, and in a day or two he was down at the nearest spot where he could unobserved obtain lodgings, ostensibly trout fishing the stream that meandered by The Towers, the Clareboroughs’ Kentish estate.

Still he could not obtain a second interview. He knew, though, that which filled him with exultation and patience to wait—he was loved.

There were troubles at The Towers in the lower stratum, all connected with speculation; and, though money was worthless in these days in Chester’s eyes, the speculation affected his fate.

It was in this wise:—

Roach looked puffy, and especially so beneath the eyes, where a couple of pendulous bags disfigured his important-looking countenance.

Unkind people would have said that the flushed aspect was due to drinking, but he was perfectly steady as he got out of a hansom cab, in company with Arthur, after a short run up to town, where they had arrived by a fast train that afternoon, and taking the two small, light portmanteaus which the driver handed down, each threw his overcoat across his arm, and they walked together round the corner into Highcombe Street, made for the Clareboroughs’ town house, tried the area gate, which, as they expected, was locked, and went up the steps to the front door.

“How do you feel, Arthur?” whispered Roach.

“Right as the mail, old man. Now then, no gammon. You keep your pecker up, and do the talking, and I’ll do the business. There’s nothing to mind.”

“Nothing to mind?” said Roach, as he raised his hand towards the servants’ bell, but did not ring.

“Only the handcuffs if we don’t do what we want and clear off.”

Roach groaned.

“Don’t be a fool, old man,” whispered the footman. “As I told you, we must do it now. The game’s up, and you know what Jemmy is. There’ll be no mercy, so let’s make our hay while the sun shines. Pull the bell.”

With trembling hand Roach rang the servants’ bell, and then drew a deep breath.

“That’s right, old man, pull yourself together. Think it’s going to be a lark, and after it a fortune for us both.”

“Yes, I’m going to be firm now,” growled Roach, hoarsely. “It’s our only chance, Orthur, so stand by me.”

“Like an iron post, old man. That’s the way, jolly’s the style. Here she comes.”

They caught a glimpse of the housekeeper at the side window, and directly after the door was open.

“Good-morning, ma’am,” began the butler.

“Good-morning, Mrs Barron, ma’am,” said Arthur.

She looked sternly from one to the other, without making way for them to enter.

“Why are you two men up in town?” she said harshly.

“Well, the fact is, ma’am, I had a little bit o’ business to do about my savings in the sweet threes, and as the gentlemen were all in Paris, and the ladies were not expecting any company, I made so bold as to ask Mrs James Clareborough to spare me till to-morrow night and let Orthur come with me, for I don’t like going through money matters without a witness.”

“Oh,” said the housekeeper, speaking with her lips very close together, but without drawing back. “Then why have you both come here? This is not a broker’s.”

“No, ma’am, of course not,” said Arthur, with a little laugh.

“I was not speaking to you, sir,” said the housekeeper, turning upon him suddenly. “Have the goodness to keep your place.”

“Certainly, ma’am. Beg pardon, ma’am.”

“Now, Mr Roach; what do you want here?”

“Want here, ma’am?” stammered the butler; “want here? Why, I can’t go to my broker without my warrants.”

The housekeeper’s pale face looked more pinched than ever as she gazed searchingly at the other, who looked completely taken aback; and then she darted a sharp glance at Arthur, who evidently expected it and did not look, but busied himself in bringing a little bit of vanity well into sight, the said piece of vanity taking the shape of a couple of bronze fox-head cuff studs, which he drew beyond the sleeves of his coat.

“You can go down into your pantry and get what you require,” said the housekeeper, coldly, and she made way for the butler to enter. Arthur was about to follow. “No,” she said sharply, “you can wait.”

“Wait—here, ma’am?”

“Yes,” said the housekeeper, decisively, and she made as if to shut the door. “Or, no; you can sit down inside.”

Arthur brightened up, and stepped in jauntily, the housekeeper closing the door.

