George Manville Fenn (continued 3)

“Because he will say to himself: ‘no, I will not go back to Danmouth, because Madame Denise is so fond of me she will be waiting.’ Do you understand?”

“Oh, yais. I understand quite well. You sneer me, but you are his friend. You are his friend.”

“Ha, ha, ha,” laughed Gellow; “you wouldn’t have said that if you had heard him when I talked about money.”

“Well?”

The abrupt question was so sudden, that Gellow looked at the speaker wonderingly.

“Well what?” he said.

“Why do you look at me? Why do you ask me question? You go your way, I go mine. I want my hosband. I will have my hosband. Why is he here?”

“He isn’t here,” said Gellow, in reply to the fierce question.

“No, I know dat; and you know what I mean. Why comes he here?”

“Well,” said Gellow, “I should think it was so as to get out of my way, and—now, don’t be offended if I tell you the truth.”

“Bah! I know you. You cannot offend me.”

“Well, I’m sorry I am so insignificant in madame’s beautiful eyes.”

“What?”

“I say I am sorry I am so insignificant, but I’ll tell you all the same. I should say that Mr Parry Glyddyr came down to this delectable, out-of-the-way spot so as to be where Mademoiselle Denise—”

“Madame Denise Glyddyr, sare.”

“Ah, that’s what Glyddyr says you are not.”

“What?”

“I beg your pardon; I only tell you what he says.”

“We shall see,” cried the woman, stamping her foot, “what you did not finish yourself?”

“And I don’t mean to,” said Gellow, sotto voce.

“Well?”

“I have no more to say, only that I believe he came here so as to avoid you, and he is off somewhere now to be away from you.”

“Yes, it is true,” said the woman bitterly.

“If you had not come down, I daresay he would have run back here.”

“What for?”

“How should I know? Play billiards, read the odds.”

“He has a wife here, then.”

“Do you mean Madame Denise?” said Gellow innocently.

She gave him a scornful look.

“Are you fool, or make fun of me?” she cried fiercely. “Bah, I am too much angry. Is there a lady here?”

“No, I should think not, but we could easily find out. If he has, it is too bad, owing me so much as he does. No, I don’t think so; stop—yes I do. By Jingo, it’s too bad. That’s why he did not want to take me out in his yacht.”

“What do you mean?” said the woman searchingly.

“If there is one, madame—if he is married, she is aboard his yacht, and yonder they go—no, they don’t; they’re out of sight.”

There was so much reality in Gellow’s delivery of this speech, that his vis-à-vis was completely hoodwinked. She tried to pass it off with a laugh, but the compression of her lips, the contraction about her eyes, all showed the jealous rage she was in; and it was only by giving one foot a fierce stamp on the carpet, and by walking quickly to the window, that she could keep herself from shrieking aloud.

“Well, madame,” said Gellow, “you are getting all right again.”

“Oh, yais; I am getting all right.”

“And you can do without my services?”

“Oh, yais.”

“Then I’ll say good-bye. Glad I was near to help you out. Glad to see you again if you like to give me a call in town.”

“Where are you going?”

“Going? Back to London as fast as I can.”

“And what for, sir?”

“To read up all the yachting news, and see where The Fair Star puts in, and then run down and give Master Glyddyr a bit of my mind.”

“Stop—an hour—two hours.”

“What for?”

“Till I get back my dress all a dry. I go back wiz you.”

“Oh, certainly, if you wish it; but I wouldn’t; you had better stop here and rest for a few days—a week. I’ll write and tell you all I find out.”

“I go back wiz you,” said the woman decidedly. And she kept her word, for in two hours they caught a train.

The next day came a telegram from Underley, giving that as Glyddyr’s temporary address.

Gellow wrote back advising that the yacht should in future sail under another name, with her owner incog, and he added that the coast at Danmouth was now clear.

Volume One—Chapter Thirteen.

Hearts are not Deformed.

“Now Claude, darling, what do you think of me?” said Mary, one morning; “am I beautiful as a flower in spring?”

“No,” said Claude gravely; “only what you are, my dear little cousin; why?”

Mary’s face was flushed, and her eyes were sparkling as much from mischief as pleasure as she caught her cousin’s hand, led her softly to the open window of her bedroom, and pointed down.

Claude looked at her wonderingly, but she was too well used to her companion’s whims to oppose her, and she looked down.

