William Le Queux (continued 2)

“They were taken on January 12th last,” he replied.

“Last year, you mean,” I said.

“No, the present year. This ledger was only commenced in January.”

“What?” I cried amazed. “Were these portraits actually taken only six weeks ago? Impossible! The lady has been dead fully three months.”

“The originals of the portraits gave us sittings here on the date I have mentioned,” he said, handing me the packet courteously, putting aside the frame, and leaving me in order to attend to another customer.

The announcement was incredible. It staggered belief. Emerging from the shop, I jumped into a cab and gave the man the address in Gloucester Square. Then, as we drove along, I took out the photograph of my well-beloved and examined it for a long time closely. Yes, there was no mistake about her identity. The same sweet, well-remembered face, with its clear, trusting eyes looked out upon me, the same half-sad expression that had so puzzled me. I raised the cold, polished card to my lips and reverently kissed it. Presently the cab drew up suddenly, and I found myself before a wide portico extending across the pavement to the curb, in front of a rather gloomy, solid-looking mansion. Alighting, I crossed to the door, and as I did so counted the steps. There were three, the same number that I remembered ascending on that eventful night I had raised my hand to ring the visitors’ bell when suddenly a voice behind me uttered my name. It sounded familiar, and I looked round hastily. As I turned, the Countess of Fyneshade, warmly clad in smart sealskin coat and neat seal toque trimmed with sable, confronted me. Standing upon the pavement beneath the wide gloomy portico, she was smiling amusedly at the sudden start I had given on hearing my name.

“I declare you’ve turned quite pale, Stuart,” she cried with that gay, irresponsible air and high-pitched voice habitual to her. “You gave such a jump when I spoke that one would think you had been detected in the act of committing a burglary, or some other crime equally dreadful.”

“I really beg your pardon,” I exclaimed quickly, descending the steps and raising my hat. “I confess I didn’t notice you.” Then, for the first time, I observed standing a few yards from her a slim, well-dressed young man in long dark overcoat and silk hat.

“Gilbert,” she said, turning to him, “you’ve not met Mr Ridgeway before, I believe. Allow me to introduce you—Mr Gilbert Sternroyd, Mr Stuart Ridgeway, one of my oldest friends.”

We uttered mutual conventionalities, but an instant later, when my eyes met his, the words froze upon my lips. The Countess’s companion was the original of the photograph that had been exhibited at my dead love’s request in the same frame as her own.

Of what words I uttered I have no remembrance. Bewildered by this strange and unexpected encounter, on the very threshold of the mysterious house that for months I had been striving in vain to discover, I felt my senses whirl. Only by dint of summoning all my self-possession I preserved a calm demeanour. That Mabel should have admitted acquaintance with the strange and rather shady person who had met me at Richmond was curious enough, but her friendship with Sybil’s whilom companion was a fact even more incomprehensible.

An hour ago I had discovered the picture of this man called Sternroyd, yet here he stood before me in the flesh, accompanied by the one person of my acquaintance who knew that nameless man who had inveigled me to this house of shadows. Heedless of Mabel’s amusing gossip, I surveyed her companion’s face calmly, satisfying myself that every feature agreed with the counterfeit presentment I carried in my pocket. The portrait was strikingly accurate, even his curiously-shaped scarf-pin in the form of a pair of crossed daggers with diamond hilts being shown in the picture. He was tall, fair, of fresh complexion, aged about twenty-four, with grey eyes rather deeply set, and a scanty moustache a little ragged. Lithe, active, and upright, his bearing was distinctly athletic, although his speech was a trifle languid and affected. What, I wondered, had been the nature of his relations with Sybil? The horrifying thought flashed across my mind that he might have been her lover, but next second I scorned such a suggestion, convinced that she had been devoted to me alone.

Yet how could I reconcile the statement of the photographer that the portrait had only been taken a few weeks with my own personal investigation that she at that time was dead? Had I not, alas! kissed her cold brow and chafed her thin dead hands, hoping to bring back to them the glow of life? Had I not raised her gloved arm only to find it stiffening in death? The remembrance of that fateful night chilled my blood.

“Who are you calling upon, Stuart?” the Countess asked, her light words bringing me at last back to consciousness of my surroundings.

“Upon—upon friends,” I stammered.

“Friends! Well, they can’t live here,” she observed incredulously.

“They do,” I answered. “This is number seventy-nine.”

“True, but the place is empty.” She laughed.

I glanced at the doorway, and my heart sank within me when I noticed that the unwhitened stones were littered with drifting straws and scraps of paper, the flotsam and jetsam of the street, that the glass of the wide fanlight was thickly encrusted with dirt, and that the board fixed over the door, announcing that the “imposing mansion” was to let, had, judging from its begrimed, blistered, and weather-stained appearance, been in that position several years.

To reassure myself, I glanced at my cuff and inquired of the cabman whether the house was not Number 79 Gloucester Square.

“Quite right, sir,” answered the plethoric driver. “This ’ere’s Radnor Place, but these ’ouses fronts into the square. This row ’ain’t got no entrances there, but the front doors are at the back here. I’ve known these ’ouses ever since I was a nipper. This ’ere one’s been to let this last four years. A French gentleman lived ’ere before.”

“I fancy you’ve mistaken the number,” drawled the Countess’s companion, putting up his single eye-glass to survey the place more minutely. “So confoundedly easy to make mistakes, don’t yer know,” and he laughed, as if amused at his witticism.

I resented this apparent hilarity, and with difficulty restrained some hot words that rose quickly to my lips. It had occurred to me that if I preserved silence and gave no sign, I might perhaps discover the identity of this foppish young man. The mansion, silent, dismal, and deserted, was drab-painted and of unusually imposing proportions. The drawing-room on the first floor was evidently of vast extent, running the whole width of the house and commanding in front a wide view across the square, while at the rear it opened upon a fine domed conservatory constructed over the great portico.

“If you can’t find your friends, Stuart, I’ll give you a lift homeward. My carriage is at the corner,” Mabel said, evidently anxious to get away. “I’m going down to the Reform, to fetch Fyneshade.”

In this invitation I saw an opportunity of obtaining some further knowledge of her mysterious companion, and, after settling with my cabman, lost no time in embracing it. A few moments later the Countess’s smart victoria drew up, and entering, I took the place beside her, while Sternroyd seated himself opposite.

As we drove around Southwick Crescent in the direction of Park Lane, Mabel, in the course of conversation, let drop the fact that Gilbert, a protégé of her husband’s, was spending a few days at Eaton Square prior to returning to his studies at Oxford.

“Yes,” he drawled. “A fellow appreciates town after poring over musty volumes, as I unfortunately am compelled to do. Beastly bore!”

Then he told me he was at Balliol—my old college—and our conversation afterwards turned mainly upon dons and duns.

“I always have such jolly times with Mab—Lady Fyneshade—each time I come to town,” he said. “Whenever I go back I feel absolutely miserable.”

“Yet memories of the past are sometimes painful,” I observed, smiling. At the same time I glanced at Mabel, knowing that the strange circumstances in which we had parted at the cotton-king’s reception must still be fresh in her mind. Darting at me a swift look of inquiry, she picked at the buttons of her pearl-grey glove, laughed lightly, and exclaimed flippantly:

“We have no memories when we arrive at years of discretion. Idle memory wastes time and other things. The moments as they drop must disappear and be simply forgotten as a child forgets. Nowadays one lives only for the future, and lets the past be buried.”

“And if the past refuses to be interred?” I asked.

She started visibly, and a frown of annoyance rested for a brief moment upon her handsome countenance. I fancied, too, that her companion looked askance at me, but not waiting for either to reply, I said:

“I myself find it difficult to altogether forget. Some incidents in each of our lives are indelibly engraven upon our minds, and there are some tender memories that in our hours of melancholy we love to linger over and brood upon. At such times we find solace in solitude and sup on vain regrets.”

“That’s only when we have been in love,” the Countess laughed, patting the large pug beside her. “Gilbert has never been in love; have you, Gilbert?”

“Never,” he answered, grinning.

“With one exception,” she observed with mock gravity.

“Yourself, you mean?” he drawled, twirling his flaxen moustache and smiling.

“Certainly not,” she cried with feigned indignation. “How dare you attempt to be complimentary at my expense? No, if I remember aright there was one woman who in your eyes was a veritable angel, who—”

“Ah!” he said gravely, in a tone quite natural and unaffected. “Yes, you are right. There was one woman.” And he sighed as if painful memories oppressed him.

One woman! Did he allude to Sybil? If so, it was apparent that Mabel must be well aware of his acquaintance with the woman I had loved. Silent I sat while the conversation quickly turned from grave to gay, as it always did when the Countess chattered.

Suddenly, as we were passing into Piccadilly, it became impressed vividly upon my mind that they were hiding some secret from me. Two prominent facts aroused within me suspicion that their conversation was being carried on in order to mislead me. The first was, that although I had asked them what had brought them to Radnor Place neither of them had given any satisfactory reply; the second was, that although Sternroyd must have been associated in some mysterious way with that silent house to which the photographs had been sent, he had made no allusion whatever to it, nor did he make any observation when he noticed my dismay at discovering it untenanted.

