F.E. Mills Young (continued 2)

“I’m sorry,” he said. “When we get out of this we’ll find a seat somewhere outside.”

Mrs Lawless did not answer him. She was conscious of an arm pressing against her shoulder, pressing hard, and, looking up, met fully the keen grey piercing eyes of the man whom before that night she had not seen since the afternoon when he had called upon her at her house in Rondebosch. The arm, the shoulder of which pressed her shoulder, belonged to him. It encircled the girl who had sat beside him during supper, the girl in the white frock with the string of pearls about her neck. She leant against him, laughing, flushed, and happy, her eager eyes alight with excitement. It was all enjoyment to her; the crush with that strong arm to shield her was part of the fun.

Mrs Lawless scarcely noticed the girl; she looked above her, and for a long moment gazed back into the sombre dominating eyes, the owner of which surveyed her as he might have surveyed a stranger, with an intense yet aloof curiosity. In the quiet, steady, concentrated look he bent upon her, and in his grave, unsmiling face, there was an amount of interest, even of admiration, but no outward sign of recognition. The initiative, Mrs Lawless realised, was with her. She smiled faintly, a smile that was half-diffident, half-wistful; and then suddenly the crowd swayed, parted, and moved forward again; and Van Bleit steered his partner between the revolving couples to the nearest exit.

“What a beastly squeeze,” he said, when they emerged into the fresh air. “I’m afraid you will blame me for letting you in for that.”

Mrs Lawless sat down on a settee on the stoep. She was flushed and a little breathless; but it was not owing to the crush in the ball-room; she had been so well guarded that she had scarcely felt the inconvenience of the crowd. She looked at Van Bleit, and there was a gleam that was almost triumphant in her eyes.

“I’m not blaming you... As an experience, I enjoyed it,” she said, and laughed.

She put up a hand to her shoulder. She could still feel the impression of a man’s sleeve against her flesh. It had pressed hard. The man had stood like a rock, immovable and as firm; there had been no give in the shoulder that had, as it were, set itself against hers. In all probability, she decided, there was a red mark upon her arm. If Van Bleit had not been present she would have made an examination.

“I wish you would go and find me a wrap,” she asked him suddenly. “I brought one with me. It isn’t altogether wise to sit here without after getting so hot dancing.”

And when he had gone she moved deliberately into the brighter light that streamed forth through the open doorway of the ball-room, and pulling her sleeve aside examined the arm. The mark she had expected to discover was there, a faint pink stain upon the whiteness of the soft flesh. She lowered the sleeve over it gently, and her face quivered. And yet it was only a small matter that could not have caused her the least pain.

“I trust you were not hurt a while since?” a voice addressed her curtly from the doorway, and lifting her eyes for the second time that night, they encountered the keen gaze of the man who was responsible for the injury. She flushed quickly.

“No,” she answered, and hesitated, confused and obviously nervous.

He stepped out on to the stoep.

“Where’s your partner?” he asked abruptly.

She explained, and he turned and walked beside her away from the bright light and the sight and sound of the dancers. His own partner had been compelled to retire to the dressing-room to have some damage to her frock repaired. She would not be back to finish the dance, which was practically finished then; the music was getting faster and faster, and so were the hurrying feet.

“Do you care to sit down?” he asked, pausing before a couple of low chairs arranged in a sheltered corner of the less-frequented side of the stoep. She seated herself in one, and he took up a position behind the second, leaning forward with his arms on the back of it.

“Shall I stay... until Van Bleit returns?” he asked.

“Please do.”

She clutched at the arm of her chair, grasping it firmly. There were so many things she wanted to say to this man, and time was so short; at any moment they might be interrupted... The precious moments were slipping away... And he gave her so little help. His manner was so curt as to be almost repellent.

“Do you think it necessary,” she asked, “that when we meet it should be as strangers—almost enemies?”

“Aren’t we that?” he said. “I understood that I represented both to you.”

She was silent because his last words had recalled a hard thing she had once in the years gone by written to him in an hour of wounded anger: “I do not know you... I think I have never known you. You are a stranger to me, and, I see now, my greatest enemy...”

“It is for you,” he added, filling in the pause, “to determine our future relations... I am a little surprised that you should meet me as you have done. And I’m not sure that it wouldn’t have been happier for both if you had acted differently... The fires of yesterday are ashes on the hearth of to-day... I don’t know how it is with you, but the sight of greying embers chills me.”

She sat leaning forward, her eyes fixed unseeingly straight before her as though they sought to pierce the blackness that lay beyond the stoep. Some of the pain and bitterness that was in her heart shone through them, so that they looked tortured in the soft glow of the artificial lights. She gripped the arm of her chair more tightly, and, still staring into the darkness, said tonelessly:

“With women it is not usual to leave ashes lying on the hearth.”

“You sweep them up and throw them away,” he answered. “It is wiser so... One forgets.”

“Some do,” she rejoined slowly. “And others—collect their ashes carefully and kindle them anew.”

He looked at her closely.

“Foolish and futile,” he said. “Ashes can never give forth the glow and the heat of unspoilt fuel. A thing that is dead has served its end. It should then be applied to other uses; for it is impossible that it should ever again serve its original purpose.”

“If that is your philosophy,” she began.

“It is,” he interrupted shortly.

“Then with you the ashes remain ashes to despoil the hearth of to-day!”

“I brush them out of sight,” he returned lightly. “I have lived so long now amid the dust of such memories that I have learnt to turn my back upon the muddle till it no longer inconveniences me...” He smiled cynically, and added: “There was room for a retort there. You might have flung out at me that I have always shown a propensity for turning my back.”

She winced. His speech cut her more than he would have believed any words of his could wound her. It was with great difficulty that she kept back the tears.

“That wasn’t worthy of you,” she said.

He reddened suddenly.

“I beg your pardon... It was an ill-considered remark. But it’s one of the memories that sticks closest... The dust of it lies thick upon everything and clouds the rest of life.”

She sat back in the depths of her chair and turned her white face up to his; a great sadness and a great yearning showed in the beautiful eyes.

“I think you make too much of it,” she said... “The accident of a moment!”

“An accident that ruined my career,” he returned with great bitterness.

“Not ruined it,” she expostulated,—“checked it. You could have made a name and a place for yourself in spite of it.”

“And I didn’t.”

“And you have not,” she corrected,—“yet.”

He laughed abruptly.

“Think of the time that has been wasted,” he said. “You might have said all this to me years ago. I don’t say it would have made any difference... unless it were to keep green some corner of my heart. But encouragement to be efficacious should be given when life is hardest, not when one has learnt to adapt it to one’s needs. But it’s generous of you to offer even a belated encouragement. I don’t wish to appear ungrateful. It’s more than I have deserved—or, indeed, expected of you.”

She stretched out a hand and laid it on his arm.

“Don’t be bitter, Hugh... We both have made mistakes.”

He looked down at the white glove that rested on his sleeve, and his lips tightened. The arm inside the sleeve was tense. There was no more response than if she had touched instead the stuffed arm of the chair.

“Perhaps,” he allowed. “But we won’t add to our mistakes by growing sentimental.”

She removed her hand without speaking, and sat silent with strained face, curiously still and composed. He watched her in his aloof fashion. If he felt any interest in her beyond the ordinary interest that a man experiences in a beautiful woman, he concealed it admirably. He betrayed not the slightest regret when Van Bleit came hurrying up to them with a light wrap over his arm. He had had some difficulty in finding it. Mrs Smythe eventually assisted in the search. He was voluble and apologetic. He shot a suspicious glance at Lawless, standing at the back of the chair in the same position, leaning forward with his arms on the top of it, and then turned again to the quiet figure of the woman who had not spoken after the first smiling word of thanks.

“You moved,” he said. “I looked for you where I left you, but the seat was unoccupied.”

“It was quieter here,” she explained. She rose and stood while Van Bleit put the wrap around her shoulders, and, with an exaggerated air of devotion, drew it close about her throat. Lawless bowed to her and moved away, making a slow progress along the stoep against the stream of dancers, pouring forth from the ball-room in quest of air.

“Gods!” he mused, avoiding the stream mechanically while seeming not to see it. “What a queer trick of fate! What has brought her out here, I wonder? ... That’s what I should like to get at... What has brought her out here?”

When in the early hours of the morning Mrs Lawless appeared on the pavement on Van Bleit’s arm, Lawless was standing on the kerb beside the waiting motor in the act of lighting a cigar. He tossed away the match, and opened the door for her. Then he raised his hat, and turning silently, disappeared into the blackness beyond the lights of the car. She turned her head to look after him; but the darkness had swallowed the tall figure, and the throbbing of the engine drowned the sound of his rapidly retreating steps.

Chapter Seven.

Colonel Grey sat alone on his stoep in the darkness and listened, as once before he had listened, to the quick, measured step of the man whose claim upon his consideration had rested solely on a reputation for valour.

The Colonel had believed strongly hitherto in his own discernment. Now he doubted, not only his judgment in human affairs, but his qualification for the responsible mission he had undertaken to carry successfully through. Twice he had been mistaken in the persons he had employed. He had paid off the one a month before, and had satisfied himself that the boy had taken his passage to Durban, and gone aboard with his broken head still encased in bandages, and with more money in his pockets than was good for him. The other case could not be disposed of in the same manner. In so far as their dealings together went, the man had given no cause either for satisfaction or complaint. Up to the present nothing definite had been accomplished. Colonel Grey doubted that anything would be accomplished. He mistrusted his man—the man whose reputation for courage he now knew to be spurious,—who was further accredited with being a traitor. The thing stuck in the Colonel’s mind and inflamed it. In a quiet, controlled way he was furious that he should have been led into having anything to do with the scoundrel. He was impatient to face him, to confound him with the knowledge of his disgrace. He wondered whether the fellow would try to bluff it, or if he would cave in...