“You need not take your portmanteau down with you, Roach.”

“No, ma’am, of course not,” said the butler, respectfully.

“Here, I’ll mind that, Mr Roach, sir,” said the footman, stepping forward to take the valise, after standing his own on end.

The butler was a few steps in the hall, the housekeeper between them, and a little on Arthur’s right, as he took a step forward, taking his overcoat from his arm and shaking it out the while, as if about to double it afresh. Then, quick as thought, he stepped aside, threw it over the woman’s head, and twisted it together. “Now, old man; her legs, sharp!”

Roach stood for a moment as if bewildered. Then at an oath from his companion, he stepped forward, threw his arms round the struggling woman’s legs, lifted her up, and in spite of her smothered cries bore her right to the end of the passage.

“Down with her; pantry,” said the footman, sharply, and they carried her quickly down the basement to the butler’s pantry, where they laid her on the table.

“Fetch the trunks, old man,” said Arthur, loudly. “I can manage. Quiet, you old cat, or I’ll choke you!”

He tightened the coat with a couple, of twists as he spoke, but the faint cry continued.

“Bah! let her squeak; she might howl for a month, and no one could hear.”

This, for the butler looked unnerved. He went up directly, though, and as soon as he was gone Arthur put his face to the coat, close to the old lady’s ear.

“You just listen,” he said. “You’ve had your innings, and led me a pretty devil of a life with your nasty ways. It’s my turn now. Quiet, curse you! Stop that row, or as sure as you’re a living woman now, you’ll want a coffin to-morrow.”

“What—what is it you want. Money?” came faintly.

“Never you mind what we want, old girl. There, you needn’t kick and struggle; we don’t want to carry you off and marry you by force, so lie still. Ah, that’s right; look sharp. My Gladstone, not yours. Get out the rope.”

The butler, whose face was now mottled with white patches, opened one of the portmanteaus and took out a cord.

“Now come here and lay hold. If she begins to squeal again, tighten your grip a bit.”

But the woman lay perfectly still now, and she did not even wince when the footman twisted the rope tightly round her ankles and knotted it fast.

“Now then, over on her face, guv’nor. I must have these wrists tied behind, or she may begin to scratch.”

The helpless woman was turned over, her wrists firmly secured, and she was then laid on her side and the coat taken off, to reveal her wide, staring eyes, and teeth set, with the lips drawn right away.

“You’ve killed her, my boy,” whispered the butler in a hoarse voice.

“Bah! Old cats like that have got nine lives,” said the man, contemptuously. “Here, give me a clean glass cloth, and I’ll shove a gag in her mouth.”

“No, no. She’s bad enough as it is,” whispered the butler. “Let her be.”

The footman looked at the old housekeeper dubiously, and then unwillingly gave up his project.

“Shall we put her in the plate-closet? I have the key.”

Arthur laughed.

“Why, that would smother her in half an hour. No; help me to lay her down on the hearth-rug. We can come and look at her now and then. But she won’t move. We’ve pretty well frightened her to death.”

Judging from appearances, this was the case, and after laying the unfortunate woman on the hearth-rug, they took portmanteaus and coats and hurried out into the main passage, then into that which went off at right angles, to stop in front of the lobby door.

Chapter Twenty Four.

And Grows Dangerous.

The key the men possessed admitted them at once and the other portmanteau was opened, ready for use—a use which soon became plain.

“Think it’ll be all right this time?” said Roach, who was in an intense state of excitement.

“Dunno till I try,” was the reply. “Light up and look sharp.”

Roach turned to the second portmanteau, which stood inside the door, and took out a dark lantern. Then striking a match, he lit it, and in obedience to a word from his young companion, he held up the cover of the iron door key-hole with one hand, and directed the full glare of the bull’s-eye on the opening with the other.

Arthur had not been idle. Hastily doubling his overcoat, he made of it a pad to kneel upon, and then taking a bright new key from out of a piece of tissue paper, he began to try if it would fit.