It was evident some secret understanding existed between them, and the more I reflected upon it the more probable did it appear that they had actually called at this house, and had only just left it when I arrived. In order to ascertain my object in visiting it, and to learn the extent of my knowledge regarding it, the Countess had greeted me with her usual gaiety, and was now carrying me triumphantly back. I had, of course, no proof; nevertheless, I had an intuition, strange and distinct, that in close concert with my dead love’s whilom friend, Sternroyd, she was playing a deep mysterious game with considerable tact and consummate ingenuity. But she was a most remarkable woman. Always brilliant and fascinating, always sparkling with wit and bubbling with humour, she was thoroughly unconventional in every respect. Society had long ago ceased to express surprise at any of her eccentric or impetuous actions. She held licence from Mother Grundy to act as, she pleased, for was she not admitted on all hands to be “the smartest woman in London?” She had a watchful confidence not only in a multitude of men, but in a multitude of things.

She dropped me outside the New Lyric Club, close to Piccadilly Circus, not, however, before she had expressed regret at Dora’s unhappiness.

“What has occurred?” I asked concernedly.

“Oh! there has been a terrible upset at home about Jack Bethune,” she answered. “I’ve done my level best with Ma, but she absolutely forbids Jack to pay his addresses to Dora.”

“Because, as you have already told me, she wants her to marry a man she can never love,” I said gravely.

“Yes,” she said hurriedly. “But here’s your club. Captain Bethune is certain to tell you all about it. Goodbye! I shall be at Lady Hillingdon’s to-morrow night, then we’ll resume our chat.”

“Good-bye!” I said, alighting and grasping her hand; then as the commissionaire swung the club door open her companion raised his hat and the carriage was driven rapidly away.

Chapter Eight.

Secret Understanding.

Idle memory shortens life, or shortens the sense of life, by linking the immediate past clingingly to the present. In this may be found one of the reasons for the length of time in our juvenile days and the brevity of the time that succeeds. The child forgets, habitually, gayly, and constantly. Would that I had never acquired the habit of recall!

Jack, in a well-worn velvet lounge coat, was seated at his writing-table absorbed in his work when I entered, a couple of hours after I had left Mabel. His small den, lined with books, contained but little furniture beyond the big oak writing-table in the window, a heavy old-fashioned horse-hair couch, and several easy-chairs. Littered with newspapers, books, magazines, and those minor worries of an author’s life, press-cuttings, the apartment was nevertheless snug, the bright fire and the green-shaded reading-lamp giving it a cosy appearance.

“Halloa, old chap!” he cried, throwing down his pen gayly and rising to grip my hand. “So glad you’ve looked in. Have a weed?” and as we seated ourselves before the fire he pushed the box towards me.

“I met Mabel to-day,” I said at last, after we had been chatting and smoking for some minutes.

“Did you? Well? What’s the latest fad? Teas for poor children, bicycling, golf, old silver, or what?”

“She’s much concerned regarding Dora,” I answered. “And she has hinted that there are strained relations between Dora’s mother and yourself. I’ve come to hear all about it.”

He hesitated, tugging thoughtfully at his moustache.

“There’s not very much to tell,” he replied, rather bitterly. “The old lady won’t hear of our marriage. When I mentioned it yesterday she went absolutely purple with rage, and forbade me to enter her house again, or hold any further communication with the woman I love.”

“Which you will disregard, eh? Have you seen Dora to-day?”

“No. I’ve been waiting at home all day expecting a note, but none has arrived,” he said disappointedly; adding, “Yet, after all, there is no disguising the fact, old chap, that I really haven’t enough money to marry a girl like Dora, and perhaps the sooner I recognise the truth and give up all hope of marriage, the better for us both.”

“No, no. Don’t take such a gloomy view, Jack,” I said sympathetically. “Dora loves you, doesn’t she?”

“Yes. You know well enough that I absolutely adore her,” he answered with deep earnestness.

I had known long ago that his avowed intention had been never to marry. Until he became noted as a novelist his periods of life in town had been few and fleeting. Not that he felt awkward or ill at ease in society; his name was a passport, while his well-bred ease always insured him a flattering welcome; but for the most part Society had no charm for him. Sometimes, when among his most intimate friends, he would give the reins to his high spirits, and then, gayest of the gay, he would have smoothed the brow of Remorse itself. Private theatricals, dinner-parties, dances, or tennis-matches, he was head and front of everything. Then suddenly he would receive orders to remove with his regiment to another town, and good-bye to all frivolity—he was a cavalry officer again, and no engagement had power to keep him.

If he ever made any impression on the fair sex, he had remained unscathed himself until a few months ago, and the eagerness with which he obeyed each call to duty had been proof of the unfettered state of his heart. His ardent love for his profession was, he used to be fond of declaring, incompatible with domestic life. “The first requisite for a good officer,” he had told me dozens of times, “is absolute freedom from all ties;” but now, having entered the profession of letters and having discovered the power of the pen, he had paid Dora Stretton a chivalrous attention that had developed into ardent and passionate devotion. She was his goddess; he worshipped at her shrine.

“Well, having received the maternal congé, what do you intend doing?” I inquired after a long silence.

“What can I do?” he asked despondently, gazing sadly into the fire. “I love her with all my heart and soul, as you are aware, yet what can I do?”

“Why, marry her all the same,” cried a musical voice gayly, and as we both jumped up, startled, we were surprised to find Dora herself standing in the doorway, laughing at our discomfiture.

“You!” cried Jack, gladly rushing forward and grasping her hand. “How did you get in?”

“I forbade your woman to announce me, because I wanted to surprise you,” she laughed. “But I—I had no idea that Mr Ridgeway was with you. She ought to have told me,” she added, blushing.

“I’m surely not such a formidable person, am I?” I asked.

“Well, no,” she answered. Then looking round the little book-lined room rather timidly, she said, “I don’t know that I ought to have come here, but I wanted to see Jack. I’m supposed to be at Mabel’s, dining. I drove there in the brougham, and then came along here in a cab.”

“Won’t you sit down?” her lover asked. “Now you are here we must try and make you as cosy as possible, providing you’ll excuse the Bohemianism of my quarters.”

“Why apologise, Jack?” she asked, as he unclasped her cape, revealing her handsome dinner-dress cut a trifle décolleté. “If Ma will not let us meet openly, then we must see each other surreptitiously.”

“Well spoken,” I exclaimed, laughing, and when she had seated herself in Jack’s armchair, with her little satin shoes placed coquettishly upon the fender, she told us how she had ingeniously arranged with her sister to return to Eaton Square in a cab, and then drive home in the carriage, as if she had been spending the whole evening with Mabel.

We laughed, and as I sat gazing at her, memories of Sybil, the woman I had loved and lost, crowded upon me. Even though Lady Stretton’s consent was withheld, they were nevertheless happy in each other’s love. The love-look upon their faces told me how intense was the passion between them, and I envied my friend his happiness. Dora was indeed as charming to the sight as eyes could desire. Her bare shoulders, well set-off by her black bespangled dress trimmed with pale-green chiffon, were a trifle narrow, but that lent her a childish grace, and it was the one fault that could be found with her; all the rest was perfect, and the greatest charm of all that, unlike her sister, she was totally unconscious of her loveliness.

In the warm atmosphere of their love and confidence their characters had unfolded, and they had learned to know one another perfectly. Jack, although he held a world-wide reputation for keen analysis of character on paper, had been amazed at all the delicate susceptibilities cherished in Dora’s heart, at the freshness and innocent pleasures of which it was capable, and not a little at the vein of malicious fun he had wholly unsuspected.

I sat silent while they chatted, reflecting upon the strange discovery of the photograph of my lost love, and the more remarkable encounter that afternoon, I had called on Jack for the purpose of making a clean breast of the whole affair, but Dora’s arrival precluded me from so doing. My sorrow, however, lost none of its bitterness by keeping, and I resolved to return to him on the morrow, show him the portraits, and ask his advice.

Jack had been admiring her gown, and the conversation had turned upon the evergreen topic of dress. But she spoke with the air of a philosopher rather than of a Society girl.

“Everyday life needs all the romance that can be crowded into it,” she said. “Dress, in my opinion, is a duty to ourselves and to others—is a piece of altruism unsoured by sacrifice, a joy so long as it may last to wearer and beholder, doing good openly nor blushing to find itself famous.”

“Your view is certainly correct,” I said, smiling at her sedate little speech. “You are a pretty woman, and without committing yourself to affectation or eccentricity, you may choose the mode that shall best become you, whether born of Worth’s imagination or founded on some picturesque tradition. You may be severe or splendid, avenante or rococo, with equal impunity.”

“Really you are awfully complimentary, Mr Ridgeway,” she answered, with just the faintest blush of modesty. “You are such a flatterer that one never knows whether you are in earnest.”

“I’m quite in earnest, I assure you,” I said. “Your dresses always suit you admirably. On any other woman they would look dowdy.”

“I quite endorse Stuart’s opinion,” said Jack with enthusiasm. “In writing it is often my misfortune to be compelled to describe feminine habiliments, therefore I’ve tried to study them a little. It seems to me that the ball-dress may be festal, the dinner-dress majestic, and the outdoor frock combine the virtues of both; but romance must always centre in the tea-gown. Before the advent of the tea-gown, the indoor state of woman was innocent of comfort and beggared of poetry.”

“Yes,” she replied, clasping her hands behind her head and looking up at him with her soft brown eyes, “the tea-gown is always ingenuous in sentiment and not wanting in charm, even though its hues may be odious or sickly. Once it was looked upon with disfavour as a garment too graceful to be respectable, and stern parents, I believe, forbade its use. But time, taste, and the sense of fitness have put Puritanism to shame, and the useful tea-gown; bears witness now to our proficiency in the long-lost art of living.”

Her reference to stern parents caused me to refer to what Mabel had told me regarding the attitude of her mother.

“Ah! I remember that you were discussing it when I interrupted you as I came in,” she said frankly. “Ma wants me to make a rich marriage, it is true, but I love Jack, and I’m determined not to have any other man. I’ve seen enough of the tragedy of rich unions.”