And then the man he was thinking about arrived, and stepping up to the stoep with his firm, decided tread, stood before him, as he had stood on the night of their first meeting, looking at him inquiringly with those strangely penetrating, inscrutable grey eyes.

“You sent for me,” he said briefly, and waited to learn the reason of the summons.

The other man rose without speaking, and led the way into the house, closing the French windows behind them as he had done before.

“You are sure you were not followed?” he asked, as he drew a chair out from the table and seated himself.

“I think not. I saw no one.”

“Ah! ... I fancied I heard footsteps in the road.”

“You have good ears,” Lawless answered. “I heard nothing, and I was on the alert.”

Colonel Grey regarded him attentively. It was an extraordinary thing, but the sight of the purposeful face, with the steady eyes, and the deep, slanting scar, was strangely reassuring. Unaccountably, he felt his resentment dying. Against his reason, against his volition, he had a liking for the man. In face of his liking the charges against him seemed monstrous. It was almost incredible that he should have been cashiered from the Army for cowardice—“misbehaviour in the Field in the face of the enemy,” that was the wording of the indictment. He had received the information from an unquestionable source. Through the same channel he had learnt that subsequently, under another name, he had taken up arms against his country. The first was a grave enough offence in the Colonel’s opinion, the second was unpardonable.

“Have you no news for me?” he asked abruptly, sitting very straight in his chair, his brows drawn fiercely together while he watched his companion from under them with a curiously intent gaze. “It is many weeks since we met.”

Lawless leant back negligently, his knees crossed, one arm, with the hand lying loosely open, resting on the table. At his last remark he looked over at the speaker in his quick, direct way, and said:

“I supposed that was why you had summoned me. You’ve been wondering what I have been doing with your time and your money... Well, not much... I’ve learnt one thing, that Van Bleit carries the papers on his person for their greater safety, and a loaded revolver for his own. Apart from that we are not more forward.”

“You’ve no plan for getting the packet from him?”

“Not so far. The fellow does not give me a chance. If I spent forty-eight hours beneath the same roof with him, I’d manage it... Of course, I could get hold of what you want at any time if I chose to kill the brute; but I’ve a strong disinclination to swing for him.”

“Yes.” Colonel Grey looked thoughtful. “That wouldn’t do,” he said. “No! ... We don’t want murder done... Risky... And awkward too... afterwards... too many questions asked.”

There was silence between them for a space. Inside the room a death-watch ticked loudly against the wainscot, and without a large white moth beat with futile insistence upon the window-pane in its endeavours to reach the light. The noise of its soft body thudding against the glass drew Colonel Grey’s attention to the fact that the blinds were not drawn. He rose promptly and lowered them.

“Quite unnecessary,” Lawless observed. “I saw to it when I took this seat that no one, unless he stood on the stoep and stared deliberately in at the window, could see me sitting here.”

The Colonel wheeled round and faced him.

“Your forethought is quite extraordinary,” he said, “for a novice at the game.”

The other laughed carelessly.

“During an adventurous life,” he replied, “I’ve had rogues to deal with before.”

The speech, as the Colonel heard it, was almost a challenge. His mind reverted to the serious indictment against this man who sat there so coolly, with the half-derisive smile lingering on the thin, handsome face; and the fierce feeling of indignation against him surged up afresh. He walked deliberately back to his seat and sat down.

“Yours has certainly been no ordinary career,” he said bluntly. “For the honour of my countrymen, I’m glad to think that is so... You will be less surprised at my taking this tone when I tell you that I have received information concerning you of a very unsatisfactory nature. Subsequent to our first meeting I instituted inquiries relative to certain matters we touched upon at that interview. The reply to those inquiries reached me by last mail.”

“Yes.” Lawless did not change his lounging attitude, but his face hardened perceptibly, and his voice rang like steel. “After our talk I supposed you would,” he said. “The only thing that surprised me was that you didn’t pursue your inquiries before making arrangements with me.”

“That was where I made my mistake,” the Colonel replied stiffly.

“And how do you purpose rectifying that? ... Do you think that the charges against me, as you have heard them, unfit me for the dirty work you have given me to do? I’ve had some strange billets in my time, and this, in my opinion, is the least honourable of all. A case of blackmail that can’t be entrusted to the proper authorities is a precious shady business.”

“There are reasons,” the Colonel began, and stopped suddenly. Why should he attempt explanations? Whatever the business, the employment was worthy the man.

“Well, no matter!” Lawless said. “Let that pass. But I should like to hear what you have against me... When it is one’s misfortune to only win notoriety through misdeeds it is interesting to know the limit of such publicity... What part of my record have you?”

“I have no interest in your affairs, Mr Lawless, beyond your one-time connection with the Army,” Colonel Grey answered quietly. “When you informed me you had been cashiered, I was curious to know the reason. I am now in possession of the details, and the further discreditable information that you sold your sword arm to the enemies of your country... Have you anything to say to that charge?”

“Nothing... Your information is quite correct.”

“Then, sir, I will tell you to your face you are a damned traitor.”

The Colonel was leaning forward in his excitement, his arm stretched out along the table. The man he addressed, and thus deliberately insulted, drew himself up straighter, his face set and stern, a cold glint in the steel-grey eyes that narrowed dangerously as they met the other’s angry gaze.

“I can excuse your heat, sir,” he replied with amazing control, “in consideration of your ignorance of the circumstances. Had things been otherwise, and it had been my privilege to criticise another’s disgrace, I should probably have made use of the same forcible language that you give utterance to... When we have been through the mire we recognise a different quality in the mud. Men have been reduced to the ranks for the misdemeanour for which I was dismissed the Service... Had I been reduced to the ranks I should have made a good soldier. My punishment, I contend, was unjust.”

“By which specious reasoning, I presume, you excuse the crime of treachery, and seek to justify a spirit of revenge?—or gain, was it?”

Lawless frowned.

“I make no excuses,” he returned curtly. “I don’t recognise that my actions need condoning. And I did not join the Boers’ side with thought either of revenge or gain...”

He halted abruptly, and, for the first time taking his eyes off the other’s face, stared hard at the unshaded lamp.

“It appears,” the Colonel interposed drily, “that you were actuated by blind impulse.”

Lawless drummed on the table with his fingers and said nothing. He felt strangely annoyed. And yet he had known positively that the facts must come to this man’s knowledge before long. In the circumstances it was little likely that he would make no inquiries concerning one he had employed in a secret and confidential matter. That he regretted his haste in having employed him was obvious. It was the term traitor that stuck in the Colonel’s gorge. He found it particularly distasteful to hold further intercourse with one so steeped in dishonour.

“Perhaps it would be as well to bury the past,” he said with an effort after a while. “In the lives of many men there are matters which it is not profitable to discuss. I can only add that I wish I had known of this before.”

Lawless got upon his feet, and stood stiffly upright, his face grim, and colourless under the sunburn, like the face of a man whose blood is at white heat with hardly repressed passion.

“Am I to understand that you dispense with my services?” he asked curtly.

Colonel Grey was somewhat slow in replying. Discretion weighed in the balance against a strong personal objection to working with the man, and won.

“I don’t know as to that,” he replied at last uncertainly. “We’ve gone so far... You have a dangerous knowledge... I prefer to have you on our side.”

“I see.” Lawless’ manner was icy. “Then, you mean me to go on with the job?”

“Yes, I think so... Yes! ... I do.”

“You don’t ask me whether I am satisfied to go on with it.”

His hearer’s eyebrows went up with a jerk.

“Why shouldn’t you?” he asked, surprised. “You’re well paid.”

“True! The pay’s good. It would be absurd to throw away good money for a scruple...”

“I was under the impression that you had buried your scruples,” the other answered, and was amazed at the sudden passion that blazed in the sombre eyes.

“Never in my life before have I permitted a man to insult me as you have insulted me,” was the angry reply. “I’ve swallowed as much as I intend to swallow... Whatever you have learnt concerning my past does not invest you with the right of insulting me.”

“Your complaint is quite reasonable,” Colonel Grey returned with a certain quiet dignity that partially disarmed the other’s math. “I have allowed my feelings to lead me away. I regret it. Will you please be seated, Mr Lawless? There are one or two things which I wish to say to you, if you are satisfied to go on with this business.”

He paused deliberately; and, after a moment’s hesitation, Lawless sat down.

“In the first place,” he added, when Lawless was again occupying the chair from which he had risen, “I think we should have a time limit for the carrying out of this enterprise. Is that agreeable to you?”

“Perfectly,” came the brief response.

“Then, suppose we say six months... How does that strike you?”

“It’s fair enough.”

“You haven’t any suggestion of your own to make on that head?”

“None... Only I shall get the papers before six months are up.”

“You are very confident,” the Colonel said.

Lawless looked thoughtful.

“I take a peculiar personal interest in this affair,” he said. “If I did not I should not go on with it... I told you I would get those papers for you, or kill your man... I mean to do one or the other—or both.”