“All right,” he whispered, “it goes splendidly.”

“Well done,” panted Roach. “But be quick.”

“Quick be blowed! Don’t you be so jolly nervous; there’s no one to interrupt us now.”

“Well, turn the key.”

“Won’t turn—sticks. Oil.”

Roach handed a little oil tin from the portmanteau, the key was withdrawn and lubricated and once more thrust in, to evidently act upon a part of the mechanism of the great lock, but that was all.

“Bah!” ejaculated Arthur. “I know the beggar. It’s one of that sort you see at the safe shops. When you turn the key you shoot bolts, top, bottom and both sides. It nearly does. He made it quite to the wax pattern, and it only wants a touch or two. Here, give us the file.”

“Stop a minute.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I want to see if old Mrs Barron’s safe.”

“Look alive then. No, no; give me the file first.”

The tool was handed and the active young fellow held the key close to the light and began filing away where it seemed to him the wards of the key wanted opening; and he was still busy when Roach returned. “She’s all right,” he panted, his breath coming short as if he had been running.

“Oh yes, she won’t get clear of those knots—an old cat!—I know. You take it easy, old man; we’re as safe as safe.”

“But suppose the guv’nors come back from Paris, my dear boy?”

“Won’t be back for a fortnight. You know as well as I do. Lor’ ’a’ mussy! on’y think of our taking up a game like this, old man!”

“It’s awful—it’s awful, Orthur.”

“Yah! we can’t help it. How were we to know that everything we backed would go wrong and leave us in such a hole?” said Arthur, as he filed away.

“But it seems like burglary,” whispered the butler.

“Burglary be blowed! Look here, if you’re going to whine I shall cut it, and my stick too, and you may face it out with the guv’nors. What are you going to say when they ask after that gold centre-piece, and the rest of the plate you’ve lent my uncle?”

“We’ve lent my uncle!” said the butler, reproachfully.

“Oh, well, we then. I’m ready to take my share. It was their fault, and we’re driven to this to get money to take out all you’ve pledged.”

“We’ve pledged.”

“We be hanged! You did the pledging, but I don’t want to back out of it. I’m going to stand by you. Only, you see, circumstances are against us, old man. We meant to come quietly and get enough out of here to square us and make us able to make a fresh start on our own hook—I’m sick of their tips—but as soon as we come to do it quietly, meaning to sleep here for the night, that old cat cuts up rough, and we have to quiet her. Consequence is, old man, we’ve got to go the whole thing and make ourselves rich men all at once. Don’t matter. Just as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, so I mean to make it two sheep if I can—two sheep a-piece, old chap. There, that ought to do it now.”

He ceased filing and applied the key again, to find that he could turn it a little more.

“Almost,” he said. “Oil again.”

But the fresh oil sent it no farther, and the butler wiped his dripping brow and ejaculated—

“Tut-tut-tut-tut!”

“Look here, old chap, if you can do it better come and try yourself,” cried Arthur in an ill-used tone.

“No, no, my dear boy, I can’t. You are cleverer at such things than I am, but it’s such fidgeting work to stand here holding the light and doing nothing.”

“Never mind, it’s worth it,” said Arthur, laughing. “Think of the pearls and diamonds in here, old fellow. Now for another try. We shall be as rich as Rothschilds when we’ve done, and across the water before they can put a hand upon us. Bah! Blister the key! It’s as near as near. But I’ll do it, if I try till to-morrow morning. Here, go and see how the old girl’s getting on. Got your keys?”

“Yes, my boy, but they are no good for this.”

“Pah! who said they were? They’re good for a bottle of wine, though, ain’t they?”

“Oh yes—yes!”

“Then bring one with the cork out, and never mind a glass; and don’t stop to decant it, old chap, for I want a drink horrid bad. This is warm work.”

The butler went away on tip-toe. As he walked along the passage he heard the sharp grating of the file, and shivered with dread. But upon reaching the pantry he felt relieved, for the housekeeper seemed to be asleep.