“Can you see the goose?” whispered Mary.

“I can see Mr Trevithick walking with papa; I thought they were in the study;” and, she hardly knew why, she gazed down with some little interest at the tall, stoutish man of thirty, with closely-cut dark hair and smoothly shaved face, which gave him rather the aspect of a giant boy as he walked beside Gartram, talking to him slowly and earnestly, evidently upon some business matter.

“Well, that’s who I mean,” said Mary, laughing almost hysterically, “for he must be mad.”

“Now, Mary dear, what fit is this?” cried Claude, pressing her hands and drawing her away, as, a very child for the moment, she was about to get upon a chair and peep down from behind the curtain. “I know how angry papa would be if he caught sight of you looking down.”

“Well, the man should not be such a goose—gander, I mean. I thought he was such a clever, staid, serious lawyer that uncle trusted him deeply.”

“Of course,” said Claude warmly; “and he’s quite worthy of it. I like Mr Trevithick very, very much.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Mary, in a mock tragic tone, as she flung her cousin’s hands away, “you’ll make me hate you.”

“Mary, you ought to have been an actress.”

“You mean I ought to have been a man and an actor, Claudie. Oh, how I could have played Richard the Third.”

“Hush!”

“Oh, they can’t hear. They’re talking of bills and bonds and lading. I heard them. But Claude, oh! and you professing to love Chris Lisle.”

“I never professed anything of the kind,” cried Claude indignantly.

“Your eyes did; and all the time uncle is engaging you to Mr Glyddyr.”

“Mary! For shame!”

“And in spite of this double-dealing, you must want Mr Trevithick, too?”

“Do you wish to make me angry?”

“Do you wish to make me jealous?”

“Jealous? Absurd!”

“Of course,” cried Mary sharply. “What should a poor little miserable like I am know of love or jealousy or heartaches, and the rest of it?”

“My dear coz,” whispered Claude, placing an arm round her, “I shall never understand you.”

“There isn’t much of me, Claude. It oughtn’t to take you long.”

“But it does,” said Claude playfully. “I never know when you are serious and when you are teasing. I have not the most remote idea of what you mean now.”

“Then I’ll tell you. He’s in love.”

“Who is?”

“Mr Trevithick.”

“Mary!”

“There you go. No: not with you. Of course, it would be quite natural if the great big fellow, coming here every now and then, had fallen in love with his client’s beautiful daughter. But the foolish goose has fallen in love with some one else.”

“Mary, dear, how do you know? With whom?”

“Ah! Of course, you would never guess—with poor Mary Dillon.”

“Oh, Mary, darling! But has he really told you so?”

“I should like to see him dare.”

“Yes,” said Claude quietly; “I suppose that is what most girls would like.”

“Don’t, Claude dearest; pray don’t. My sedate and lovely cousin trying to make jokes. Oh! this is too delicious. But it won’t do, Claudie; it is not in your way at all. I am a natural, born female jester—a sort of Josephine Miller; but—you! oh, it is too ridiculous.”

“Now, tell me seriously, what does this mean?” said Claude, taking the girl’s hands.

“What I told you, darling. Big, clever, serious Mr Trevithick, the learned lawyer, is in love—with me.”

“Mary, you must be serious now. But how do you know?”

“How do I know?” cried Mary, with a curl of the lip. “How does a woman know when a man loves her?”

“By his telling her so, I suppose; and you say Mr Trevithick has not told you.”

“Didn’t you know Chris Lisle loved you before he dared to tell—I mean, to give you instructions in the art of catching salmon?”

Claude was silent.

“No, of course you did not, dear,” said Mary mockingly. “As if it was not only too easy to tell.”

“But, Mary dear, this is too serious to trifle about. You have not given him any encouragement?”

“Only been as sharp and disagreeable to him as I could.”

“But how has he shown it?”

“Lots of ways. Held my poor little tiny hand in his great big ugly paw, where it looked like a splash of cream in a trencher, and forgot to let it go when he was talking to me; looked down at me as if he were hungry, and I was something good to eat—like an ogre who wanted to pick my bones; sighed like the wind in Logan cave, and when I dragged my hand away, all crushed and crumpled up, and without a bit of feeling left in it, he begged my pardon, and looked ashamed of himself.”

“And what did you say?”

“I? I said, ‘Oh!’”