Colonel Grey scrutinised him earnestly. His lips parted as though he would say something, and then shut with a snap on the unspoken words. Lawless sat up suddenly.

“There isn’t any use in your seeing me,” he said. “Give me my head, the funds to go on with for a few months, and then leave the matter in my hands. You shall have those papers... It’s not that I take a particular interest in them, or in your client, but it pleases me to do this thing. When I make up my mind to carry a thing through I do it. You may call that tall talking—but it amounts simply to this, that I hold life cheaply; the only law I recognise is the unwritten law. I’ve lived among the social outcasts—I’m one of them, and so, perhaps, I am well suited to carry through a matter that is outside the law. You don’t trust me... Because of what you have heard you doubt even that I have the courage which this affair may demand. It’s natural that you should doubt. But if you can bring yourself to accept my word, this matter is safe in my hands.”

There was a long silence. Then the Colonel spoke abruptly, and, as it sounded, greatly against his inclination. But in spite of himself, in spite of all the evidence against him, he liked and trusted this man. Perhaps the fact that he had not attempted to explain, or to excuse an inexcusable crime, prejudiced him favourably.

“I do accept your word,” he said bluntly. “I confess I have entertained misgivings... That is hardly surprising, I think, considering how much is at stake. But I’ll take your word, Mr Lawless... And I accept your conditions. When you have anything of importance to communicate you will let me hear from you...”

When Lawless got back to his hotel that night he was astonished to find a visitor waiting for him—a woman. She had been shown into a private room. The hour was unusual, so were the circumstances; but the management had no wish to offend so good a client as Lawless; therefore the lady was, after a little difficulty, admitted; and Lawless on his return was discreetly informed of her presence. He received the information in silence, betraying none of the astonishment that moved him, which was considerable. He could not for the life of him imagine who the lady could be.

He was no wiser on entering the room where she was. She was a tall woman of commanding presence, very fashionably dressed—almost too fashionably to suggest a perfect taste. There was—Lawless was quick to observe it—the unmistakable stamp of the demi-mondaine about her. She looked round as he entered and closed the door behind him, and then very slowly got up from the sofa on which she had been seated. Her movements were extraordinarily languid for a woman of such splendid physique, and less graceful than deliberately sensuous, Lawless decided. Something about the woman stirred a chord of memory in his mind, as he stood critically surveying her with a look of cool inquiry in his eyes. The figure was vaguely familiar. The face he could not see; she was so heavily veiled that he could only trace a shadowy outline of her features.

“This is an unexpected honour,” he said, with ironical politeness. “May I ask to what I am indebted, and to whom, for this amazing condescension?”

She held out a pair of well-gloved hands towards him.

“You have forgotten... so soon?” she said in a low voice, the deep tones of which sounded nervously tremulous.

“I’ve a memory no longer and no shorter than most men’s,” he retorted, not touching the outstretched hands. “If you’d raise your veil...”

She put up one hand to the dense folds that concealed her face, but she did not lift them. She waited, looking at him through their disfiguring thickness with wide, smiling, observant eyes.

“And this is your welcome after all this while! ... your welcome to me! ... No wonder those tiresome people downstairs were so reluctant to admit me! ... I only got round them by telling them I was your wife.”

“The devil you did!” ejaculated Lawless.

He did not speak loudly His voice had dropped to a low note of caution. He approached nearer. Astonishment had driven the irony out of his eyes, and left in its stead an expression of strong curiosity.

“Oh, Hughie!” she said reproachfully... “To think that you could forget...”

Lawless seized her by the arm. Then quickly, almost roughly, he lifted the disguising veil and stared hard into the handsome, painted face, with the smiling vermilion lips, and the mocking eyes.

“Oh, Lord!” he exclaimed, and fell back a step or two in sheer amazement.

The woman laughed suddenly.

“I thought I should surprise you, Hughie,” she said.

Chapter Eight.

It is a generally accepted fact that the social life of the Colonies is less conventional than the social life of England. It is broader in outlook, wider in sympathy, not less critical, perhaps, but certainly more understanding. This is to be accounted for by the continual inpouring of fresh blood, the infusion of fresh ideas. The Colonies adapt themselves more readily to change than the older civilisation; they represent a younger, more vigorous generation, and, if behind the mother country in many respects, are ahead of her in others of quite vital importance. But though life in South Africa is unconventional, strenuous, and—as is inevitable in a land that attracts to its shores the more ardent and adventurous spirits—more impulsive, more passionate and unrestrained, it has its fixed code of morality, and the man or woman who defies its laws must be prepared to accept the reward of ostracism.

Lawless’ sudden leap to popularity suffered an equally sudden rebound when it became apparent how utterly contemptuous he was of public opinion, as it concerned his private life. His life became an open scandal. The woman who had visited him at his hotel late one night was installed in rooms that he had taken for her, and regularly every day he visited her, and frequently took her driving in the public thoroughfares. The women of his acquaintance cut him, and not a few of the men. His behaviour was too flagrant to be passed over. Van Bleit alone was interested and sympathetic. He coveted an introduction to his friend’s handsome inamorata, and on occasions when he deemed it quite safe put himself deliberately in the way. But Lawless was blind to these devices. He cared neither for the disapproval of the many, nor for Van Bleit’s furtive approbation. He was entirely indifferent to outside criticism. It pleased him to do this thing, and he did it. Society had not treated him so well as to give it a right to be exacting; and, in any case, he had no intention of considering it in this or any other matter.

There were two women in Cape Town who were most unhappily affected by this sordid intrigue, Mrs Lawless, and the girl who had made a hero of the man, and who worshipped him with the extravagance of a youthful, unsophisticated mind. For a long while Julie Weeber refused to admit that there was anything unusual in Lawless’ friendship with the handsome demi-mondaine; but in her heart she was jealous of the friendship, and when she saw them together she hated the woman with the complacently smiling, painted lips, and the mocking eyes. Her distress was primarily due to the knowledge that by his actions he was separating himself from her. She would have condoned anything for the gratification of seeing and talking with him occasionally. But intercourse was out of the question; not only did her mother assert that she would neither receive him in future nor permit her daughters to acknowledge him, but Lawless himself held aloof. Once when she passed him in the street driving with the woman, although she knew he had seen her, he deliberately turned his face aside. It wounded the girl deeply.

“Why should he treat me like that?” she asked herself passionately... “It isn’t fair to me.”

She encountered him again a few days later. He was alone, walking towards the city. Julie had been to see a friend some distance out, and was cycling homeward when she overtook him. It was evening. The sun had dipped below the horizon; where it had disappeared the sky still glowed with changing colours that paled perceptibly before the oncome of precipitate night which in Africa follows rapidly on the path of the vanished day. A shaft of the fading colour in the sky glanced earthwards and glowed in Julie Weeber’s cheeks when she recognised the solitary pedestrian striding along the middle of the road. She slackened speed as she drew near to him, and glanced swiftly about her. No one was in sight, not even a Kaffir; though had a crowd been there to witness her actions she would probably have behaved in exactly the same way. She pedalled her machine alongside the tall, familiar figure, and slipped to the ground. Lawless glanced round. He looked surprised, he also looked—Julie observed it—pleased.

“How do you do?” she said, deliberately holding out her hand. “Isn’t it a beautiful evening?”

He smiled involuntarily at this determined effort at conversation, and answered that such was his opinion also.

“Are you walking into town?” she asked. “I am, too.”

“You mean, you are riding,” he corrected.

“I’m not,” the girl returned imperturbably. “I hate cycling against the wind. I only stuck to my machine because it’s lonely walking by oneself.”

“In that case,” he said, stepping behind her and relieving her of the charge of the cycle, “you must let me wheel this.”

Julie walked along beside him for a few yards without speaking. Then abruptly she turned her face towards him. He was looking down at the machine, a very old one with well-worn tyres and rusty handlebars of a pattern quite out of date. His face was grave and somewhat preoccupied.

“You cut me the other day in Adderly Street,” she said bluntly... “You saw me...”

“Yes,” he admitted.

It did not seem to occur to him to turn the speech aside. During their brief, but rapid, acquaintance they had always been extraordinarily frank with one another.

“Why did you?” she asked almost fiercely. “It wasn’t kind.”

“In that I differ from you,” he replied. “It was the only kind act I have ever performed towards you.”

A pained flush leapt to her cheeks. She looked away from him down the dusty road, along a vista of flowering gum trees, with eyes that were clouded and misty and rebellious, and a mind that for all its youthfulness dimly discerned his meaning.

“I thought we were—friends,” she said falteringly.

And then he made use of one of the remarks that were responsible for the development of her understanding.

“There is no such thing as friendship between the sexes.”

The flush in her cheeks deepened. There was a strained air of embarrassment about her, noticeable even in her walk.

“And so... you don’t wish to know me?” she said with an effort.

“My dear child!” He looked at her earnestly. “It’s not a matter in which I am entitled to consider my wishes.”

“And what of mine?” she asked in a low voice that was tremulous, as though the speaker were on the verge of tears.

He looked down awkwardly, and fidgeted with the handle of the brake.

“I don’t consider that I am entitled to consult your wishes either,” he replied. “My friendship, according to the accepted standard, is neither good nor safe for you... Haven’t you been so informed?”

“Yes,” she answered, and added sullenly: “I don’t care... I want your friendship more than I want anything. It has meant so much to me... And I miss... things so. You never come to the house now... You never go anywhere.”