“I know you are true to me, Dora,” my old friend said, grasping her hand, and looking into her eyes as he stood beside her chair. “I’ve waited all day expecting a note from you, for I felt confident you would write or see me after last night’s scene.”

“Don’t refer to that again,” she said quickly, putting up her little hand as if to arrest his words. “It was too cruel of Ma to speak as she did. She tried to wound my feelings, because I told her I would marry the man of my own choice. She wants me to be smart, with a penchant for flirtation, like Mabel,” and her lips quivered with emotion.

“If you marry me, darling,” he said, with an utter disregard for my presence, “I will strive to provide you with fitting supplies, but if you were poorer than Mabel you would at least love your husband dearly and be his idol.”

“I do not doubt it, Jack,” she answered, her love-darting eyes fixed earnestly upon his. “I love no man but yourself.”

“Then nothing shall part us, dearest—nothing,” he declared.

I sat gazing into the fire, thinking of some excuse whereby I might leave them alone. The memories of my own love were too vivid, and this passionate scene was to me painful. Alas! all that remained of the ashes of my own romance was the photograph in my pocket. I had not torn aside the veil of mystery that had surrounded Sybil; I did not even know her true name.

“Stuart, old fellow, you will excuse us speaking in this manner,” my friend said apologetically. “If you had ever loved you would know the depths of our feelings in this hour when estrangement seems probable.”

If I had ever loved! The thought was galling. Was he taunting me?

“Ill go,” I stammered, stifling with difficulty a sob that very nearly escaped me. “Though your exchange of confidences may be made before me, your old friend, without fear of their betrayal, it is best that you should be alone,” and stretching forth my hand I bade Dora adieu.

“No, don’t go, Mr Ridgeway,” she exclaimed concernedly. “As children, you and I often played at being lovers. When I was a child you were like a big brother, and I confess I then admired you. I regard you now as Jack’s firm and sincerest friend—as my own friend.”

“I am gratified by your esteem,” I said; “that you both may be happy is my heartfelt desire. If I can be of any assistance to Jack or to yourself, command me.”

“We—we may want assistance,” she said. Then she paused, plainly stopped by the beating of her heart, for her breast rose and fell convulsively as tears forced themselves up to her long eyelashes.

Bethune was leaning over her. The light of those brown eyes, seen through the bright brimming tears, affected him in a manner strange and touching.

“If we ask Stuart to help us I know he will do all in his power,” he assured her. “Ours must be a secret marriage if her ladyship will not consent. Do you trust me?”

“Implicitly, Jack. I trust you because—because I love you.”

“Then after all I have no need to be jealous of Gilbert Sternroyd,” the soldier-novelist said smiling.

“Gilbert Sternroyd!” I cried amazed. “Who is Gilbert Sternroyd?”

“Dora will answer your question,” my friend replied.

I looked eagerly at her, and her eyes met mine with a look full of surprise and mild reproach.

“He admires me, and because he is wealthy, Mabel has suggested that a marriage is possible,” she answered.

“He admires you!” I echoed. “Who is he? what is he?”

With some surprise she regarded me, perhaps alarmed at the fierce manner in which I had demanded an explanation.

“I really know very little except that his income is fabulously large, and that he is regarded by many mothers as a substantial matrimonial prize,” she replied, adding, “I really don’t know his—well, I—”

“Suppose we go into the next room,” Jack interposed, evidently to hide Dora’s embarrassment. “There is a piano there, although I’m afraid you’ll find it sadly out of tune.”

“A piano! I really can’t play to-night.”

“Oh, but you must,” I said laughing. “Remember, you came here to spend the evening, and the penalty for coming to a man’s chambers is to bring brightness to his life.”

We had both risen. With seeming reluctance she also rose, and together we went into an adjoining room, well furnished with a few handsome pieces of old oak, a quantity of bric-à-brac, and many strange arms and curios which their owner had picked up in out-of-the-way corners of the world.

The apartment was half dining-room, half drawing-room, with dark upholstered chairs, the walls papered a dull red, the effect of the whole being so severe that the shaded lamps seemed to cast no radiance around, but to die out like water drunk up by sand.

Jack, noticing the inconvenient position of the piano, dragged it toward the fire, then bringing a music-stool, he placed a fire-screen behind it, and falling back into an easy-chair, said, “Now we are ready to listen.”

She blushed again, overcome with proof of his solicitude, but sat down with murmured thanks; then, after a moment’s pause, she turned to me, exclaiming:

“It is not enough for you to say you like music. What is your favourite style? Classical or modern?—grave or gay?”

“Whatever you please,” I answered.

She thought for a moment, reviewing in her mind the works she knew, then began a nocturne by Chopin. Then another and another, passing on abruptly to the celebrated impromptu whose tempo agitato and vehement bursts suddenly tone down into a movement of exquisite softness.

After the first few bars, Jack, rising, had gone to lean over the end of the piano, attracted alike by the charm of the caressing touch and by the strangeness of the music that pleased his ears. From where he stood his eyes wandered over her, from the brown of her hair, softened still more by the shaded light of the candles, to her bust, so white, frail, and elegant. Even to me it seemed that what she was playing was as much her own as her loveliness, and I fell into a reverie until her rich contralto voice suddenly broke forth in Tosti’s song:

“If in your heart a corner lies that has no place for me. You do not love me as I deem that love should ever be.”

Then, when she had concluded and risen, and I had thanked her, Jack suddenly stooped over her tiny hand and kissed it, as he said in a low, tender voice, “Thanks to the little fingers that have charmed me.”

Chancing to glance at my watch, I found it was already past eight o’clock. Enchanted by our fair visitor, neither of us had thought of dinner, but a private room at Verrey’s was quickly suggested by Jack, and we went thither in a cab without waiting to dress and there concluded an enjoyable evening, Dora’s lover afterward escorting her back to Eaton Square, while I strolled home.

Alone in my chambers that night I carefully examined the portraits of Sybil and Gilbert Sternroyd, but the mystery surrounding them grew hourly more puzzling. That Jack knew something of Sternroyd was evident, therefore I resolved to call on him on the morrow, show him the pictures, and seek his advice.

Chapter Nine.

Who is Her Ladyship?

When I sought Jack on the following morning I was informed by the hall-porter that he had left a message for any callers that he had been compelled to go to Barracks unexpectedly, and would be back from Hounslow in the evening. Disappointed, I went into the City and had a long talk with my father at the bank on the subject of finances, then finished the day gossiping in the club and strolling in the Park. At night, remembering the Countess’ promise to be at Lady Hillingdon’s dance, I went there, but, in a marvellous gown of old rose, she was the centre of a gay crowd of admirers, and I could obtain but few words with her. I wanted to learn more of Sternroyd, but alas! I saw that anything like a private conversation was out of the question, and was compelled to content myself with waltzing and chatting with various women I knew, for the most part gay, brainless butterflies.

In my state of mind the glare and glitter were nauseating and the music jarred upon my nerves, therefore soon after one o’clock I left and drove to Jack’s chambers, anxious to seek the truth.

The outer door was shut, for the hall-porter had retired, but, as the key of my own chambers had on many previous occasions opened it, I quickly gained admittance. Mounting the great staircase to the door of his flat, I rang twice, but Mrs Horton did not reside there and my summons was not answered. Jack had evidently not returned, therefore the thought suggested itself to enter with my key and leave a note, as I had done many times before. Acting upon this suggestion, I went in, groping my way down the small passage to his den, where the glimmering light told me that his reading-lamp was burning; but just on the threshold of the room my feet struck something in the darkness, and, grasping wildly at air, I fell forward on my face, unable to save myself.

I knew it was the prostrate body of a man, and a wild cry escaped me when next second I raised myself and found my hands smeared with something damp and sticky.

“Jack! Speak, old fellow, speak!” I cried, but in the darkness there was neither sound nor movement.

Rushing into the study, I snatched up the light, and as its soft radiance fell upon the blanched features I made a discovery so startling that the lamp nearly fell from my trembling hand.

The man lying there was not Jack Bethune, as I had believed, but Gilbert Sternroyd. He had been shot through the heart!

Placing the lamp upon the floor, I knelt and thrust my hand eagerly beneath his shirt-front, but there was no movement of the heart. His hands were cold; he must have been dead several hours.

His coat and vest were disarranged, as if the murderer had hurriedly searched his victim’s pockets, and on the mat outside the bedroom door lay the shining weapon. I recognised the army revolver as Jack’s.

Horrified, I took up the lamp again and stood gazing into the white drawn face of the mysterious friend of the Lady Fyneshade, utterly at a loss how to act. My first impulse was to raise an alarm, but I saw that such a course must imperil my friend. I could not realise the terrible truth, yet all the evidence pointed to the person who had perpetrated the crime. Had he not, only on the previous night, admitted himself jealous of this young man?

With uneven steps and scarce daring to tread lest I should create a noise and betray my presence, I returned to the study. As I entered I noticed for the first time that some of the drawers in the writing-table were open, and that many letters were strewn about, evidently tossed aside in rapid search. There was a strong smell of burnt paper in the room, and as I bent toward the grate I found it full of dead, black tinder.

The murderer, before his flight, had destroyed a number of documents. Examining the drawers, I discovered to my surprise that they had been forced. If Jack had destroyed any implicating evidence would he not have used his keys? Some of the papers in the grate were not quite consumed, and, picking them up, I examined the fragments under the lamp. They were portions of letters in feminine handwriting, the characteristics of which were unfamiliar to me.