“That all?”

“No; I said, ‘you’ve quite spoiled that hand, Mr Trevithick,’ and then the monster looked frightened of me.”

“I am very sorry—no, very glad, Mary,” said Claude thoughtfully, and looking her surprise.

“Which, dear?”

There was a tap at the door, and Sarah Woodham entered.

“Master wished me to tell you that Mr Trevithick will not stay for dinner, Miss Claude, and said would you come down.”

“Directly, Sarah,” said Claude, rising. “You will not come, Mary?” she whispered.

“Indeed, but I shall.”

“Mary, dear,” protested her cousin.

“Why, if I stop away the monster will think all sort of things; that I care for him, that he has impressed me favourably, that I have gone to my room to dream. No, my dear coz, there are some things which must be nipped in the bud, and this is one of them. It is his whim—his maggot. Oh, Claude, he is six feet two. What a huge maggot to nip.”

They were already part of the way down, to find Gartram and his great legal man of business standing in the hall.

“Better alter your mind, Trevithick, and have a chop with us. Try and persuade him, Claude.”

“We shall be extremely glad, Mr Trevithick,” said Claude; but her words did not sound warm, and her father looked at her as if surprised.

“I am greatly obliged, but I must get back to town,” said their visitor; and he spoke in a heavy, bashful way, and looked at Mary as if expecting her to speak, but she did not even glance at him.

“Well,” said Gartram, “if you must, you must.”

The big lawyer looked at Claude again in a disappointed way, and his eyes seemed to say, “Coax me a little more.”

But Claude felt pained as she glanced from one to the other, for there was something too incongruous in the idea of those two becoming engaged, for her to wish to aid the matter in the slightest way, and she held out her hand for the parting.

“I suppose it will be three months before we see you again, Mr Trevithick,” she said.

“Yes, Miss Gartram, three months; unless,” he added hastily, “Mr Gartram should summon me before.”

“No fear, Trevithick; four days a year devoted to legal matters are quite enough for me.”

“We none of us know, Mr Gartram,” said the big man solemnly. “Good-day, Miss Gartram; good-day, Miss Dillon,” and he shook hands with both slowly, as if unwillingly, before he strode away.

“I don’t think Trevithick is well,” said Gartram.

Volume One—Chapter Fourteen.

A Telegram.

The same old repetition in Chris Lisle’s brain: “How am I to grow rich enough to satisfy the King?”

Always that question, to which no answer came.

Then would come, till he was half maddened by the thought, the idea that Glyddyr had returned after a few days’ absence and had the free run of the Fort, and would be always at Claude’s side.

“Constant dropping will wear a stone,” he would say to himself; “and she is not a stone. I am sure she loved me, and I might have been happy if I had not been so cursedly poor—no, I mean, if she had not been so cruelly rich. For I am not poor, and I never felt poor till now. But I can’t afford to keep a yacht, and go here and there to races, and win money. He must win a great deal at these races.

“Why cannot I?” he said half aloud, after a long, thoughtful pause. She would think no better of me, but the old man would.

“Surely I ought to be as clever as Mr Parry Glyddyr. I ought to be a match for him. Well, I am in brute strength. Pish! what nonsense one does dream of at a time like this. I can think of no means of making money, only of plenty of ways of losing it. Nature meant me for an idler and dreamer by the beautiful river, so I may as well go out and idle and dream, instead of moping here, grumbling at my fate.

“It’s a fine morning, as the writer said; let’s go out and kill something.”

He stepped out into the passage, lifted down his salmon rod from where it hung upon a couple of hooks, took his straw hat, in whose crown, carefully twisted up, were sundry salmon flies, thrust his gaff hook through the loop of a strap, and started off along the front of the houses, in full view of the row of fishermen, who were propping their backs up against the cliff rail.

Plenty of “Mornin’s” greeted him, with smiles and friendly nods, and then, as he walked on, the idlers discussed the probabilities of his getting a good salmon or two that morning.

Away in the sheltered bay lay Glyddyr’s yacht, looking the perfection of trimness; and as it caught his eye, Chris turned angrily away, wondering whether the owner was up at the Fort, or on board.

Just as he reached the river which cut the little town in two, he saw the boy who did duty as telegraph messenger go along up the path which led away to the Fort, and with the habit born of living in a little gossiping village, Chris found himself thinking about the telegraph message.