“No,” he returned briefly.

There was silence between them for a while. Then suddenly Julie put out a hand and touched his hand where it hung at his side.

“You won’t—cut me again?” she pleaded.

“No,” he answered as briefly as before, but in a kinder tone with a ring of determination in it that carried conviction.

“I want to see you sometimes,” she said... “to talk with you sometimes. I know that I’m not intellectual, that I’m undeveloped and silly, and altogether too young to be companionable to you; but you have taken pleasure in my society—you have,” she exclaimed with vehemence, “haven’t you?”

“Yes,” he acknowledged, “I have... I do. And it’s just because of that I deem it best to let the thing end.”

“Oh no!” she cried quickly... “No!”

“When you talk like that,” he said, smiling at her pleasantly, “you convince me that my judgment is right... Oh! don’t worry,” he added in response to a quick gesture of protest; “I’m not going to rely on anything so stodgy. I’m going to follow inclination. Remain my dear little friend... If there is no great good to you in it, there shall be no great harm in it either... And, in any case, it won’t matter much... I am going away shortly.”

“Going away!” she echoed blankly. “Leaving Cape Town, do you mean?”

“Yes.”

She turned to him with a swift abandonment that proved how strong was the influence he already exerted over her, and with white face, and distressful, tear-filled eyes, cried out—

“Oh! don’t go! don’t go! ... Or—couldn’t you—take me with you?”

He came to an abrupt standstill, and leaning towards her, with his hand resting on the saddle of the cycle, looked steadily into the shamed, young, piteous face. His look brought the colour flaming back into the white cheeks.

“Ah! now you think me unwomanly,” she said, and her voice shook pitifully... “You won’t like me any more...”

“My dear!” he replied, “you are talking nonsense.”

Her head drooped lower and lower like a flower that is beaten down in a storm. She stared down at the strong, sunburnt hand gripping the saddle, and the slow tears overflowed and fell, big, shining drops, into the dust of the road. She made no effort to stay them or to wipe them away; and the man, watching her with his keen, observant eyes, was stirred with an unwonted sense of compassion, and a swift self-hatred because of what he had in idle selfishness done.

“If you knew me for what I am,” he said gravely, “you would not honour me with your friendship. I’m not the hero your fancy has painted. A man rates himself at a higher valuation usually than his deserts, but as high as I can place the standard it leaves me still unworthy of your regard.”

“And you don’t feel... contempt for me?” she faltered.

“No... The only contempt I feel is for myself.” He held out his hand to her. “We are coming to the more frequented part,” he said. “I would prefer that you mounted and rode into town.”

She gave him her hand shyly, but still she hesitated.

“You promise not to withdraw your friendship?” she pleaded. “I—I don’t know what I should do if—if you wouldn’t let me be—just a friend.”

Her eyes as well as her voice implored him; they dragged a reluctant consent from his lips. When she had mounted and cycled out of his sight, turning at the bend of the road to wave him a last farewell, he regretted that he had allowed his better judgment to be overruled by her girlish pleading. Public opinion was right in this instance; there was danger in the friendship. There had been danger for the girl from the beginning; since intercourse in the future could only be by stealth that danger was considerably increased. The secret friendship of a young girl for a man of notorious character must be disastrous in its results even if the man act towards her honourably according to his lights.

When Lawless reached his hotel he found two letters waiting for him in the rack. He carried them to his room. The first, so ill-written as to be scarcely legible, was signed “Tottie.” The writer stated that she was bored to death, and commanded him to come round and amuse her. The second was also in the nature of a command. It was very short—only one line.

“Will you come to see me?—Zoë.”

He read the second note twice, and then remained for a long while motionless with the letter in his hand, staring at the big, firm characters thoughtfully, his brows puckered in a heavy frown. Why had she written to him? ... Why should she wish to see him, when all self-respecting women held their skirts aside? ... The frown deepened. He was baffled by the very simplicity of the brief message, the meaning of which was so purely conjectural and obscure. He read the note for the third time, seeking enlightenment from a greater familiarity with the words. But the purpose of the message still eluded him. He could not imagine what was in the writer’s mind to move her to pen such a note. It was inconsistent with her attitude in the past. He felt strangely irritated, even suspicious, as he stared at the sheet of paper in his hand. It was a little late in the day for her to think of starting an “influence.”

He seated himself at a writing-table in a corner of the room and answered the note. His reply was laconic in its brevity. “No,” he wrote, and signed it simply, “H.L.” Then he addressed it and slipped it into the pocket of his coat with the idea of posting it himself. She would probably expect him that evening, he decided, and smiled ironically, thinking of the writer of the other letter, who was also expecting him, and whom he had no intention to disappoint. In the morning she would receive the answer to her note; then she would understand.

But the answer was not posted. Lawless was delayed as he was leaving the hotel; when later he set forth his mood had changed, and he tore the reply he had written into fragments and scattered them on the pavement, to be further scattered by the boisterous wind that swept them into corners, only to dislodge them and scatter them anew. A few of the fragments fluttered under his feet as he strode along. He trod them heavily underfoot and walked on. Would she conclude from his silence that he would obey the summons? ... He was not quite sure whether by his action in destroying his answer he meant to accede to her wish, or simply to ignore it. A strong curiosity as to her reason for wishing to see him strove against his disinclination to comply with the request. Finally he decided to leave the matter in abeyance. If the humour took him he would go to her the following day. But the humour did not take him. The next day came and passed, and the note remained in his pocket still unanswered.

Mrs Lawless waited at home each day in the hope of his coming, and denied herself to other visitors. On the third day she made an exception in favour of Mrs Smythe.

“I came to inquire if you were ill,” Mrs Smythe exclaimed as she entered the drawing-room. “You were not at the Frenches’ the other evening, and we missed you yesterday at the Admiral’s At Home. You aren’t ill, Zoë... I don’t think I ever saw you look better.”

She surveyed her friend critically. There was no indication of ill-health in the dark splendour of Zoë Lawless’ face, nor in the graceful, beautiful body, but in the sun-flecked eyes was a hint of sadness which Mrs Smythe detected.

“You are tired,” she said.

“No.” Mrs Lawless drew her to the sofa and sat down beside her... “At least not physically tired,” she added... “I’m feeling old. I’m thirty-three to-day, Kate.” She lifted the dark hair at her temples. “Grey hairs there already, plenty of them. I spent some time this morning pulling them out, until it occurred to me as rather trivial... and futile, too. It’s like stripping the red leaves from the trees in autumn in a poor pretence that the summer is not past... It only advances winter.”

“My dear girl!” Mrs Smythe said briskly, “when you are sixty-three you will be privileged to talk like that... Don’t say too much about your age; I’m thirty-five.”

Zoë laughed, and as suddenly grew grave again.

“With you age doesn’t signify,” she said. “You’ve had your years, and lived them, and each one has brought its past year’s satisfaction; but with me there has been waste.” She leant back against the cushions, with one arm flung out over the head of the sofa. “The years that the locusts have eaten!” ... she murmured... “It’s when you have let the locusts eat into the precious years that you feel the bitterness of the loss of the golden hours. If I’d had my golden hours—if I’d enjoyed them, I shouldn’t feel sorrowful at the coming of silver hairs. Youth that is wasted is like a day when the sunshine has been obscured by clouds. Towards evening the clouds pass, and the sun shines forth, perhaps, for a few minutes before it sets. But the clouds have spoilt the morning and rendered the tardy radiance ineffectual... The time has passed.”

“Your philosophy would be less painful if it were not so incontrovertible,” Mrs Smythe returned quietly. “But if there has been waste, Zoë, isn’t it adding to it to spend the hours mourning over those already gone? It would be far more sensible if you were to get out of that ridiculously becoming tea-gown and come out driving with me. I’m not surprised at your depression if you have spent the last few days dwelling on uncomfortable things.”

Mrs Lawless smiled faintly.

“It’s not so bad as that,” she answered. “I’m a creature of moods. Had you called yesterday you would have found me quite cheerful.”

“Then I’m glad that my visit has fitted in with the heavier mood. Cheerfulness needs no distraction. Change your gown, Zoë, and come out with me.”

Mrs Lawless shook her head in response to her friend’s inquiring look. Her fingers were playing absently with one of the heavy tassels of a sofa cushion, twisting and pulling at it, and entwining themselves with the silky strands. She looked down at the tassel pensively, and at the busy fingers fidgeting with it continually as though their purposeless occupation held an interest for her.

“Thank you for suggesting it,” she said slowly. “I would have been glad to go; but I am expecting Mr Lawless.”

Mrs Smythe stared at her. Amazement bereft her of her customary tact.

“Expecting him! ... this afternoon?... Why, my dear, I passed him driving with—”

She came to an abrupt halt, and gazed at her quiet companion with dismayed and apologetic eyes.

“His mistress,” Zoë finished for her, looking up. “You needn’t mind saying it... I have accustomed myself to the idea. He may not come this afternoon, of course... But—I think I prefer to stay at home.”

Mrs Smythe was silent for a while.

“I never was so disappointed in anyone in my life as I am in him,” she remarked at length.

Zoë’s big eyes showed a faint surprise.

“No!” she said.

“Aren’t you disappointed in him?” Mrs Smythe asked wonderingly.

“Oh! I don’t know...” She sat up suddenly. “I try not to think of it,” she said... “It’s another instance of waste... waste and failure. All the years I’ve known him—”

She looked at the other woman, and her eyes softened. “Perhaps if he had felt the influence of a good woman he might have made a better thing of life.”