I gathered them up, together with a whole letter that was lying at the side of the table, evidently overlooked, and thrust them into my pocket. In presence of the murdered man the darkness seemed filled with a spectral horror, and even the noises I myself created startled me. The reading-lamp gave scarcely sufficient light to illuminate the corners of the room, and I knew not whether the murderer might still be lurking there. Appalled by the ghastly discovery and at the sight of blood, I knew that if discovered there I might be charged with the crime, therefore, after a final glance at the dead man’s face, I extinguished the light and stole softly out, hurrying down the stairs and gaining the street in fear lest any of the other tenants might encounter me.

But all was quiet. I escaped unobserved.

On arrival at my own chambers I cleansed my hands of Sternroyd’s blood, and entering my sitting-room turned up the gas. My eyes caught sight of my own face in the mirror. It was pale and haggard as that of the victim of the secret tragedy.

Having gulped down a stiff glass of brandy to steady my nerves, I proceeded in breathless eagerness to examine the fragments of private papers which effort had been made to destroy.

The first I inspected were apparently portions of a legal document. In a firm clerk’s hand were the words ”...and the said John Arthur Bethune on this fourteenth day of...” upon one, and on the other ”...undertake to preserve this secret knowledge until after my death...”

The other scraps were parts of letters, but the words I deciphered conveyed to me no meaning. They contained no endearing terms, and were evidently not billets-doux. One of them contained the passage ”...to give credence to these absurd rumours which I assure you are totally unfounded...” and another, ”...I look to you as my friend to preserve the reputation of a defenceless woman...” The name “Markwick” occurred several times, and once it was “that vile, despicable coward, Markwick.”

“That vile, despicable coward, Markwick,” I repeated aloud. I reflected deeply, but remembered no one of that name. I could find no signature upon these scraps of yellow, half-charred paper, neither was there anything to show when they had been written. On both sides of each portion there were words, but very few of them had context, and consequently Conveyed no knowledge of their purport.

One of the scraps, however, held my eyes in fascination. It bore my own name. The writing was a hand I knew, and the words decipherable were ”...desire that your friend Stuart Ridgeway should remain in ignorance of the fact. He is your friend and mine, therefore I...”

“Great Heaven!” I cried aloud, “the writing is Sybil’s!” I recognised the hand. It was the same in which she had written me the cruel note of farewell in Luchon, and this had been in Jack’s possession! Even these half-charred words brought back to me memories of those few days when we were happy in each other’s love.

At last I took up the letter that had been overlooked by the murderer in his mad haste. The envelope bore a superscription in a fine regular Italian hand and showed that it had been sent to Hounslow Barracks, the postrnark being dated three days before. Taking out the sheet of notepaper in eager expectancy, I opened it and read the following words—“Tuesday—Dear Sir,—Her ladyship wishes me to write and say that she will arrive at Feltham Station by the train leaving Waterloo at 3:08 on Friday afternoon. She desires to see you on a most important matter, and hopes you will make the meeting apparently accidental, in case there may be at the station any person known to her. Her ladyship also urges that you should keep this appointment in order to avoid some unpleasantness that appears imminent. If, however, you cannot meet her, kindly telegraph to me personally.—Yours truly, Annie Ashcombe.”

Thrice I read the letter through and stood holding it between my fingers silent and puzzled. Who, I wondered, was “her ladyship?” Was it old Lady Stretton, or was it Mabel? The writer was evidently a lady’s maid, and, as she signed her name, it seemed to me that she might be traced by means of an ingeniously-worded advertisement. But this would necessarily occupy time.

I had never heard of any maid named Ashcombe. Old Lady Stretton’s maid, Frewen, I had known for years, while Mabel’s was a French girl, named Celestine, all vivacity, frills, and ribbons. Feltham was, I remembered, a small old-world village about a mile and a half from Hounslow Barracks, on the line between Twickenham and Staines, a quiet, unfrequented place whereat few trains stopped. On several occasions when I had visited Jack in Barracks, I had returned to town from there, and its choice as a place of meeting, combined with the words of Jack’s correspondent, showed that “her ladyship,” whoever she was, took every precaution to conceal her movements. What could be the important matter upon which the fair patrician desired to consult him; of what nature the unpleasantness that seemed imminent? Again, if he could not keep the appointment he was urged to communicate not with her ladyship, but with her maid. Was Jack Bethune this woman’s lover? Was he playing a double game?

I stifled these thoughts instantly. No! Although it was apparent that he was aware of my love for Sybil and was her confidant, I would not believe ill of him until I held absolute proof.

“Proof,” I murmured aloud. “What greater proof can I have than the evidence of the fearful tragedy I have discovered?”

I flung myself into my chair and thought over the strange discovery of a portion of Sybil’s letter. Apparently a secret had existed between them.

From whatever standpoint I viewed the crime and its mysterious surroundings I could not rid myself of the terrible suspicion that Jack Bethune, the popular officer and celebrated writer, had fired the fatal shot. If he were innocent why had he hurriedly destroyed his papers?

He had admitted himself jealous of Gilbert Sternroyd, and had betrayed his hatred of the young man by his refusal to explain who he was and his eagerness to avoid discussion regarding him. The words he used recurred to me, and I now detected in his manner how intensely bitter was his feeling.

Again and again I examined the scattered fragments that lay upon my table, but from them could gather no further information. The message from the mysterious lady seemed to contain some important clue, yet its true significance was unintelligible. Somehow I felt confident that the meeting at Feltham had some direct connection with the tragedy. Mabel was Sternroyd’s friend, for while driving me from Gloucester Square he had inadvertently referred to her as “Mab;” therefore, after all, it seemed highly probable that she was the mysterious woman who spoke in such veiled terms of “unpleasantness.”

The fire died down and went out, the clock upon the mantelshelf chimed hour after hour on its musical bell, but I heeded not time. I was wondering who was Markwick, the “vile, despicable coward,” and dreading the result of the discovery of the crime. I feared to telegraph to Hounslow to ascertain Jack’s whereabouts, lest by so doing I should betray my knowledge of the tragedy. I held in my possession what might perhaps prove to be evidence of a most important character, evidence that might convict him of a foul murder, and I was determined to keep it secret, at least for the present, and by that means assist my friend, even if he were guilty, to escape.

In a few hours, I told myself, Mrs Horton and her daughter would go there to do the cleaning, and would find the body. Then the police would raise a hue and cry, and by noon the gloating gutter journals would be full of “Another West-End Mystery.”

I felt that by preserving my secret I was shielding an assassin, perhaps assisting him to escape, but, dumbfounded at the overwhelming evidence of Jack’s guilt, I sat shuddering, awe-stricken, inanimate.

I dropped off to sleep in my chair and did not awake until Saunders entered, and I found it was morning. My breakfast went away untouched, but I scanned the paper and was gratified at my inability to find mention of the ghastly discovery. Neither telegram nor letter came from Jack, though I waited at home until afternoon. Oppressed by my terrible secret, inactivity maddened me and I went out, feeling that I wanted air or the companionship of friends. After a short walk I turned into the club and ascended to the smoking-room, panelled in black oak, on the first floor, where I expected to find someone with whom to gossip and pass the time. When I entered I found several city men had grouped themselves around the fire, and, lounging back in their chairs, were discussing some deep scheme of company-promoting, in which I had no interest. I sat down to scribble a note, caring not for their Stock Exchange jargon, until suddenly the name of Fyneshade caused me to prick up my ears.

“Bah! he’d become one of our directors at once if we made it worth his while,” an elderly man observed, sitting with hat tilted back and a long cigar between his lips.

“I doubt it,” another voice exclaimed. “His name carries weight, but he’s not in want of fees.”

“If he isn’t at this moment he very soon will be,” the other answered knowingly. “He’s now got scarcely a fiver to bless himself with.”

“I don’t believe that,” the others cried in chorus.

“My dear fellows,” answered the elder man. “His pretty wife has absolutely ruined him. Another year, and he’ll be in the Bankruptcy Court.”

“Well, she’s cutting a pretty brilliant figure just now,” exclaimed one. “I saw her at the Gaiety the other night and she looked simply magnificent. She had some young fellow in her box, a fair, insipid-looking youth. Nobody knew who he was.”

“The latest lover, I suppose,” laughed the man who had announced the Earl’s impending bankruptcy. “If report speaks true she’s rather addicted to flirtation.”

“No doubt,” observed one of his companions. “But we’re discussing business just now, not scandal. The virtues or shortcomings of the Countess don’t concern us; what we want is to get Fyneshade on our board. Can it be done?”

“Yes,” promptly answered the man who had first spoken. “I’ll manage it.”

“If you do, then we need have no fear as to the future of the Great Watersmeet Mining and Exploration Company. The Earl’s name carries weight, and, bankrupt or solvent, his influence will be extremely beneficial to us.”

“Very well. I’ll call on him to-morrow,” the man said, blowing a cloud of smoke upward. Then their conversation quickly turned upon some technicalities regarding the property they had acquired somewhere in Mashona-land.

Their suggestion that Mabel had already caused her husband financial difficulties was new to me. If true, it was certainly a startling fact, and as I sat making pretence of continuing my letter, I could not help feeling that there might be a good deal of truth in what I had overheard. That Mabel was recklessly extravagant; that her entertainments were among the most popular in London; and that her smart circle included many of the Royalties and the wealthiest, were facts known to everybody. She was a leader of fashion, and her bills at Worth’s and Redfern’s since her marriage must have been as large as those of an empress. Toward women she was unmerciful. With her, dowdiness was a crime, and the wearing of a hat or gown a little out of date an unforgivable offence against Society’s laws. She had lately been living at such a terrific rate that her extravagance had become notorious; but I had always believed the rent-roll of Fyneshade to be enormous, and such an eventuality as the Bankruptcy Court had never once entered my mind. This man, a Jew company promoter, apparently had good grounds for his assertion, and his words caused me to ponder deeply, as I descended the stairs and went out with the intention to call at Lady Stretton’s, and ascertain whether Dora had heard from her lover.