“Big order for stone,” he said to himself as he studied the water. “How money does pour in for those who don’t want it.”

But soon after he saw the boy returning, a red telegraph envelope in his hand, and that he was trotting on quickly, as if in search of an owner.

“Not at home,” he muttered; and then he became interested in the boy’s proceedings in in spite of himself, as he saw the young messenger go down to the end of the rough pier and stop, as if speaking to some one below, before coming quickly back, and finally passing him, going up the path by the river side, as if to reach the old stone bridge some hundred yards up the glen.

“Gartram must be over at his new quarry,” said Chris to himself, and as the boy disappeared, he thought no more of the incident till about fifty yards farther, as he had turned up by the bank of the river, he caught sight of him again.

He forgot him the next moment, for his interest was taken up by the rushing water, and he watched numberless little falls and eddies, as he went on, till, as he neared the bridge, he caught sight of a well-known figure seated upon the parapet smoking, and in the act of taking the telegram from the boy.

He tore it open and read the message, crumpled it up, and with an angry gesture threw it behind him into the stream; and as he pitched the boy a small coin, Chris saw the little crumpled-up ball of paper go sailing down towards the sea.

For a moment the young man felt disposed to avoid meeting Glyddyr, as, to reach the fishing ground he had marked down, he would have to go over the bridge, and then along the rugged path on the other side.

“And if he sees me going back, he’ll think I’m afraid of him,” muttered Chris.

At the thought, he swung his long lithe rod over his shoulder, and strode on, his heavy fishing boots sounding loudly on the rugged stones.

As Chris reached the bridge, Glyddyr was busy with his match-box lighting a fresh cigar, and did not look up till the other was only a few yards away, when he raised his head, saw who was coming, and changed colour. Then the two young men gazed fiercely into each other’s eyes, the look telling plainly enough that what had passed and was going on made them enemies for life.

Chris tramped on, keeping his head up, and naturally, as he did not turn towards his rear, he was soon out of eyeshot, when the sharp report of a yacht’s gun rang out from behind him, the effect being that he turned sharply round to look at the smoke rising half a mile away.

It was a perfectly natural action, but Chris forgot that he was carrying a long, elastic salmon rod, and the effect was curious, for the rod swung through the air with a loud whish, and gave Glyddyr a smart blow on the cheek.

“I beg your pardon,” cried Chris involuntarily, as Glyddyr sprang from the parapet into the roadway, with a menacing look in his eyes.

“You cad!” he roared. “You did that on purpose.”

“No, I did not,” said Chris, quite as hotly. “If I had meant to do it, I should have used the butt of the rod, and knocked you over into the river.”

Glyddyr’s lips seemed to contract till his white teeth were bare; and, dashing down cigar and match, he advanced towards Chris with his fists clenched, till he was within a couple of feet of his rival.

Chris’s face grew set and stony looking, but he did not move. One hand held the rod, and the other was in his pocket, so that he offered an easy mark for a blow such as he felt would pay him back for the one which had sent Glyddyr over in the study at the Fort.

But he knew that the blow would not come, and a curiously mocking smile slowly dawned upon his lip as he saw that Glyddyr was trembling with impotent rage, and dared not strike.

“Well?” said Chris. “Have you any more to say?”

“You shall pay bitterly for these insults,” whispered Glyddyr; for he could not speak aloud.

“When you like, Mr Glyddyr,” said Chris coolly; “but you dare not ask me for payment. I told you that blow was an accident—so it was.”

“You lie!”

Chris flushed.

“Do I?” he said hoarsely. “A minute ago I was sorry that I had struck you inadvertently, and I apologised as a gentleman should.”

“A gentleman!” said Glyddyr mockingly.

“Yes, sir, a gentleman; but you called me a cad and a liar, so now I tell you I’m glad I did strike you, and that it wouldn’t take much to make me undo the rod and use the second joint to give you a good thrashing. Good-morning.”

There was a peculiar sound in the still sunny glen heard above the dull rush and murmur of the river. It was the grating together of Glyddyr’s teeth, as Chris turned round once more, and unintentionally brushed the top of his rod against his rival again.

Glyddyr made a sharp movement, as if to snatch hold of and break the rod, but his hand did not go near it; and he stood there watching the fisherman as he turned down to the waterside, and went on up the glen, soon disappearing among the birches and luxuriant growth of heath and fern which crowned the stones.