Chapter Nine.

Mrs Lawless stood on the stoep in the fading light and watched her friend drive away. In the east the intense blue of the sky had deepened to purple, and here and there a pale star lay, like a jewel in its azure setting, ready to adorn the sombre robes of night. The light breeze had dropped at sundown. There was no stir, no movement anywhere, no sound to awake the stillness. The strong scent of many flowers perfumed the languid, sensuous air which as yet gave no sign of the near approach of winter... if there can be any winter in a land where there is always sunshine, where the trees never bare their branches, and the flowers are ever in bloom.

She leaned her arms on the broad rail, and stared unseeingly before her through the foliage of the mimosa trees into the blue distance. The expression of her face was troubled, and a gleam of resentment shone in the proud eyes. So her summons was to be disregarded! His mistress claimed all his leisure, and he had no time to spare for anyone else. She had waited in three days in the hope that he would come, had spent three lonely evenings so that if he chose to call on her at night he would find her ready to receive him. And he had neither come nor sent a message. She had almost ceased to expect him, had almost ceased to wish to see him. The mood that had moved her to write to him had passed. She felt cold now, and indifferent; and the futility of the task she had thought to undertake struck her in a new and more forcible light. Was it worth it? ... Was she not wasting time that might be more profitably employed? ... Was she not harrowing her feelings to no purpose?

She went indoors and sat down at the piano and played to herself. She was a brilliant pianist, and it was a custom of long standing to soothe herself with music when her mind was disturbed. It was in her sad moments—occasionally also in her moods of anger—that she oftenest played.

The light outside faded; it grew dark in the room. A native entered, lighted the shaded lamps, and noiselessly retired. Zoë Lawless played on. She did not hear the ring at the bell that followed shortly on the servant’s exit; she was not aware that anyone had come until the door was thrown open by the same quiet servitor, who ushered in Mr Lawless, and then again retired and closed the door behind him.

Mrs Lawless turned slowly on the stool, and then stood up. She gave the visitor no greeting, and, beyond a slight bow, he made no move to greet her either. But he looked at her curiously as she stood facing him, and she observed with failing courage that his eyes were stern and hard.

“I had almost given up expecting you,” she said.

“You sent for me,” he answered curtly... “Whenever you send for me I will come.”

She regarded him long and earnestly. There was that in his speech which, despite the harshness of his manner, inclined her towards a softer mood. She no longer saw the picture which Mrs Smythe had unconsciously drawn for her of him driving with his mistress, instead she recognised a man whom life had dealt hardly with accepting obligations which another man in similar circumstances would have ignored.

“Thank you,” she said at last gently, and with a faintly wondering hesitation. “I did not know... I—felt scarcely justified in writing my request... But,”—she put self-consciousness behind her, and spoke from her heart simply, and with great earnestness—“I could not look on in silence while you deliberately spoilt your life. You were making your way in Cape Town... You could, if you chose, make it anywhere. But you are so indifferent to the world’s opinion.”

“I have never found the world’s opinion especially intelligent,” he answered bluntly. “If it were worth studying, I might study it.”

“Is it not, rather,” she returned unexpectedly, “that you are over prone to yield to the influence of the hour? ... The opinion of others has never counted for much with you.”

“You are mistaken,” he said. “It is the opinion of others that has made me what I am. In the past I have been far too susceptible of public criticism. Had I been as indifferent as you imagine I should not be the failure that you see to-day.”

She threw out a protesting hand.

“You always speak as though there was nothing ahead, as though you had shuttered all the exits of the soul... When you talk like that I feel that I cannot breathe.”

“It’s only a first impression,” he answered sarcastically; “respiration becomes easier when you grow accustomed to the shutters... There is nothing ahead. I reconciled myself to the want of outlook years ago; now I adapt,—not myself to circumstances, but circumstances to suit me. It’s astonishing how one can bend events to one’s service. The doing so contrives to add a peculiar satisfaction of its own. I don’t wish you to suppose that I’ve been sitting all these years with my head between my hands—the image is depressing. My hands have been otherwise employed. I’ve had them on the throat of life, and when it has used me spitefully I’ve pressed it hard in return. I’ve had some bad knocks, I admit; but, believe me, I’m not beaten yet. And the bruises have healed. The marks may be apparent, but there is no soreness... And those blows served a purpose too. They confirmed me in a resolve I made more than eight years ago,—to live my life independently of my fellows,—to enjoy such pleasures as the moment offered,—to deny myself no single desire that I had the means of gratifying. I have not gone back on that through all these years.”

“Not a very lofty resolve,” she said, as she sank into a chair.

“No... Not from your point of view... I suppose not.”

“And from your point of view?” she asked.

He laughed.

“You forget the shutters,” he said. “My view is enclosed. I am unable to gaze up at the heights.”

“You could open the shutters if you would,” she said in a voice that was only a little louder than a whisper.

“Perhaps I don’t wish to,” he answered.

He moved nearer to her. He did not sit down, but he leant with his arms on the back of a chair, looking at her, as he had leant the night of the ball when they had talked together on the stoep.

“I’m satisfied with things as they are,” he said. “I’ve got used to the rough and tumble of my lot. And I’ve become so thoroughly saturated with the belief that it is no concern of anyone’s what I do that it’s very unlikely I will submit to interference. I’m behaving quite abominably, I know,” he added, in response to the quick, pained flush that warmed the pallor of her skin from the smooth brow to the slender white column of her throat; “but it would be a satisfaction to me if you would only realise that I’m not worth your distress. I understand what your idea is—most good women fall into the same error. But when a man has no desire to be influenced it is waste of time to attempt it.”

Her glance fell under his direct, steady look, and the embarrassed colour that had flamed into her cheeks retreated and left them whiter than before. She put up a hand for a second as if to screen her eyes from the light, and he knew that she was pressing back the starting tears.

“I know,” she said very low, and without looking at him, “that I’ve no right to interfere. But whatever you say,—whatever you think, we can none of us act independently of our fellows. When we do wrong we are bound to hurt someone—as well as ourselves.”

There was a brief silence during which both still figures remained so rigidly quiet that the subdued ticking of the dresden clock on the mantelpiece sounded intrusively loud in the stillness. Then Lawless moved abruptly.

“You mean,” he said, “that I am hurting you.”

“Yes... You are hurting me.”

He straightened himself and walked away to the window, where he stood looking out at the quiet night. A young moon shone like a white curved flame in the purple dome, casting its pure reflection on the misty beauty of the garden that, like a picture painted without colour, lay motionless under the starry heavens,—patches of black shadow, and splashes of white where the pale flowers showed in clusters in the uncertain light.

“I never thought of it touching you,” he said after a pause. “I suppose... the scandal—”

“Oh! the scandal!” She looked up with a quick resentment in her eyes. “Can’t you get deeper than just the part that shows?”

“In this instance,” he returned quite quietly, “it’s the part that shows which matters—only the part that shows. If I were doing this thing secretly I should be reckoned decent living, and be well considered of my fellows. And it would never have offended your susceptibilities, nor disgusted other women whose feelings I have not a jot of respect for. You simply wouldn’t have known... It appears to me that it is the part that shows which means everything.”

She answered nothing. She sat still, watching him, with her fine eyes clouded and disapproving, and her lips closed in a thin, determined line of scarlet that looked the more brilliant because of the set whiteness of her face. He swung round suddenly and faced her.

“I might have anticipated this,” he said. “But, oddly enough, I never took you into consideration. After all, you’ve a right to complain... The same name! ... Yes, it’s awkward—very... and unpleasant.”

He crossed the room and stood in front of her chair, looking down at her with an almost hostile expression in his sombre eyes.

“In your opinion,” he asked, a hard resentment in his voice, “is there any reason why I should especially consider you?”

She looked back at him steadily. “Have I not already acknowledged that my interference is unjustifiable?”

“True!” he allowed, and thought for a moment.

“One condition alone would give you any right to take exception at anything I do,” he added—“and that is such an unlikely condition that we need not reckon it in... But, however dead I may be to all sense of honour and decency, I have still sufficient perception to realise that the situation is—uncomfortable for you. It shall cease to annoy you. I leave Cape Town this week.”

The expression of glad hopefulness that had momentarily lighted her eyes died out as suddenly as it had kindled. She understood him perfectly. Because this thing was humiliating to her he was going to remove it from her path. That much he would concede—and that was all.

“You are going away?” she said in a low voice, leaning towards him.—“And you will take your mistress with you?”

“And I take my mistress with me,” he answered firmly... “Yes.”

She winced. He was standing so close to her chair that she could not rise without touching him. She sat farther back, and leant her dark head against the cushions as a woman who is weary might do. This was but another of the many bitter moments she had endured on his account. An icy coldness crept over her and seemed to grip her heart. She had battled with her pride so fiercely and persistently, setting up an ideal of duty to be followed despite every difficulty, with this man’s salvation as its ultimate aim; and at the very outset she owned herself defeated. She could not plead with him; a certain intolerant hardness in her nature awoke and set a seal on her lips. If he was so lost to all fine thinking, to all sense of decent living and restraint, let him go with this woman who was a fitting companion for the ill-spent hours. She would not undertake so futile a mission as to attempt to dissuade him.

“If that is final,” she remarked at last, “there is nothing more to be said.”

“It is final,” he answered.