Who was this mysterious Sternroyd who had admired Mabel and who now lay dead, shot by an unknown hand? What connection could he have had with my adored one, or with that grim untenanted mansion in Gloucester Square? I took the portrait from my pocket and in the fading light glanced at it as I slowly walked. Yes, there was no mistaking the features, nor the oddly-shaped scarf-pin. It was undoubtedly the same man.

Chapter Ten.

Tattle and Tragedy.

When half-an-hour later I sat drinking tea en famille with Lady Stretton and her daughter, I confess I felt ill at ease, notwithstanding their light and pleasant gossip.

“I really don’t think you are looking very well, Stuart,” the old lady was saying, as the footman handed her her cup. “Town life does not agree with you, perhaps.”

“No,” I said. “I always prefer the country.”

“So do I. If it were not for dear Dora’s sake, I think I should live at Blatherwycke altogether.”

“You would very soon tire of it, mother,” her daughter laughed. “You know very well when we are down there you are always wanting to see your friends in town.” Lady Stretton looked always stiff and formal in her rich satins. Nearly sixty, with a profusion of white hair and a rather red face, she brimmed over with corpulence, and still preserved some remnant of the beauty that was half sunken beneath her grossness. To me she was always complimentary and caressing. But she said “My dear” to everybody, spoke in a high-pitched voice, and played the child with that doleful languor characteristic of corpulent persons. She loved secrets, made everything a matter of confidence, talked gossip, and was fond of speaking in one’s ear. She pitied others; pitied herself; she bewailed her misfortunes and her physical ills. Nothing could have been more pathetic than her constant attacks of indigestion. She took a very real interest in the career of her friends, for it was part of her completeness to be the centre of a set of successful people.

“We are going to Blatherwycke the day after to-morrow,” she said. “The hunting this season has been excellent. Have you been out yet?”

“Not once,” I replied. “I haven’t been home this season, but I mean to go down in a week or so and have a run with the hounds.”

“Oh, that will be awfully jolly,” Dora exclaimed, gleefully. “We’re having a house-party, so we shall hope to see something of you.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Memories of our many runs are distinctly pleasant, so I hope we may be companions again.”

“Of course. Why, the papers always speak of you as one of the familiar figures in the field,” she said. “The hounds are out three days a week now, and foxes are awfully plentiful about Rockingham Forest and away beyond Apethorpe.”

“Let’s hope we shall obtain a few brushes,” I said, and then our conversation was mainly upon past recollections of rapid runs, of the artfulness displayed by various reynards, and of spills, amusing and serious.

No woman who rode with the Fitzwilliam hounds sat her horse so magnificently as Dora Stretton. Even my old friend William Raven, of King’s Cliffe, for many years one of the most prominent figures in hunting circles in North Northamptonshire, but now of venerable age, white-bearded, and unable to ride to the meet; a thorough hunting man of the old school, who, when the hounds pass his window, rises from his warm armchair, thrusts his hands deep into his pockets, and sighs wistfully because he is not longer agile enough to take part in the sport that he loves; an outspoken critic of all things pertaining to the hunt, and never tired of comparing the splendid riding of twenty years ago with the sloppy form now displayed by foppish youngsters who come down from town and hunt “because it is the thing, you know,” was compelled to acknowledge the grace, daring, and firmness always displayed by Lady Stretton’s youngest daughter. Her pace was usually a hot one; she took dangerous leaps with a recklessness that was astounding, thought nothing of fatigue, and was almost invariably in at the death.

The prospect of mad, exhilarating gallops with her was to me very pleasant, for I was passionately fond of the saddle. But alas! my anticipations were chilled by the knowledge of the fearful secret in my inner consciousness.

Dora sat in her low chair, bright, radiant, and happy. Her hair was a trifle disarranged, but it is the prettiest hair that sheds the most hairpins. What if I told her the terrible nature of my discovery, of the awful suspicion that the man who was her hero was a murderer, and had fled?

But I chatted to them about mutual acquaintances, discussed Jack’s latest book, “The Siren of Strelitz,” which the reviewers were declaring to be the novel of the season, and talked of art at the Grosvenor and the New, without scarcely knowing what words I uttered or what opinion I endorsed. The mention of “The Siren of Strelitz” caused Lady Stretton some little annoyance, and I could not help feeling amused. What, I wondered, would this haughty woman of the world say when in a few brief hours, the papers raised a hue and cry for the popular soldier-novelist, in whose room a man had been found shot dead?

Even as I sat calmly gossiping over the tea-cups the police wires might already be at work and the detectives lounging at the ports of departure aroused from their cat-like lethargy to stand with keen eye, watching every person embarking on Channel and other steamers. I had no interest in her ladyship’s idle talk; I was only waiting for her to go out of the room so that I might ask a hurried question of her daughter.

At last, the corpulent old lady rose with an effort and a rustling of silk, and left us.

“Well,” I said, rising and taking up a position before the fire, “have you seen anything of Jack to-day?”

“No,” she replied, a faint blush suffusing her cheeks. “I was in the Row this morning and looked out for him, but he was not there. I expect he is still at Hounslow.”

“Did he tell you he was going to Hounslow?” I asked. “Yes, he sent me a note yesterday morning, saying that one of his brother-officers had been compelled to obtain leave unexpectedly, and that he was going down to do duty for him.”

“For how long?”

“He said he would be back again last night,” and placing her hand in her pocket she drew forth the letter, and read it to reassure herself that she had made no mistake.

“I want to see him on a most important matter; if he does not return I shall have to run down to Hounslow,” I said. Then, as if suddenly remembering, I added, “Oh, by the way, do you know any maid named Ashcombe—Annie Ashcombe?”

“Ashcombe,” she repeated, puzzled. “Why do you want to know the names of servant-maids? What interest have you in her?”

“I—er—well, I want to find her, that’s all. If I can discover her she’ll hear something to her advantage, as the solicitors’ advertisements say.”

“I’m sorry I can’t help the young person to her good fortune,” she laughed. “However, I’ll bear the name in mind, and if I come across her I won’t fail to let you know.”

“Thanks,” I said. “It is most important that I should find her as quickly as possible, so you might render me a real service if you would make inquiries among your friends.”

“Of course, I’ll do anything to oblige you,” she said frankly. “Ashcombe—I shall remember the name.”

“And you will let me know as soon as you hear from Jack?”

“Certainly,” she answered. “I’ll send you word at once.”

At that moment our tête-à-tête was interrupted by the reappearance of Lady Stretton, who said:

“Dora and I are going to the Lyceum first night. If you’ll join us in our box we shall be charmed.”

“Thanks very much,” I replied. “I shall be delighted.” I had no especial desire to witness an Irving play, but in my gloomy frame of mind any diversion seemed better than the loneliness of my own chambers.

“Very well. Run home and dress, return and dine with us, and we will go along together. We shall meet Mr Gilbert Sternroyd there. Do you know him?” her ladyship asked.

The mention of the name caused me to start, and I felt that a sudden pallor overspread my face.

“Mabel introduced me,” I stammered.

“Charming young fellow! So wealthy, too,” exclaimed Lady Stretton, a remark which was received with a little grimace by Dora, at that moment standing behind her mother.

“I know very little of him,” I said in a strained voice. “I only met him once.”

Then I left, went home, dressed and returned. Dinner was served with that old-fashioned stateliness that characterised everything in the Stretton household, and I was thoroughly glad when dessert was reached. Afterward, we drove to the theatre, and found in several boxes and scattered over the stalls many mutual acquaintances. Several men and women came to us and exchanged greetings, and more than once her ladyship observed:

“I wonder why Mr Sternroyd does not come, Dora? He promised me faithfully.”

“I don’t know, mother,” answered her daughter unconcernedly. “I suppose he is better engaged at his club, or elsewhere.”

“Well, it is decidedly ungentlemanly not to have sent a line of regret,” the old lady observed, sniffing angrily.

Did they perceive by my silence and my face that their talk was torturing me? Did they expect a dead man to seat himself in the vacant chair awaiting him? These constant references to the victim of the tragedy unnerved me. What would they think if they knew that the young man who had promised to escort them was now lying stiff and cold?

The play proceeded, the calls were taken, the curtain fell, and when the usual bouquets had been presented to Miss Terry, the great actor addressed a few well-chosen words to his admirers. All was brilliant, everyone was enthusiastic; the play was voted an unqualified success. Yet I, the most lethargic, conscience-stricken wretch amid that gay, well-dressed, bejewelled throng, was oppressed by the knowledge of an awful secret, for upon me had been forced by Dora’s words increased suspicion that one of the most popular writers of the day was an assassin.

Outside, under the portico, the vendors of “extra specials” were shouting the latest news, varying their strident cries with the monotonous question, “Keb or kerridge?” In eagerness I listened to their words and glanced at the contents-bills—pink, green, amber, and white—thrust under my nose, but in a few moments reassured myself that the tragedy still remained undiscovered.

The Stretton carriage quickly drew up, and as the ladies were handed in I thanked them for a pleasant evening and bade them good-night, not, however, before I had managed to whisper to Dora, “If you hear from Jack, telegraph at once to my chambers.”

“You don’t seem quite yourself to-night,” she had replied. “I believe something has happened.”