“Curse him!” muttered Glyddyr, picking up the fallen cigar and lighting it, without smoking for a few minutes. “I’ll pay him out yet. Well,” he said, with a bitter laugh, “I’m going the right way. Poor devil; how mad he is. He shall see me come away from the church some day with little Claude on my arm, and I’d give a hundred pounds—if I’d got it—to let him see me take her in my arms, and cover her pretty face with kisses.”

There was a peculiarly malignant screw in his face as he stood looking up the glen, and then he laughed again.

“Poor devil,” he cried. “I can afford to grin at him.”

He turned to go, and at that moment a puff of wind came down the glen, rustling a piece of paper in the road, and drawing his attention to the fact that it was the envelope of the telegram.

Then he stooped and picked it up, and shaped it out till it was somewhat in the form of a boat, as he dropped it over the stone parapet, and stood watching as it swept round and round in an eddy, and then went sailing down the stream.

“That’s the way to serve you, Master Gellow,” he muttered; “and I wish you were with it sailing away out yonder. No, no, my fine fellow, once bit twice shy; once bit—a hundred times bit, but I’ve grown too cunning for you at last. Now, I suppose some other scoundrel is in that with you. Back it. Not this time, my fine fellow; not this time.”

He smoked away furiously as he watched the scrap of paper float down, now fast, now slowly. At one time it was gliding down some water slide, to plunge into a little foaming pool at the bottom, where it sailed round and round before it reached the edge and was whirled away again. Now it caught against a stone, and was nearly swamped; now it recovered itself, and was swept towards the side, but only to be snatched away, and go gliding down once more in company with iridescent bubbles and patches of foam.

“Hah!” ejaculated Glyddyr, “if I only had now all that I have fooled away by taking their confounded tips, and backing the favourites they have sent me. No, Master Gellow, I’m deep in enough now, and I’m not the gudgeon to take that bait. Money, money. There’ll be a fresh demand directly, and the old bills to renew. How easy it is to borrow, and how hard to pay it back. If I only had a few hundreds now, how pleasant times would be, and how easy it would be to get what I want.”

Oddly enough, just at the same time, Chris Lisle was busily whipping away at the stream in foaming patch and in dark gliding pool, thinking deeply.

“Such a despicable coward!” he muttered. “Why, if a man had served me so, I should have half killed him. What a fate for her if it were possible, and here is he accepted by that sordid old wretch of a fellow, just because he has money. Now, if I had a few thousands! Ha!”

He whipped away, fishing with most patient energy till he reached the pool where Claude had caught her first fish, and where, as he stood by the water side, he seemed to feel her little hands clasping the rod with him as mentor, instructing her in the art.

But, try hard as he would, no salmon rose. Every pool, every eddy which had proved the home of some silvery fish in the past, was essayed in vain; and at last, after a couple of hours’ honest work, he gave it up as a bad job, and determined to try at the mouth of the river, just where the salt tide met the fresh water, for one of the peel which frequented that part.

Winding up his line, and hesitating as to how he should fish, he walked swiftly back, wondering whether Glyddyr would still be on the bridge, waiting to insult him with word and look, and feeling heartily relieved to see that the place was clear.

Reaching the bridge, he went on down by the river on the same side as that on which he had been fishing.

There was no path there, and the way among the rugged stones and bushes was laborious, but he crept and leaped and climbed away till he was within a hundred yards of the sea, where the river began to change its rough, turbulent course to one that was calm and gliding.

It was extremely tortuous here, and in places there were eddies, in which patches of foam floated, just as they had come down from the little falls above, lingering, as it were, before taking the irrevocable plunge into the tide which would carry them far out to sea.

Close by one of these eddies, where the water looked black and dark, the fisher had to make his way down to the very edge of the river, to climb round a rugged point, and so reach the wilderness of boulders below, among which the river rushed hurriedly towards the bar.

It was the most slippery piece of climbing of all, and about half-way along Chris was standing with one foot upon an isolated stone, the other on a ledge of slatey rock, about to make his final spring, when something floating on the surface of the still water took his attention.

It was only a scrap of pinkish paper, printed at the top, carefully ruled and crossed, and bearing some writing in coarse blue pencil.