He moved away. She did not rise, but she turned her head and looked after him, the proud eyes darkened with trouble that was not caused only by distress at what he purposed doing, but by her lack of power to hold him back.

At the door he paused, and glanced quickly in her direction.

“This interview has been unsatisfactory,” he said abruptly. “I have disappointed you. I regret it, because on a former occasion when I solicited an interview you were more considerate. If you didn’t send for me solely with a view to improving my morals, but were content to accept me as I am, the result might be more satisfactory for both of us. Good-night.”

He went out and shut the door sharply behind him, and Mrs Lawless, sitting still where he had left her, listened to the bang of the hall door, and to the crunching of his steps upon the gravelled path as he walked past the drawing-room windows to the gate. She heard the gate open and swing to after him, and then followed silence—silence so profound, so prolonged, that to the woman seated alone in the quiet room it was an immense relief when presently the sound of a concertina floated in through the open windows from the direction of the servants’ quarters. The sound broke the tension. She moved slightly, and her eyes lost their fixed expression. She plucked at a soft fold of the silken tea-gown with nervous fingers, and listened absently to the strains that drifted towards her on the evening air. A Kaffir was singing in a rich, deep voice to his own untaught accompaniment.

“All de world am sad an’ dreary everywhere I roam.”

The haunting, familiar air with its tender pathos, its hopelessness, its strange beauty, moved her to an extraordinary degree, perhaps because she was so deeply moved already. A sob caught her throat, and the unaccustomed tears started to her eyes for the second time that evening. As before, she put up a hand to press them back, but they pushed their way under her lids and between the restraining fingers, and coursed rapidly down her cheeks...

“Oh! darkies, how my heart grows weary!”

The sob was louder this time...

“Oh! darkies, how my heart grows weary!”

Swiftly she turned and buried her face in the cushion of the chair and wept unrestrainedly.

Chapter Ten.

Lawless made hasty preparations for leaving Cape Town. He did not give up his room at the hotel. When a man is spending other people’s money there is no particular need for him to study economy. His headquarters were at Cape Town—he was merely taking a holiday while he matured his plans. On the day before he left he lunched with Van Bleit at the latter’s invitation. Van Bleit was openly admiring, and not a little envious.

“Going on your honeymoon,” he murmured, growing maudlin over his wine. “You lucky devil! But the luck was always with you, Grit.”

“It depends on what one reckons luck,” was the dry response.

“That’s just like you favoured chaps—always grudging in your thanks. You expect the world to come to heel, and it usually does.”

“Yes; and yaps at your trouser hems until it frays them. I’ve been out at elbow and empty in pocket... If that’s luck I don’t appreciate it. I’ve no desire to have the world at my heels, with its sneaking hands dipping into my pockets, and its servile lips smiling while its teeth worry holes in my clothes. I like to face the enemy and have my foot on it.”

“You, to talk of the world as your enemy! Why, man alive, it gives you all you ask for.”

Lawless looked gloomy enough for a wealthy and successful lover. The other’s envying admiration gave him no pleasure. He took up his glass and drained it. Both men had been drinking freely, but both were well seasoned, and, save for their flushed faces, there was no outward sign of the quantity of wine they had imbibed.

“I wish to God,” Van Bleit said, “that I were as successful in my wooing as you. Give me your secret, Grit... I believe it’s that damned scar on your jaw that helps you with the women—that, and a certain dash you have.”

“Oh! call it swagger,” growled Lawless.

“No,—damn you!—I would if I could; but it’s not that. All things considered, you’re a fairly modest beast.”

“I’ve not had so much to make me vain as you imagine,” Lawless answered, and added curtly: “Look here, Karl, if you don’t wish to be offensive, give over personalities. I’m sick of myself.”

Van Bleit looked slightly annoyed.

“You’re so devilishly unsympathetic,” he complained sulkily. “I notice you take no interest in another man’s affairs... You never trouble to inquire how my suit prospers.”

Lawless made no immediate response. He took a cigar from a case of Van Bleit’s that lay open on the table, snipped the end deliberately, and proceeded to light it. When he had had two or three whiffs at it, he took it from his mouth, leant forward with his elbows on the table and looked squarely at his host.

“I don’t need to inquire,” he said. “I’ve been observing... You are making no headway at all.”

“That’s true enough,” Van Bleit replied, reddening. “Though, dash it all! you needn’t be quite so brutally frank. I’m not making headway. Sometimes I fancy I have gone back a few paces. At one time she liked me—I’ll swear she did. She used to appear glad to see me. That was before you turned up.”

He paused, and eyed Lawless for a moment suspiciously. The alteration in Mrs Lawless’ manner and the advent of Lawless on the scene being contemporaneous roused a sudden doubt in his mind.

“You’ve not been giving me away?” he asked... “You haven’t told her of any of our little sprees? If I thought you’d made mischief! ... I’ve noticed you talking with her, though you as good as told me she’d sooner talk with the devil.”

Lawless puffed away at his cigar indifferently.

“My good fellow,” he said, “she has not the faintest idea that you are a friend of mine. And we do not discuss sprees, or anything of that nature. The only topic she ever gets on with me is that of my morals, which ever since I have known her have caused her distress and annoyance. It is a topic which you may easily imagine holds no interest for me.”

Van Bleit looked only half convinced.

“I’d let a woman like that talk to me about anything,” he returned. “I’d let her try her hand at reforming me—I would reform for her sake.”

“You might—for a month or so... yes.”

“Oh, go to blazes!” ejaculated Van Bleit irritably. “You don’t believe in anything.”

“I don’t believe in a nimbus for you, Karl, old man,” Lawless replied with unruffled serenity. “All the same, I’m glad to see you in earnest for once. When a man is in downright earnest he generally wins.”

He smoked for a few moments in silence.

“Have you put your luck to the test yet?” he asked, trimming the ash of his cigar with careful deliberation.

“No.”

Van Bleit drummed on the table, and stared moodily at the cloth.

“She never gives me a chance,” he said. “She’s cleverer than any woman I ever knew at putting one off. She makes a man realise that if he persists in coming to his point he’ll get the wrong answer, and, of course, when a fellow’s in earnest he isn’t going to risk that.”

“Naturally.”

There was silence for a few seconds. Then Lawless spoke again.

“You might win if you’d try the right tactics,” he said. “But I know that it’s no use advising a man in love... You simply wouldn’t take the advice.”

“Well, let’s hear it, anyway,” Van Bleit said churlishly, still drumming on the tablecloth with his big, coarse fingers. “If I think it’s worth anything, I’ll follow it, I daresay.”

“Keep away from her for a time.”

Van Bleit looked up at him sharply.

“You say that!” he cried... “You!—just off on a honeymoon of your own! What would you reply if a man advised you to chuck it?”

“If you were off on your honeymoon,” Lawless returned calmly, “my advice would be unnecessary.”

“But why,” Van Bleit persisted, “should I keep out of her way? What purpose could it possibly serve? ... It would give others a chance, that’s all.”

“She would probably miss you,” Lawless answered. “When she realised that, she would want you; and when you returned you would be sure of your welcome... You needn’t scowl. You asked for the advice. I didn’t suppose you would take it, and I shan’t feel offended if you don’t.”

“I don’t believe in the efficacy of that plan,” Van Bleit said shortly.

“A man in love wouldn’t,” Lawless returned indifferently. “The moth has to make for the light.”

“Well, but—”

Van Bleit appeared to be wavering. He stared hard at the inscrutable face opposite, trying to gauge the purpose of the carelessly given advice that accorded so ill with his own inclinations. But he could make nothing of it. The man baffled him as he baffled many another. Although he had given the advice, it seemed to be a matter of supreme indifference to him whether it were acted upon or not.

“I’ve a great belief in your knowledge of women,” he said slowly.

Lawless smiled.

“It’s faith in my disinterestedness you lack,” he threw in, and Van Bleit did not deny it.

“You’ve never been keen on it, somehow,” he observed. “I noticed that when I first told you about it... Seems as though you couldn’t get out of the manger. I suppose it is human nature that a man should object to seeing another fellow’s success in the case of a beautiful woman, even though he knows himself out of the running.”

Lawless leant back in his seat and puffed a number of blue rings into the air.

“You may know a lot about human nature, Karl,” he said presently, “you’re very human yourself—but you don’t know me. If I’ve been somewhat unsympathetic over this affair it’s because I happen to know something of both of you. I realised that you were serious, but I never imagined you stood anything of a chance... It wasn’t until I saw you together that it occurred to me that, if your chance was not great, she certainly liked you. She is not prodigal of her favour, so I think you have grounds to feel flattered. But women, when they grow accustomed to having a man at their beck and call, are inclined to take it rather as a matter of course. Relegate him to a distance, and they appreciate a service they have not realised until they are called upon to do without it. That’s my experience... But go your own way, old man, and if you find your tactics fail then follow mine.”

Lawless left Cape Town that night. He did not go alone, a fact that transpired very quickly, and caused consternation in more breasts than one. Colonel Grey was beside himself with fury. The man was an adventurer of the worst kind. He was living riotously on the money that was allowed him for a definite purpose, and that purpose, which was hazardous and dangerous and highly important, was being neglected while he amused himself after his own loose fashion with the funds that should only have been applied to one end.

The Colonel summoned Simmonds to a consultation, and told him in the plainest language what he thought of the man he had recommended.