“No,” I stammered, “nothing unusual has occurred.” Then I excused myself by adding, “The heat of the theatre has been rather oppressive, that’s all.”

The night air refreshed me, and as I strolled along the Strand westward I suddenly overtook Thackwell, the cotton-king, also returning from a theatre. His greeting was as usual, bluff and hearty, and we had supper together at the National Liberal Club, of which institution he was one of the shining lights.

I congratulated him upon the success of his recent reception, but he smiled rather sadly, saying:

“Ay, ay, lad, it’s only because aw’ve got a bit o’ brass. Creawn a foo, an’ folk’ll goo deawn o’ their knees to him. Society’s all very well, if it’s nobbut to see heaw th’ nobs carry’n on, but a man is a sight more happy as a journeyman than when he can reckon in millions. What saysta?”

“But money makes the world hum,” I said.

“Aw’ll tell thee what, lad, for me it hums the wrong tune,” he said, and upon his frank, wrinkled face there settled a look of despondency. “It’s true the fine folk flatter me and teem warm wayter deawn my back, makkin’ it itch where it has no’ been bitten, but my gowd is mixed wi’ brass and pain wi’ pleasure. Awm a lonely mun, and aw find cross looks among smiles and friendship wi’ a bit o’ suspicion o’ booath sides.”

I described minutely the strange man I had encountered in his rooms on the night of the reception, and his girlish companion in pink, hoping to obtain some clue to their identity, but although he was unusually, confidential, his mind at this point seemed a perfect blank.

“Aw never know who’s invited,” he declared smiling. “They’re all welcome, all the folk, but they come to meet each other, and doant care a bobbin for their host. Half of ’em come out o’ sheer curiosity to see my place, because they’ve ’eard from th’ papers heaw mich it cost me. Hawe, lad, awm baffled in every effort to improve my social standing; while in business—in business everything aw touch turns to gowd.”

When we entered the great smoking-room a little later I felt for my match-box—a small gold one with my initials engraved upon it, that I wore suspended from my watch-chain—but it was gone. I valued it highly, as it was a present from my mother, and was much concerned regarding its loss. On reflection I could not remember having used it that day, and suddenly the possibility occurred to me that I might have dropped it when I had stumbled and fallen over the body of Gilbert Sternroyd. If it were found beside the corpse, I might be suspected of the crime. I had no clear proof that I had dropped it there, but an impression of dread gripped my heart. There is an infinite distance between our fancies, however precise they may be, and the least bit of reality. The discovery of the crime had stirred my being to its utmost depths, and summoned up tragic pictures before my eyes. Even after I had read the letter, and the half-burnt writing in Sybil’s hand repeatedly, I had cherished a secret hope that I was mistaken, that some slight proof would arise and dispel suspicions that I denounced as senseless, perhaps because I had a foreknowledge of the dreadful duty which must devolve upon me when the body was discovered.

Excusing myself by lame apologies, I left the millionaire and went straight to my chambers.

“Saunders,” I cried as I entered, “you handed me my watch and chain this morning. Did you notice anything remarkable about it?”

“Yes, sir,” my man answered promptly. “I noticed your match-box was not there.”

“Then, confound it, I’ve lost it—I must have lost it last night,” I gasped. “I remember distinctly using it once or twice during the evening.”

“I thought you had taken it off and put it in your waistcoat-pocket,” he said. “You do sometimes.”

“Yes,” I answered. “But look here, the swivel has snapped from the box,” and taking off the chain I handed it to him to examine.

On my sitting-room table lay a note, and as I took it up I saw the envelope bore a coronet and the wyvern’s head couped at the neck vert, the crest of the Strettons.

“That came by boy-messenger a quarter of an hour ago, sir,” Saunders said, as I eagerly tore it open.

It was a hurried scribble from Dora in pencil, and read as follows: “Dear Mr Ridgeway,—I have found on my return a letter from Jack. I must have your advice at once, and will therefore call at your chambers at eleven o’clock to-morrow. The letter was posted at Dover this morning.—Yours sincerely, Dora Stretton.”

“I shall want nothing more, Saunders,” I said, as calmly as I could, and the man wishing me good-night withdrew.

“Posted from Dover!” I echoed. “Then he has decamped. Jack is a murderer!”

I sank into my chair and re-read Dora’s note carefully. What should my course be if he were guilty? I put this question to myself plainly, and perceived all the horror of the situation. Yes, I must see Dora and ascertain the nature of this letter, but how could I bear to tell her the truth, to strike her such a cruel blow, bright, fragile being that she was? The first glimpse of the double prospect of misery and scandal which the future offered, if my suspicions proved just, was too terrible for endurance, and I summoned all my strength of will to shut out these gloomy anticipations. I dreaded to meet Dora; I was already shrinking from the pain that my words must inflict upon her.

What if detectives found my match-box beside the corpse? Might I not be suspected? Might they not dog my footsteps and arrest me on suspicion? If the slightest suspicion attached itself to me, I should be precluded entirely from assisting my friend.

It was clear that I had lost it on that fatal night, for I now remembered distinctly that as I fell my stomach struck heavily against some hard substance. I could indeed still feel the bruise. That my lost property was in Jack’s chambers was evident. If I intended to clear myself and assist him I should be obliged to act upon a resolution.

Chapter Eleven.

The Locked Room.

At first I dared not look the exigency in the face. For fully an hour I paced the room in nervous agitation, but the imperative necessity of recovering the box impressed itself every moment more deeply upon me. The crime was, as yet, still undiscovered; therefore, might I not enter, search, find the piece of evidence that would link me with the terrible tragedy, and return in the same manner as on the previous night? Undoubtedly the body was lying silent and ghastly where I left it, and if only I could get in and out of the flat unobserved, I should be free to assist the wretched man who was my friend, and who had held in his possession the extraordinary letter from Sybil.

The mantel-clock told me it was nearly three. At that hour there would be little likelihood of meeting anyone on the staircases, therefore I decided to go.

Taking one of the candles from the piano and a box of matches, I put on my overcoat and walked quickly along the deserted streets, avoiding the gaze of each constable I met, and eagerly scanning every dark nook as I went forward to the entrance of the imposing pile of flats in which Bethune resided.

My heart beat quickly as I placed my key in the lock and gained admittance. Then, scarce daring to breathe, I sped swiftly upstairs, and carefully unlocking the door of the flat, entered and closed it again. For a moment I stood breathless. A piano sounded somewhere overhead. The darkness unnerved me, for I knew I was in the presence of the ghastly dead.

With trembling hands I drew forth the candle and lit it, afterwards creeping silently forward toward the room in the doorway of which I had discovered the body of the man whose association with my dead love was so mysterious. By death his lips were sealed.

A loose board creaked ominously, and as I passed down the small narrow hall a long grandfather’s clock vibrated and startled me. In those moments of terror every sound became magnified, and I could hear the rapid thumping of my own heart.

Dreading to gaze upon the corpse, I held my breath and at last peered round the corner to the study door, but judge my amazement when I realised that the body was no longer there!

The crime had been discovered!

I dashed forward into the little book-lined den. It presented the same appearance as when I had left it. Nothing had been disturbed. Only the body had been removed, and all trace of the tragedy obliterated.

I bent to examine more closely the spot where the victim had fallen, when suddenly the sound of someone moving appalled me. There was a stealthy footstep in the hall.

Instantly I blew out the candle. But too late! I had been discovered.

In the impenetrable darkness the footsteps approached with soft stealthiness. Drawing myself up I placed my back resolutely against the wall, prepared to defend myself. The body of young Gilbert Sternroyd had been secretly removed, but I had been detected in the act of examining the spot, and had therefore betrayed knowledge of the crime. The murderer might commit a second crime to hide the first. The suggestion held me motionless.

Unarmed, I stood helpless against the unseen assassin, with only my clenched fist uplifted to ward off a blow.

“Who are you?” cried a voice. “Speak! or by Heaven, I’ll fire!” The voice was that of my friend Bethune.

“Jack!” I gasped. “Don’t you know my voice—Stuart?”

“You—old chap!” he exclaimed laughing. “What on earth do you mean by frightening a fellow out of his senses at this hour? I thought you were one of—” and he hesitated. “I thought you were a burglar,” he added quickly.

Then in a few moments we entered the study, and I saw how pale and haggard he looked. His coat was off, and his sleeves were rolled up as if he had been at work. There were dark rings about his bright fevered eyes, and his complexion seemed a yellow clay-colour. In his trembling hand gleamed a deadly weapon—the revolver that had caused the death of Mabel’s mysterious friend.

Startled by this sudden discovery I stood staring at him, unable to utter a word. He laid the revolver upon the table, and gazed at me with eyes in which was an expression of abject terror. In those brief moments it flashed through my mind that some violent exertion had caused the beads of perspiration that stood upon his cold, pale brow; that the body might be still lying in the flat, and that I had entered just at a time when he was in the act of concealing it Guilt was betrayed upon his face; he appeared suspicious and utterly unnerved.

Yet he was my friend, and although I could scarce believe he had stained his hands with blood, I nevertheless resolved to ascertain the truth at all hazards. For a single instant I felt inclined to turn and leave him abruptly, but I quickly realised the necessity of not betraying suspicion if I desired to penetrate the mystery.

We had discovered each other in compromising attitudes. Neither of us dared to speak.

“Well,” I said at last, after a desperate effort to remain calm, “how is it that you bring out a revolver to welcome your visitors—eh?”

“Visitors!” he echoed bitterly. “At this hour? You let yourself in with your own key? Ah! I had never thought of that,” he gasped, as if the sudden recollection that my key fitted his door terrified him.