Chris stared hard at the object, for it was a telegram. Glyddyr had received a telegram, crumpled it up and thrown it into the water, where, in all probability, consequent upon the action of the water, it had slowly opened out till it lay flat, as if asking to be read.

“Bah!” ejaculated Chris, turning away from temptation—as it seemed to him.

The intention was good, but the mischief was done. Even as he glanced at the telegram lying there upon the water he took in its meaning. The writing was so large and clear, and the message so brief, that he grasped it all in what the Germans call an augenblick.

“Back the Prince’s filly.—Gellow.”

A curious feeling of annoyance came over Chris as he climbed on—a feeling which made him pick up a couple of heavy stones, and dash them down one after the other into the river.

The second was unnecessary, for the first was so well aimed that it splashed right into the middle of the paper, and bore it down into the depths of the river beneath the rocky bank; and Chris walked on towards the smiling sea, with those words fixed in his mind and standing out before him.

“Back the Prince’s Filly.”

The thing seemed quite absurd, and he felt more and more angry as he went a few yards farther and prepared his tackle, and began to fish just in the eddy where the stream and sea met. And there goodly fish, which had come up with the tide to feed on the tasty things brought down by the little river from the high grounds, gave him plenty of opportunities for making his creel heavy, but he saw nothing save the words upon the telegram, and could think of nothing else.

It was evidently a very important message to Glyddyr about some race, but for the time being he had no idea what race was coming off. He was fond of sport in one way, but Epsom, Ascot, Newmarket, Doncaster and Goodwood had no charm for him.

But he knew accidentally that Glyddyr was a man who betted heavily, and report said that he won large sums on the turf, while by the irony of fate here was he, possibly Glyddyr’s greatest enemy, suddenly put in possession of one of his great turf secrets—undoubtedly a hint from his agent by which he would win a heavy sum.

“Well, let him win a heavy sum,” cried Chris petulantly, as if some one were present tempting him to try his luck. “Let him win and gamble and lose, and go hang himself; what is it to me?”

He hurriedly wound in his line, to find that a fish had hooked itself; but, in his petulant state, he gave the rod a sharp jerk, snatched the hook free, and began to retrace his way to the bridge; but before he reached the spot where he had had to step amid the big stones, he caught sight of a scrap of pink paper sailing down to meet the tide, and he could not help seeing the words,—

“Prince’s fil—”

And directly after another ragged fragment floated by showing, at the torn edge where the stone had dashed through, the one mutilated word,—

“Bac—”

“Any one would think there were invisible imps waiting to tempt me,” thought Chris. “How absurd!”

He strode on, leaping and climbing along the rugged bank till he once more reached the bridge, crossed it, and was half-way back to his apartments when he saw Gartram coming along the road with Claude and Mary.

His first instinct was to avoid them. The second, to go straight on and meet them, and this he did, to find that, as he raised his hat, Gartram turned away to speak to Claude, and completely check any attempt at recognition on her part.

“How contemptible!” thought Chris. “Now, if I had been as well off as Glyddyr, I should have been seized by the hand, asked why I did not go up more to the Fort, and generally treated as if I were a son.”

“Back the Prince’s filly!”

The idea came with such a flash across his brain that he started and looked sharply over his shoulder to see if any one had spoken.

“How curious,” he thought. “It just shows how impressionable the human mind is. If I gave way to it, I should begin calculating odds, and fooling away my pittance in gambling on the turf. I suppose every man has the gaming instinct latent within him, ready to fly into activity directly the right string is pulled. Ah, well, it isn’t so with me.”

He walked on, trying to think of how beautiful the day was, and how lovely the silver-damascened sea, with the blue hills beyond; but away softly, describing arcs of circles with the tips of her masts, lay Glyddyr’s yacht, and there, just before him, was Glyddyr himself going into the little post office, where the one wire from the telegraph pole seemed to descend through the roof.

“Gone to send a message,” thought Chris, with a feeling of anger that he could not for the moment analyse, but whose explanation seemed to come the next moment. To back the Prince’s horse, perhaps make more thousands, and then—“Oh! this is maddening!” he said, half aloud; and he increased his pace till he reached the pretty cottage where he had long been the tenant of a pleasant, elderly, ship-captain’s widow; and after hanging his rod upon the hooks in the little passage, entered his room, threw the creel into the corner, and himself into a chair.