“I did not recommend him,” Simmonds returned. “I told you I knew very little about him. His noted pluck was the only qualification I gave you.”

The Colonel stared at him.

“True!” he muttered. “His courage! ... Yes! I accepted that without proof. And when I saw the man I accepted him. This is where it leaves me.”

He looked at the other for a while without speaking, thinking deeply. This man—the traitor, the coward, the licentious liver—was in his pay for a term of six months. He had agreed to that, knowing what he did of the man’s past life. He had believed in him. The strong, virile personality had been strangely convincing, all the more so in view of the fact that he had made no attempt to vindicate himself, nor sought to explain away facts. There had been something almost attractive in the curt directness of speech and manner that had seemed to repudiate the necessity for self-justification. That he had allowed himself to be deceived in this matter was entirely his own fault. It was only consistent with his record that the man should misuse the funds entrusted to him. And there was no redress possible because of the secret nature of the undertaking.

“It’s a bad business,” he said at last—“the worst bungle that has been made so far. The fellow is entirely unprincipled. A man of that unscrupulous order is capable of turning the knowledge he has acquired to his own account. I feel now that I shall never see those letters.”

Simmonds did not feel particularly sanguine either. But he sought to encourage his chief.

“In a case where a man is governed by his passions, you can’t tell,” he said. “This escapade is possibly merely an interlude. He’ll come up to the mark later.”

His hearer did not look reassured.

“It’s somewhat of a coincidence,” he added, after a moment’s reflection, “that a woman has stepped in in two instances to the frustrating of your plans.”

Colonel Grey glanced up sharply.

“The other affair was a matter of outwitting,” he said. “This is different altogether. We’ve put ourselves in the power of a rogue, and we shall have to pay for it—dearly.”

“Yes.”

Simmonds looked at the other inquiringly. The Colonel was staring hard at the light that stood on the table between them, swiftly revolving, in a mind much given to scheming of late, plan after plan which, after a brief consideration, he put successively on one side as ineffectual or unfeasible. While he thought he smoked in a state of inward fume, oblivious of his companion altogether. It was very evident that the last check had hit him hard. He saw no opening for his next move.

“There is one thing fairly certain,” he remarked at length, “we shall have to pull this off without assistance. Van Bleit knows we are both his enemies; we must fight openly. We can’t trust this matter to other hands.”

“I agree with you there,” Simmonds answered. “You might keep all the rogues in the Colony. It’s the soft sort of billet they would tumble to promptly. And there’s no possible guarantee of good faith—save their word.”

“Their word!” Colonel Grey repeated sourly. “Lawless passed me his word—and I accepted it.”

He thought for a moment.

“One piece of information he gave me which may prove of service,” he said, suddenly looking up. “Van Bleit carries the letters on his person—and a loaded revolver. I’m not scared of revolvers. I’d like to see this one of Van Bleit’s at close range—here, in this room.”

“You’ve got a plan?” said Simmonds interrogatively.

“Not much of one... It may not work. We must get him here, if possible... You must see him... Ask him to come here to treat with me... Tell him I’ve a new proposal to make. Then, when we’ve got him, we’ll lock the door; and if there should be any firing, no one will be any the wiser—unless someone gets hurt.”

“He won’t come,” Simmonds answered confidently.

“He’s slim, is Van Bleit, and a coward—of the bullying sort. He’ll scent danger.”

“We can but try it,” Colonel Grey said. And added grimly: “If we once get him inside this room he doesn’t leave it until we get those letters.”

Simmonds smiled drily.

“If I know anything of the man,” he said, “he’ll not bring them with him. He may carry them around as a rule, but he isn’t at all likely to march into the enemy’s camp with them. You forget Denzil’s in this. He will leave the letters with him.”

“He may do.”

The Colonel spoke with a slight irritation, the result of discouragement. He had been many months striving to get hold of these papers, and he was no nearer success than when he first landed in Cape Town. The rogue he had to deal with was insatiable, unprincipled, and unrelenting. He had attempted in the first instance straightforward methods; but Van Bleit, being possessed of a crooked mind, was suspicious of straightforward dealings, and he had been forced to resort to more subtle and underhand means. It was, he felt sure, by no open and honest device that he would prevail against him—if, indeed, he ever prevailed. To-night, baffled and disheartened, he believed that he would be forced to throw down the cards and acknowledge himself beaten.

“I’d give five years of my life,” he said—“and my years are not so many now that I can spare them—to best that scoundrel. To think that a contemptible hound like that should have the power to intimidate anyone with a Damocles’ sword in the form of a packet of damning letters! The law of the land ought to permit one to shoot blackmailers on sight.”

“I rather fancy the law—out here, anyway—would bring it in manslaughter,” Simmonds replied coolly. He knocked the ash out of his pipe. “Then, I understand you wish me to try to induce him to come here?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

The Colonel was still meditating on the unsatisfactoriness of the law.

“I’d bring it in justifiable homicide,” he said at last.

Chapter Eleven.

Poor little Julie Weeber was having a bad time of it.

She was, to the scornful surprise of her family, which was neither sympathetic nor particularly wise in its mode of condemnation, grieving for a man who was utterly worthless. Her sister declared that she was wanting in proper pride, and her mother regarded her as a silly, sentimental child, and refused to consider the trouble seriously. So Julie nursed her heart-hunger in silence, and the round, young face grew thinner, the laughter died out of her eyes, and her lips lost the humorous twist that had made her many admirers want to kiss them. It was but a pale reflection of the old Julie they met at dances and parties, a Julie who would not flirt with them, and whose once ready repartee failed her utterly and left her with curiously little to say. She had been good sport once, and the youths with whom she had been popular found it difficult to realise the change. When they discovered that the change was enduring and not merely a passing mood, they deserted her for more amusing company, and Julie found herself neglected with a programme half filled at dances, and only one staunch ally to depend upon for an escort. The ally was Teddy Bolitho, whose great ambition was to earn a sufficient income on which to set up housekeeping, and to win Julie’s consent to become mistress of his home. But the ambition was distant of fulfilment. Young Bolitho had as much as he could do to pay his modest way.

Julie liked Teddy Bolitho. Before the advent of Lawless she had liked him better than any man she had ever met. Bolitho had stood aside when the older man claimed her attention. It had been a blow for him, but he had taken it pluckily with his back against the wall. He had quickly recognised that he stood no chance against Lawless, who had everything in his favour so far as outward seeming went, and despite his successful rivalry, he entertained a half-reluctant liking for the man. It was not surprising that Julie should find him fascinating; and it would be a very much better match for her, he had decided, judging—as Julie’s mother had judged when she encouraged Lawless to visit at the house—by externals.

And then had arisen the scandal concerning Lawless, and his subsequent disappearance; and Bolitho had quietly stepped out from the background, and taken his place again quite naturally at Julie’s side. She accepted his action without comment. He was the only one in her world who understood. She felt instinctively that he did understand, that she could count on his sympathy, though neither by word nor sign did he allude to what was past; and she repaid him in the trust and regard of an earnest friendship, which is the next best thing to love. But an earnest friendship is not what a man covets from the girl who holds his heart. Bolitho was acquiring patience in the hard school of necessity; nevertheless, there were times when his spirit chafed sorely, times when he felt thoroughly disheartened and discouraged; despite the happy optimism of his nature, the outlook was not promising.

“I don’t know why you bother about me,” she said to him one evening at a dance, when he came upon her sitting out in a corner by herself. He had only just arrived, having been detained at the store, where they were short-handed through the illness of a clerk. He had looked for Julie as soon as he entered the room, and caught sight of her in her corner looking wretched and forlorn. At her speech he sat down beside her, and, with a smile, possessed himself of her programme.

“It’s curious that I should, isn’t it?” he said. “But I’ve always been in the habit of pleasing myself. What are you going to give me, Julie?”

“Oh! anything you like,” she answered dispiritedly. “You’ll find any amount of blanks. I have spent most of the time so far adorning the walls.”

He looked at her steadily.

“You do it very prettily,” he answered.

“Thank you, Teddy.”

She moved a little closer to him, and her face brightened.

“I don’t mind now you’ve come,” she said. “But I was feeling—hurt before. I’ve seen girls sitting out often—the dull ones, and I’ve felt, not so much sorry for them, as surprised that they couldn’t get partners. Now I know what it feels like.” Her eyes flashed with sudden anger. “It’s beastly, the selfishness of people,” she said with a note of disgust in her tones. “So long as you are amusing, or interesting, or pretty, you are wanted and sought after... you’re popular; but lose your looks, or, worse still, your gift of amusing others, and you might as well be buried for all the attention you get... You simply don’t exist. The amusing person can always command friends, but the poor dull person who most needs friendship is invariably shunned... Now I’m being bitter and hateful, and, perhaps, even you—But I know you are not like that... It was horrid of me to have said that. I’m often horrid now, Teddy. I get more horrid every day.”

“Look here,” he returned quickly, “I’m not dancing with anyone—most of the girls have filled their cards by now. Every dance that you have open we’ll have, or sit out, together, and those that you’re fixed up for I’ll dance with anyone I can discover who is sitting out. We’ll square matters that way.”

“Oh, Teddy! you are a good sort,” she said.

She watched him while he marked his programme, comparing it with hers. He had reddened slightly at her words of approbation, but by the time he had finished pencilling his programme his embarrassment had vanished, and he returned her card with his usual cheerful smile.