“Yes. I have been out late to-night, and not having seen or heard anything of you for a couple of days, I dropped in just to see if you were alive.”

“Why shouldn’t I be alive?” he snapped. “I’ve been down to barracks. Thatcher got leave on account of his father’s illness, and I had to do duty for him. I wrote to Dora.”

“I had no line from you. That’s why I looked you up,” I said, as carelessly as I could.

“Then all I’ve got to say, Stuart, is that you might have waited until morning, and not creep in and frighten a fellow just as he’s going to roost.”

“I had no intention of frightening you. In fact, I did not know you were at home.”

“Then why did you come in?” he asked, with emphasis. I at once saw I had inadvertently made a declaration that might arouse his suspicions, and sought to modify it.

“Well,” I said, “I came in order to leave a note for you. In the passage I heard something fall, and was looking for it. I am leaving town early in the morning.”

“You are?” he cried eagerly. “Where are you going?”

“To Wadenhoe, for some hunting. My object in leaving the note was to ask you to run down and stay with us for a week or so. My people will be awfully glad to see you, and as Dora and her mother are going to entertain a house-party at Blatherwycke, you won’t be lonely.”

“Well, thanks, old fellow, it’s exceedingly good of you,” he answered, evidently reassured. “I should be charmed to have a few runs with the Fitzwilliam, for I’ve most pleasant recollections of three weeks last season in your country. When shall I come?”

“Next Saturday.”

“Very well. Give my compliments to your mother, and thank her for her kind invitation. I’ll be down on Saturday.”

“But why were you so scared when you discovered me?” I asked, leaning on the edge of the table and regarding him with feigned amusement.

“I don’t think I was very scared, was I?” he asked, with a hollow laugh. “There’s a bit of a scandal in the regiment that has upset me, and I don’t feel quite myself just now. A night’s rest, you know, will set me right. Besides, I’ve been writing a good deal lately and it always takes the nerve out of me.”

He drew forth the spirit stand and poured out some whisky. At first I could not bear the thought of drinking with a murderer, but again it was impressed upon my mind that, to successfully solve the mystery of the murder of Gilbert Sternroyd, I must act with discretion and arouse no suspicion that I had actually discovered the body. Therefore we drank together, while Jack’s demeanour quickly became calmer. It was apparent that he had no idea of my previous visit, and it was also equally manifest that the light-hearted gaiety succeeding his intense nervousness was forced and quite unnatural. He was striving to hide from me his terrible secret!

He flung himself into a chair while I stood upon the hearthrug, and our conversation drifted mainly upon our proposed runs with the hounds. I had not expected to find him at home nor to meet him with a revolver in his hand, but now I had made the discovery I understood all its importance. Yet his demeanour had in a few minutes so entirely changed; he seemed so calm and reassured that I relapsed into discouraging uncertainty.

Nevertheless, if he came to Wadenhoe I should have better opportunity of observing him, and of ascertaining whether the murdered man was an acquaintance. I could then test him by making observations and watching his face; I could worm from him his secret. I had trusted this man as my best friend, but now that I was half convinced he was an assassin I was filled with a feeling of revulsion, and was determined that Dora’s life should never be wrecked by an alliance with one whose hands were stained with blood.

Lying back in the American rocking-chair, with his hands clasped behind his head, he was laughing tightly as he told me an amusing story he had heard at mess that night, entirely forgetting the strange circumstances of our meeting, and having apparently overlooked the extreme lameness of my excuses. His appearance had been so unexpected that I had been quite unprepared to answer his questions and my invitation had been given entirely without previous contemplation. But I knew I had acted wisely, and that I had entirely allayed any suspicions I had aroused.

Then I thought of my missing match-box. He had no doubt not yet discovered it, and if he found it subsequently he would believe I had lost it during my present visit. Good! I was in the position of a detective holding an important clue, upon which I might work, and either clear or convict him.

Presently, when I announced my intention to depart, he rose, exclaiming with a laugh:

“When you call next time, old chap, you might ring, and not enter with your key. It was a narrow squeak that I didn’t wing you.”

“Are you so fond of shooting at people?” I asked meaningly.

“Shooting! What do you mean?” he asked with a sickly smile. “As a soldier I have to practice with the revolver, of course.”

“But not upon your visitors, I hope,” I said laughing as we were passing along the narrow hall.

We were outside the door of the dining-room, which, being ajar, showed there was no light inside, when suddenly there came from the room a distinct sound.

“Halloa!” I cried gayly. “Who have you got in there? Let’s have a look.”

I placed my hand upon the door to push it open, but with an agile movement he sprang towards me and stood resolutely with his back to the door, deathly pale in alarm.

“No, Stuart,” he gasped. “You must not enter.”

“Why? Who’s your friend? You arouse my curiosity,” I said.

“I forbid you to enter,” he replied firmly, standing with his arms akimbo and brows knit in determination.

“What’s the meaning of this confounded secrecy?” I asked seriously.

“It means—well, it means that I have a visitor who has called to see me privately.”

“Male or female?”

“I refuse to answer any such question regarding my personal affairs,” he replied brusquely.

“Come, don’t humbug. Let me go in and ascertain who it is,” I said, trying to push him aside and enter. But within a second he shut the door, locked it, and removed the key, saying:

“I absolutely decline to allow you to enter that room, Stuart. Indeed, your actions this evening are so strange and extraordinary that I’m almost inclined to think you are not accountable for them.”

“Then you refuse absolutely to tell me who your mysterious visitor is?”

“I do. It is neither my desire nor intention to compromise any person who endeavours to do me a service, even to gratify this idle curiosity of my best friend.”

Such caustic words, uttered in a tone of bitter resentment, showed plainly that he was resolved to preserve the secret of his visitor’s identity.

Was it some person who was assisting him to get rid of the hideous evidence of the crime?

His hands trembled perceptibly as he stood before the locked door, and there had returned to his ashen face that wild, haggard expression of intense fear so noticeable when he had first discovered me.

“You speak of the person being compromised if discovered by me,” I said. “Then I presume your visitor is a woman?”

“You are at liberty to entertain whatever conviction you please. I shall, however, tell you nothing.”

“You refuse?”

“Yes, I refuse.”

“Even though I should tell Dora that I found, in the middle of the night, a mysterious woman in your rooms?”

“Even then I shall refuse to compromise my visitor,” he answered, with firmness that completely astounded me.

“Very well,” I said abruptly. “Good-night. Remember your appointment, and come down to Wadenhoe next Saturday.”

“Good-night. Next time we meet I hope you will not be quite so inquisitive,” he replied, as he closed the door after me and I descended the stairs.

Chapter Twelve.

In Strict Confidence.

My first impulse was to remain outside and watch for any person who might emerge, but I knew that his front windows commanded a wide view of the street and he would soon detect me; and again, if anyone did come out, I should not know whether they came from one of the other flats in the same building. Slowly I walked round to my chambers, contemplating the best course to pursue, and at length came to the conclusion that a midnight vigil would be useless, for it might possibly further arouse my friend’s suspicions and so thwart my own efforts.

His refusal to disclose the identity of his guest and his firm determination to keep the visit a secret, convinced me more than ever that by his hand Gilbert Sternroyd had fallen, and that he was endeavouring to get rid of the evidence of his crime. That night I slept but little, and in the morning, remembering Dora’s appointment, I resolved to run round and see him before she called. It was my intention to make pretence that I had a conviction that his visitor was a woman, and wished to give him a chance of explaining to me. If he again refused, then I would impart my suspicions to the woman who loved him. I had no desire to cause her pain, but felt it best that she should know the truth. Sooner or later the blow must fall, and I knew alas! that it would crush her.

Just before ten I stood again outside Bethune’s door and rang. My summons was answered by Mrs Horton, who in reply to my question whether Captain Bethune was in, answered:

“No, sir. The Captain hasn’t been home these three days, sir. He’s at barracks, I believe.”

“For three days!” I echoed. It was evident that he had returned and again left unknown to this woman. Then I asked whether she had been there every day.

“No sir. I’ve been down in Hampshire, sir, to bury my poor niece. The Captain said he would be away, so my daughter went with me.”

In answer to further questions she told me that she had returned to work at eight that morning, and that the Captain was still absent. It was evident, too, that she had no suspicion of the tragedy, every trace of which had now been carefully removed.

Making an excuse that I wanted to obtain a paper from the rack in the dining-room, I entered and looked around. Nothing had apparently been disturbed, but on the mantelshelf I saw a plain gold signet ring that had evidently been overlooked. Taking it up, I examined it, and found engraved on the inside the initials “G.S.” It was evidently a ring from the dead man’s finger.

I put it down, scrutinised the room carefully, looked in the grate, but saw nothing, then taking up a paper, went out, wishing Mrs Horton “good-day.”

Punctually at the hour appointed, Saunders ushered Dora into my room. She was elegantly dressed in a smart tailor-made gown of dove-grey cloth with a large black hat with feathers, and wore a flimsy veil that rather enhanced than concealed her beauty.

“I feel I’m becoming awfully reckless in making this visit,” she commenced with a laugh when she had seated herself in my chair, “but when I got home last night I received such a strange letter from Jack that I felt compelled to seek your advice.”

“If I can be of any service I shall be delighted,” I said.

She seemed nervously agitated, and her eyes were, I thought, unduly heavy, as if she were unusually anxious.

“Thanks, you are always kind,” she said. “Both Mabel and myself always look upon you as our big brother. We often wonder why you never marry. We shall hear of it, however, some day.”