Not content with this, Roach went up to the hall and listened. But all was perfectly still in the great solemn mansion, and he went down again, to be conscious of the scrap, scrap of the file, before he reached the pantry, where the old lady still lay unmoved.

Hastily getting a bottle of wine from the cupboard, and uncorking it, he went back, to find Arthur still filing away.

“Oh, there you are then,” he grumbled. “I was just a-coming to see if you were finishing the bottle all to your own cheek. Here, give us hold.”

He took a deep draught, and recommenced filing with renewed vigour for some minutes.

“Now,” he said, “this is the last time of trying. If it won’t do it we must do the other thing.”

He tried the key, and it turned half-way, but it was forced upon them that there was something wanting. The key did not touch some portion of the ingeniously-made lock, and the young man thrust it in his pocket.

“Better have tried the hammering at first,” he said.

“No, no! The noise,” cried Roach.

“Bah! Who’s going to take any notice of a bit of knocking?” said the young man, contemptuously. “The sound can’t reach them there.”

“But suppose a policeman heard it as he passed?”

“Well, he’d hear it and say to himself, ‘They’ve got the workpeople in.’”

“But—”

“Oh, blow your buts, old man! Did the police come to see what was the matter when the men took out the kitchener and put in a new one?”

“No, but—”

“But you’re in a stew. That’s what’s the matter. Give us hold. Thinnest wedge, and the hammer, and you hold the light. That piece of leather will stop the sound.”

The butler sighed, but obeyed his companion, handing him a steel wedge with an edge as fine as the blade of a knife. Then he held the light close while his companion gently tapped it in between the door and frame.

Another followed, and another—quite a dozen, of increasing sizes, having been brought; and the leather-covered hammer deadened the sound greatly, while the crack grew larger, and it seemed pretty certain that the steel wedges would sooner or later force open the door.

“See this?” said the operator, triumphantly.

“Oh yes, I see, but I’m in a bath o’ perspiration.”

“With doing nothing but hold a candle!” said Arthur, with a chuckle, as he drove in another wedge as far as it would go and released two more thinner ones. “Now I’m going to have a moment’s rest and a drink while you go and see how dear old Mrs Barron is. Whistle if you want help.”

The butler went off, and the young man drank and examined the progress he had made, and he was still examining so as to find where he could drive in the next wedge with the most effect when the butler came back.

“She hasn’t stirred,” he said.

“She can’t,” said his companion, with a laugh, and he began tapping again vigorously, but at the end of half a dozen strokes, as his hammer was poised to deliver another, there was a dull clang, and the young fellow leaped back.

“Hear that?” he said in a whisper full of triumph.

“Yes, it was like the banging to of another iron door.”

“Banging to of an iron grandmother!” cried Arthur, contemptuously; “it’s the whole front splitting away, and another wedge in will fetch it right off.”

“I hope so,” said Roach, piteously. “Do you think it will take much longer?”

“I don’t care if it takes two days,” said the other, coolly. “Don’t matter so long as we get the door open.”

Roach sighed.

“There, hold the light, and don’t do that. You are a cheerful mate, ’pon my sivvy. Here goes.”

The speaker began again, keeping a sharp lookout, so as to spring back and not be crushed by the falling door; and to this end he made Roach stand in the entrance and direct the light from there, giving him plenty of room. But the door did not fall, and at the end of an hour the hammer was thrown down.

“It’s no go.”

“Do you give it up?” cried Roach, eagerly.

“No, I don’t give it up, but I’m not going to work all the flesh off my bones when one stroke will do the work.”

“What! The powder?”

“That’s it, old chap. Go and see how the old woman is.”

Roach sighed, and went away, to return shivering.

“She looks horrible,” he whispered; “but you mustn’t think of powder, my lad. You’ll bring the people in from both sides to see what’s the matter.”