“I’ve stolen all the blanks,” he said. “You don’t mind—if it’s remarked?”

“No... I don’t care,” she answered stubbornly.

He rose and offered her his arm.

“We won’t sit here inhaling the dust they’re kicking up,” he said. “There are one or two jolly little retreats, Julie, where we can talk at our ease.”

She laughed.

“You always had a genius for discovery,” she returned. As she took the proffered arm she gave it a little grateful squeeze. “Oh! I’m so glad to get out of this room.”

Outside the ball-room they came face to face with Mrs Lawless and Van Bleit. There was a block at the entrance. Many couples were leaving the room, and new-comers pressed forward, and for several minutes people were forcibly restrained in the narrow passage.

Mrs Lawless looked searchingly into the young face, as she recognised the girl who had been Lawless’ partner in the dance when they had been held up by the crowd as they were now. It was obvious that the girl also recognised her. The older woman smiled.

“It seems fated that we should meet in a crush,” she said in her peculiarly soothing voice. “On the last occasion we both were slightly damaged. May we have better luck this time.”

Julie smiled back at her and flushed warmly. She felt strangely shy in the presence of this beautiful, composed woman, with the sweet voice and easy manner, and the so distressingly familiar name. But the owner of the familiar name looked gracious, and—Julie could not but notice it—sad, despite the ready smile. The girlish heart went out to her unquestioningly, recognising instinctively a common bond. She did not know why the lovely sun-flecked eyes held shadows, she only saw that the shadows were there, and felt drawn towards their owner in consequence. Her shyness left her suddenly. She drew her hand from Teddy Bolitho’s arm, and shielded the other woman’s body with two young, vigorous arms.

“You shall not be damaged this time,” she said, and laughed.

Mrs Lawless laughed with her.

“What a valiant champion you make,” she said. “Trust a woman to protect a woman in any serious crisis.”

And then the press suddenly ceased. Julie’s arms fell to her side, and with a further smile of friendship and understanding, Mrs Lawless passed on with her companion.

“Who is that girl?” she inquired as they passed through into the ball-room.

She was not dancing. She had merely come for an hour to look on; and she chose a seat not too far away from the exit, so that she could make her escape without inconvenience as soon as she desired. Van Bleit sat down beside her, and, following his customary tactics, sought by his impressive manner to draw attention to themselves. He was usually a daring wooer, but Mrs Lawless so baffled him that he was forced to resort to more insidious methods.

“The girl who embraced you? ... That’s Miss Julie Weeber... Quite a nice little thing. Not exactly in your set, you know.”

She regarded him strangely.

“And the boy she was with?”

Van Bleit laughed.

“Oh! that’s Bolitho, her faithful squire. He’s clerk in a wool-store. Miss Weeber has slighted him of late, but he’s in favour again apparently. She’d be well advised to stick to him.”

“I like the look of him,” said Mrs Lawless slowly, “and I like her. I shall cultivate the acquaintance. If I were to remain so long, couldn’t you manage that we sat together at supper?”

Van Bleit would have contrived anything to have kept her longer at the dance. When she left it would be for home, he knew; and it was never permitted him to accompany her on the homeward drive. He had several times suggested doing so, but he had always met with the same pleasant but firm refusal.

It was a surprise for Julie to find herself tête-à-tête with the beautiful Mrs Lawless at supper. Van Bleit so managed matters that it appeared wholly accidental when he and his companion took the vacant seats opposite herself and young Bolitho, and he exerted himself to an unusual degree to make the meal a success. Julie was astonished at the fun she was getting out of the evening.

“Why, I’m really enjoying myself,” she remarked naïvely in a pause between the laughter. “And I had feared it was going to be such a slow affair.”

“At your age,” Mrs Lawless answered, “no dance should prove slow.”

“That depends,” retorted Julie. “But, of course, you’ve never experienced the pain of sitting out.”

“I usually sit out,” Mrs Lawless answered. “I am no dancer. But there is pleasure in watching others enjoy themselves.”

“Oh yes!” Julie replied. “Anyone could enjoy that when the sitting out wasn’t compulsory.”

“I see.” Mrs Lawless laughed. “A little discipline of that nature isn’t exactly harmful,” she said.

Julie laughed too.

“I always hated discipline,” she said.

“I can’t understand any girl sitting out,” Van Bleit interposed. “That men can’t find partners is common enough. There are plenty of fellows supporting the door-posts to-night.”

“Yes; but they want amusing,” Julie returned brightly. “They won’t give their services for nothing.”

“There is something very decadent in the sound of that,” Mrs Lawless remarked.

Before rising, she leaned across the table and addressed herself directly to the girl.

“Do you ever get as far as Rondebosch?” she asked.

“I get farther than that,” Julie answered. “I cycle, you know.”

“Then, take pity on my loneliness. I am an Englishwoman, unused to the Colony. Will you ride out to see me some day?”

“Of course I will... Any time you wish.”

“Come to-morrow... I will be at home to no one else...”

“Lucky little girl!” murmured Van Bleit, as he escorted Mrs Lawless from the supper-room. “She enjoys a privilege that many would envy her... You never ask me to visit you...”

She looked at him steadily.

“Perhaps some day I shall do that,” she answered, and smiled at him, a smile so kind and gentle that it set Van Bleit’s heart beating high with expectation, and a hope he did not often dare to indulge.

When he had assisted her into her motor and shut the door upon her, he took the hand she extended to him and raised it to his lips. The car drove off and left him standing in the roadway, looking after it with a complacent smile widening the corners of his sensual mouth. Truly he had a way with women! He had never known any woman who could stand out against him for long.

As he turned and started to walk in the opposite direction from that taken by the car, a figure loomed suddenly out of the darkness and, with a word of greeting, came to a halt in front of him. Van Bleit recognised the sallow, bearded face, the darkness notwithstanding, and instinctively his right hand went to his breast pocket in a manner that brought a smile to the lips of the man who had accosted him. Recovering himself almost immediately, he feigned to be searching for his cigar-case, which eventually he produced, and leisurely proceeded to abstract a cigar therefrom. While thus employed, he replied to the brief salutation of the new-comer with the sarcastic observation:

“Still taking an interest in my movements, Mr Simmonds? I thought your gang had tired of me.”

“You pay yourself a poor compliment, Mr Van Bleit,” was the dry response. “The Colonel seems keener on your society just now than on any other. He’d like to see you. I’ve been hanging about outside this social ballet for some time with the express object of telling you so.”

“A dull amusement,” Van Bleit returned, lighting his cigar, “which you might have spared yourself. Colonel Grey and I have given free vent to our opinions of one another sufficiently often to obviate the necessity of a repetition of our views. Mine have undergone no change—I doubt that his have.”

“I doubt it too,” Simmonds replied. “But this matter he has in mind has no bearing on his personal feelings. He has had a letter recalling him to England.”

“I’m glad of that at least,” said Van Bleit.

“There were other matters contained in the letter besides his recall which concern you,” Simmonds added. “He wishes to see you on the subject.”

“You may tell him from me,” Van Bleit answered rudely, “that his postal communications, as his movements, have not the slightest interest for me.”

He started to walk again. Simmonds, wholly unmoved, walked beside him.

“You speak without knowledge, Mr Van Bleit,” he said. “The instructions contained in this imperative and important letter concern you very particularly. Colonel Grey has a further proposal to lay before you, which you will be well advised to consider. Failing a satisfactory issue to these final negotiations, he is instructed to place the matter in the hands of the police and return to England.”

Van Bleit, his assurance notwithstanding, was taken aback. He had not foreseen this move, and was totally unprepared for it. It was merely bluff, he told himself, and really believed it was so; but at the back of the belief lurked the fear that his victim might have grown reckless, and, with the courage that is sometimes born of despair, be prepared to face the worst.

“Faugh!” he exclaimed impatiently. “That’s an old dodge.” But his voice had lost its confidence and resumed its natural bullying tones. “Go and tell your chief to do his worst, and be damned to him!”

“Go and tell him yourself,” returned Simmonds. “You could at least then hear what he has to say.”

“And how do I know you are not up to some treachery?” demanded Van Bleit, his suspicions at once on the alert.

“I suppose it is natural you should judge other men by your own standard,” Simmonds answered indifferently. “If you are afraid we may arrange a trap, why not go and see him to-night when he is unprepared for your visit?”

“What makes you so confident we should find him at home?” Van Bleit asked quickly.

“Because, until I set out to look for you, I was seated on his stoep with him, smoking.”

”—And discussing me?”

“And discussing the letter and its conditions as they concerned you—yes.”

“He keeps late hours if he is out of bed when we get there,” Van Bleit remarked. “It’s after midnight.”

Simmonds, who had been instructed to fetch Van Bleit to the bungalow that night if possible, with difficulty repressed a smile.

“I imagine he does keep late hours,” he said. “The only occasions I have surprised him in bed have been in the daytime. But if he were abed I don’t doubt he would see you. Nevertheless, if you prefer some other time, I am sure it will be equally convenient to him.”

“And if I refuse to go at all?”

“Then, I expect he will drop down on you. You see his instructions are imperative. He has no voice in the matter.”

Van Bleit swung round suddenly and stared in the other’s face.

“It’s a game of bluff you’re playing,” he said. “I don’t trust you. I’ll go with you to-night—yes. I’ll hear the proposal this precious letter contains. But, remember, I’m armed, and I shan’t hesitate to use my weapon if I see the slightest occasion.”