“Cut dead!” he exclaimed bitterly. “After all these years of happy life, to be served like that.”

“Back the Prince’s filly.”

The words seemed to stand out before him, and he gave quite a start as the door opened and the pleasant smiling face of his landlady appeared, the bustling woman bearing in a large clean blue dish.

“How many this time, Mr Lisle?” she said. “Of course you’ll like some for dinner?”

“What? No; none at all, Mrs Sarson,” said Chris hastily.

“No fish, sir? Why, James Gadby came along and said that the river was just full.”

“Yes; I daresay, but I came back. Headache. Not well.”

“Let me send for Dr Asher, sir. There’s nothing like taking things in time. A bit of cold, perhaps, with getting yourself so wet wading.”

“No, no, Mrs Sarson; there’s nothing the matter. Please don’t bother me now. I want to think.”

The woman went out softly, shaking her head.

“Poor boy!” she said to herself; “I know. Things are not going with him as they should, and it’s a curious thing that love, as well enough I once used to know.”

“Back the Prince’s filly.”

The words stood out so vividly before Chris Lisle that he sprang from his seat, caught up a book, and threw himself back once more in a chair by the window to read.

But, as he turned over the leaves, he heard a familiar voice speaking in its eager, quick tones, and, directly after, there was another voice which seemed to thrill him through and through, the sounds coming in at the open window as the light steps passed.

“No, Mary dear. Let’s go home.”

There was a ring of sadness in the tone in which those words were uttered, which seemed to give Chris hope. Claude could not be happy to speak like that.

He crept to the window, and, from behind the curtain, watched till he could see the white flannel dress with its blue braiding no more.

“If I were only rich,” thought Chris; and then he gave an angry stamp on the floor as he heard a quick pace, and saw Glyddyr pass, evidently hurrying on to overtake the two girls, who must have parted from Gartram lower down.

Half mad with jealousy, he made for the door, but only to stop with his fingers upon the handle, as he felt how foolish any such step would be, and, going back to his chair, he took up his book again, and opened it, and there before him the words seemed to start out from the page.

“Back the Prince’s Filly.”

He closed the book with an angry snap.

“Look here,” he said to himself, “am I going to be ill, and is all this the beginning of a fit of delirium?”

He laughed the next instant, and then, as if obeying the strange impulse within him, he crossed the room and rang the bell.

“Have you taken away the newspaper that was here, Mrs Sarson?” he said sharply.

The pleasant face before him coloured up.

“I beg your pardon, sir. I didn’t think you’d be back yet, and so I’d made so bold.”

“Bring it back,” said Chris sternly.

“Bless the poor man, what is coming to him?” muttered the landlady, as she hurried out to her own room. “He was once as amiable as a dove, and now nothing’s right for him.”

“Thank you; that will do,” said Chris, shortly; and as soon as he was alone he stood with the paper in his hand.

Volume One—Chapter Fifteen.

Tempted.

It was some minutes before Chris opened that paper, and then he had to turn it over and over before he found the racing intelligence, and even then he did not begin to read, for plainly before him were the words,—

“Back the Prince’s filly.”

Then in a quick, excited way he looked down the column he had found, and before long saw that the important race on the tapis was at Liverpool, and the last bettings on the various horses were before him, beginning with the favourite at four to one, and going on to horses against which as many as five hundred to one was the odds.

But the Prince’s horse! What Prince? What horse? He stood thinking, and recalled a rumour which he had heard to the effect that the Prince’s horses were run under the name of Mr Blanck, and there, sure enough, was in the list far down:—

“Mr Blanck’s ch. f. Simoom, 100 to 1.” Chris dashed down the paper in a rage.

“What have I to do with such things as this?” he said aloud. “Even if I were a racing man I could not do it. It is too dishonourable.”

Then he set to work to argue the matter out. He had come upon the information by accident, and it might be perfectly worthless. Even if the advice was good, the matter was all speculation—a piece of gambling—and if a man staked his money upon a horse it was the merest chance whether this horse would win; so if he used the “tip,” he would be wronging no one, except, perhaps, himself, by risking money he could not spare.

Anxiety, love, jealousy and disappointment had combined to work Chris Lisle’s brain into a very peculiar state of excitement, and he found himself battling hard now with a strange sense of temptation.