“Won’t make noise enough for that, and I sha’n’t use enough,” said Arthur, coolly. “Don’t talk. That door’s got to come open, and I wish I’d tried this plan at first.”

“But it’s too dangerous.”

“No, it isn’t. You keep quiet, and make that light shine well on the key-hole.”

As he spoke the young man took a pound canister of fine gun-powder from the portmanteau pushing the latter afterwards outside into the passage. Then with a small funnel, also provided in the portmanteau, and fitted with a curved piece of pipe, to fill the interior of the lock with the fine black dust, which ran away down the funnel and pipe as easily as sand from one side to another of an hour-glass.

“This is the way,” said Arthur, eagerly. “I shall get pretty well half a pound in.”

It seemed quite probable, for the powder ran trickling on, every stoppage being overcome by a shake or a tap or two, till at last, no matter how the door was rapped, no more would go down.

“Doesn’t matter; there’s plenty,” said the young man, quietly, thrusting in a piece of ready prepared slow match, which hung down the front of the door and half a yard over the floor, where the powder sprinkled about was carefully dusted away.

Then by means of a wedge some scraps of rag were driven in tightly to fill up the key-hole, and the young man rose up.

“There we are, old chap,” he said. “All we’ve got to do is to open the lantern, touch the end of that slow match in the light, let it go down—stop a minute, let’s blow away a little more of the powder—then there’ll be plenty of time to shut and lock the door, wait for the blow-out of the lock, and go in after and pick up the best pieces, fill our Gladstones as we like and be off.”

He went down on his knees, and, trembling violently, Roach held up the lantern, as he stood quiet outside now.

“Here! How am I to see?” cried his companion, angrily.

“But it isn’t safe to bring a light near the powder.”

“Bosh! How can a light behind glass do any harm? Come closer, I mustn’t leave any powder near the slow match. That’s better; I can see now, and—Ah! take care.”

For all at once the butler fell over him with a crash, the lantern struck against the opposite wall and came open, the lamp portion falling out and firing some of the scattered powder, while at the same moment the lobby door was banged to, shut, and they heard the shooting of the lock.

Chapter Twenty Five.

The Collector Wakes Up.

Professor Westcott, next door, had another consignment that morning. The London and North Western Railway Company’s men called with their van and a way-bill to deliver two chests from Birmingham, weighing over two hundredweight each, both strongly screwed up and roped, and a smaller line round them, carefully-sealed:—“Books; with great care. To be kept dry.”

There were two men with the van, and a boy, the former making very light of the heavy chests as they lifted them off the tail-board of the vehicle, while the professor stood blinking on the steps in his big spectacles, his grey hair hanging down long from beneath a black velvet skull-cap, and his rusty dressing-gown, tied on anyhow, reaching nearly to his heels.

“Rum old owl, Joe,” said one of the men. “This makes six chesties I’ve delivered since Christmas.”

“Books?” said the other. “Yes, books. The old buffer’s got his house chock-full of ’em from top to bottom, I should say. You’ll see when we get in; he’ll ask us to carry ’em downstairs.”

“All right, mate; I don’t mind if its anywheres near the beer cellar.”

“Well, it ain’t, Tom, and so I tell you. I’ve delivered boxes o’ books to him for years now, and I never see a glass o’ ale yet.”

“Stingy old hunks! I say, we ain’t ’bliged to carry ’em farther then the front door. That’s delivering.”

“Yes, that’s delivering, mate, but you’re allus in such a hurry. I was going to say you get no beer, but he’ll be as civil as treacle, and stand rubbing his hands and telling yer to mind and not break the glass in the book-cases as you passes; and when you’ve done he twinkles at you through them Chinee-looking specs of his, and crooks his finger, and beckons you to follow him into the front room, as is full of books. Then he brings out a little glass and a bottle of the most heavenly old sperrets you ever tasted. Tlat! I can taste it yet. Talk about cordial—why, it’s enough to make you say you’ll never have a glass in a pub. again.”