“Never, I hope,” I answered with a forced smile, remembering the grim tragedy of my marriage, and recollecting that her lover had once made the very same remark to me.

“Why never? If you had a wife you would be far happier. At present you have only your man to look after your personal comforts, and surely your dinners at your club can never be so pleasant as if you dined at home in company with a pretty wife.”

“Upon my word,” I cried, laughing, “I shall believe that you actually intend to propose to me next, Dora. I think if it were not—well, if it were not for an obstacle whose name is Jack Bethune, I should be inclined to offer you marriage.”

“Oh! Don’t talk like that,” she protested with a demure look. “You quite misconstrue my words. Once you and I were lovers, when we were in our teens, but all that is past. We have both seen the world now, and have met others whom we could love better.”

“I don’t know that I have,” I said reflectively. She was one of the most charming girls of the season, and I believe were it not for the fact that I had already loved and lost, and that my feelings toward the opposite sex had become sadly embittered by what I felt was unnecessary pain that had been heaped upon me, I should have asked her to renounce her lover and let me take his place.

But only during a few moments did I entertain such foolish thoughts, for I quickly saw that she adored the soldier-novelist, and that I had no right to be disloyal to a friend, even though that friend might be a murderer.

“I’m afraid our conversation is drifting towards a rather dangerous topic,” she said. “But you are such a confirmed bachelor that I always feel I can talk to you without fear that you will go down on your knees or perform some other equally absurd antic.”

“I’m sure I’m greatly gratified to know that I’m held in such high esteem,” I observed laughing. “But under the eyes of a pretty woman like yourself, men are sometimes fascinated, you know.”

“Yes, but fascination is not love. When a man is fascinated by a woman, either the latter is an adventuress, or the former a fool.” And she threw back her handsome head and laughed at my discomfiture.

I had been fascinated by Sybil. Had she been an adventuress, I wondered; or had I been a fool?

“True,” I answered, earnestly. “But woman’s beauty exercises a most powerful influence over man.” Then I added—“I confess that if I was not aware of your love for Jack I should think of you tenderly, and very possibly I should perform one of those gymnastic antics you denounce as absurd.”

“Then I’m very pleased you know of our attachment,” she answered with a coquettish laugh. “I mean to marry Jack, as you are aware, therefore I can never be any more to you than a friend, but friend I will be always, if you will allow me?”

“Of course,” I said. “The many years we have known one another—I mustn’t count them or I shall mention your age, which won’t be polite—give us licence to talk with freedom without falling in love—eh? But there, a truce to joking, what about this extraordinary letter from Jack? Where is he?”

“Well, he writes from Dover,” she said, drawing a note from her perfumed muff. “Shall I read you an extract?”

“Certainly. I suppose I mustn’t read it myself because it is all ‘darling’ love and kisses.”

She blushed, saying: “I have read somewhere—in one of Jack’s books, I think—the proverb, Les hommes aiment par jalousie, mais les femmes sont jalouses par amour. If you loved a woman, you too would call her darling, and I know you would kiss her. Every man does.”

“Your own experience—eh?” I laughed. “Perhaps I should make crosses in representation of kisses. But if you intend to convey the idea of male impossibilities I think those of your own sex are certainly more numerous. It has always occurred to me that feminine impossibilities would make a very remarkable and interesting study. For instance, woman can’t for the life of her make head nor tail out of a time-table; she can’t be jolly and appreciate the most enjoyable function if she thinks her hair is a little out of curl; she can’t help gauging a woman by her clothes, even though experience has taught her that beggars sometimes ride in fine carriages, and she can’t, when it’s a question between Cupid and herself, help saying ‘No’ where she means ‘Yes’ and vice versa.”

“And man, when he sees a woman’s pretty face, no matter if the complexion is added by the hare’s foot or the glorious tresses false, must straightway flirt with her if he has a chance, just as you are doing now.”

Then she laughed heartily, and clapped her small gloved hands gleefully, knowing that she had successfully turned my own sarcasm against myself.

This I was compelled to admit. She was apparently in the highest spirits. Little, alas! did she dream of the terrible truth that the man she loved was an assassin. After more good-humoured banter she pursed her lips in pretty affectation, then opened the treasured letter, saying:

“Now, this is what puzzles me. Jack, who gives no address, the postmark only showing that it was posted at Dover, says: ‘I came up from Hounslow intending to call and see you. I only had sufficient time, however, to drive to Charing Cross and catch the night mail to the Continent. I am writing this in the train, and shall post it at Dover before crossing. I may be absent only a week, or I may be away a month or so. If I can I will write, but I can give no address for I shall be constantly moving. Therefore if you love me do not attempt to communicate with me. I am sorry it is not possible for me to see you and explain, but immediately you receive this letter destroy it, and if anyone inquires after me—whoever they may be—tell them you know nothing. Do not mention my letter to a soul. Trust in me, and when I return I will explain. Good-bye.’”

“What else?” I asked.

“Good-bye, darling,” she said in a low voice, blushing deeply.

“Certainly it is very strange—very strange,” I said. “But if I were you I should not trouble about it. It may be that he has been sent on some special mission abroad.”

“Oh, I shall not worry,” she answered reassuringly. “In a week or two he will return and explain.”

It was upon my lips to tell her the sad news that he would never return, but I stifled the words, and said instead:

“Of course. There is nothing very extraordinary in his omission to give an address. If he is travelling quickly to an uncertain destination, as I have done sometimes, letters are quite out of the question.”

“Yes, I know. But there is yet a stranger fact,” she said. “Last night when we got home Lord Wansford came to supper with some other people, and he told me he had a few hours before seen Jack at Victoria Station talking to a lady who was leaving with a quantity of luggage.”

This new feature was startling, but I saw it was best to scout the idea.

“Old Wansford is rather short-sighted,” I observed. “No doubt he was mistaken. Jack would not wilfully deceive you like that.”

“No. I feel confident he wouldn’t,” she replied, toying with the letter. “My opinion is the same as yours, that he mistook someone else for Jack.”

“No doubt. I’ve been round to his chambers half an hour ago, and seen Mrs Horton. She says he has not been home for three days and that fully bears out his letter.”

“Do you think,” she said hesitatingly a few moments later, “do you think that if I went down to Hounslow I could find out where he has gone? I know Major Tottenham quite well.”

“No. If I were you I would not go. Had he known his destination he would certainly have put it in his letter. I will endeavour to find out for you, but in the meantime do not let his absence trouble you. I have invited him down to Wadenhoe, so you will meet, and—”

“Oh, what a good angel you are,” she cried joyously. “I’ve been wondering how I could get him down there for the hunting now that Ma declines to ask him.”

“Well, I have asked him because I knew you wanted to have him near you. So do not let your spirits flag nor trouble yourself regarding his journey. He will be back soon, and you can have some jolly spins across country together.”

“I don’t know how to thank you sufficiently,” she said, rising slowly and stretching forth her small hand. “You are an awfully good friend both to Jack and to myself. But I must go, for I have to call at the dressmaker’s with Ma at twelve, and I’ve only just time to get back.”

“Good-bye, Dora,” I said earnestly. “If we do not meet again in town I shall call on you at Blatherwycke. Then we can arrange plans.”

We shook hands and she left, leaving behind her a delightful breath of some subtle perfume that stirred my senses. Her beauty always brought back to me sad memories of Sybil, the adorable woman who came into my life, the one ray of happiness, brief and fleeting, as sunshine on an April day. Like Dora, she had been bright, radiant, and happy, but the grave, alas! had claimed her, and she had left me alone, gloomy and forgotten.

I took her portrait—the one I had bought in Regent Street—from its hiding-place, and as I gazed upon the pictured face, my throat contracted and a mist rose before my eyes—the tearful mist caused by life’s bitterness.

Chapter Thirteen.

Between the Dances.

I delayed my departure for nearly a fortnight in an endeavour to learn something of Bethune but could glean no tidings, so at last went down to the home of my childhood. My grandfather had purchased it in the early part of the century because the county was a hunting one and the neighbours a good set. I had spent the greater part of my youth there, and my parents still resided there at frequent intervals. Situated midway between Oundle and Deenethorpe, near Benefield village, Wadenhoe Manor was a great rambling old place, a typical English home, half hidden by ivy, with quaint gables and Elizabethan chimneys. As in the fading sunlight I drove up to it I thought I had never seen the old place looking so peaceful. Perhaps it was because my own mind was so perturbed by recent events that the solitude seemed complete. From the old mullioned windows the yellow sunset flashed back like molten gold and the birds in the chestnuts were chattering loudly before roosting. On the hill-slope farther down lay the quiet hamlet, a poem in itself. By the grey tower of its church stood two tall poplars, like guardian angels, the golden green of their young foliage all a-shimmer in the sunlight Beneath them was the sombre shade of one old yew, while a line of dark cypress trees, marshalled like a procession of mourners, stood along the grey old wall, and here and there showed the brown thatch of cottage roofs.

At home I found quite a party of visitors and the warmest welcome awaited me. My parents, who had not enjoyed good health, had remained there nearly all the winter, my father only coming to town now and then on pressing business, so I had not seen my mother for several months. The visitors, mostly friends from London, were a gay and pleasant company and dinner was bright and enjoyable, while there was plenty of brilliant chatter in the drawing-room afterwards.

Every one was full of expectancy of the meet on the morrow at Glapthorn, and the ball that was to be given by Lady Stretton at Blatherwycke in the evening, therefore all retired early, and were about again betimes.

The meet was a great success, and at night I accompanied our party to the dance, not because I felt in any mood for dancing, but because I wanted to get a chat with Dora and hear if she had received news of her lover.