Here was a message giving Glyddyr information how to make money, and it had fallen into other hands. Why should not he, Christopher Lisle, seize the opportunity, take advantage of such a chance as might never come to him again, and back the Prince’s horse to the extent of four or five hundred pounds? Poor as he called himself, he had more than that lying at his bankers; and if he won, it might be the first step towards turning the tables on Gartram, and winning Claude.

True, the information was meant for his rival, but what of that? All was fair in love and war. Glyddyr would stand at nothing to master him: so why should he shrink? It would be an act of folly, and like throwing away a chance.

Then his training stepped in, and did battle for him, pointing out that no gentleman would stoop to such an act, and for the next six hours a terrible struggle went on, which ended in honour winning.

“I would not do such a dirty action; and she would scorn me if I did,” he said to himself. “Eh? Want me, Mrs Sarson?”

“Which it’s taking quite a liberty, Mr Lisle, sir,” said his landlady, who had come for the fifth time into his room; “but if you would let me send for Doctor Asher, it would ease my mind—indeed it would.”

“Asher? Send for him? Are you ill?”

“I? No, my dear boy, but you are. You are quite feverish. It’s terrible to see you. Not a bit of dinner have you tasted, and you’ve been walking up and down the room as if you had the toothache, for hours. Now, do trust to me, my dear, an old motherly body like me; I’d better send for him.”

“My dear Mrs Sarson, he could not do me the least good,” said Chris, smiling at the troubled face before him. “It was a fit of worry, that’s all; but it’s better now—all gone. There, you see, I’m quite calmed down now, and you shall prescribe for me. Give me some tea and meat together.”

“But are you really better, my dear?”

“Yes; quite right now.”

“And quite forgive me for calling you my dear, Mr Lisle, sir? You are so like my son out in New Zealand, and you have been with me so long.”

“Forgive you? Yes.”

“That’s right,” said the woman, beginning to beam; and hurrying in and out she soon had a comfortable-looking and tempting meal spread waiting before her lodgers eager eyes, and he made a determined attack upon that before him.

“That’s more like you, Mr Lisle,” she said, smiling her satisfaction.

“Would you mind opening the window a little more, Mrs Sarson?” said Chris, as he drove the Prince’s horse right out of his mind; and races, jockeys, grand stands, and even Glyddyr faded from his heated brain.

“Certainly, sir. And what a lovely evening it is—beautiful. Hah! there goes that Mr Glyddyr’s boat off to his yacht; and there’s Mr Gartram in it, and the young ladies. Going for an evening sail, I suppose.”

Chris dropped his knife and fork upon his plate.

“Bless me!” ejaculated the landlady, turning sharply round.

“Nothing, nothing, Mrs Sarson,” said Chris hastily; “that will do now. I’ll ring. Don’t wait.”

The landlady looked at him curiously, and left the room; and as soon as she was gone, Chris sprang from his chair, took a binocular glass from where it hung in its case against the wall, focussed it, and fixed it upon the smart gig being rowed out on the bright water.

“I’ve fought all I knew, and I’m beaten,” he muttered, as he saw Glyddyr leaning towards Claude, and talking to her. “Every man has his temptations, and the best and strongest fall if the temptation is too strong. I am only a poor, weak, blundering sort of fellow, I suppose; and I’ve fallen—low—very low indeed.

“Claude, my darling!” he groaned, as he lowered the glass and gazed wistfully out toward the boat, “if it were some good, true fellow whom you loved, and I was going to see you happy, I’d try and bear it all like a man. But you can’t be happy with a fast scoundrel like that; and you love me. I know, I’m sure you do, and I’d do anything to save you from such a fate.”

He pitched the glass on to the sofa, took a time table from where it lay, and, after satisfying himself as to the hours of the trains, he went quickly towards the door, just as it was opened and Mrs Sarson appeared.

“There, my dear,” she said, holding up a large glass dish; “there’s a junket of which any woman might be proud, and—”

“No, no; not now, Mrs Sarson. I’m going out.”

“Going out, sir?”

“Yes; up to London.”

“To London, sir?”

“Yes; for a day or two,” and he hurried by her.

Half-an-hour later, he was on his way in the town fly to the railway station, just as the sun, low down in the west, was shining full on the white sails of Glyddyr’s yacht, as it glided slowly on over the bright, calm sea.

Chris turned his eyes away, and looked straight before him as he mentally conjured up the gathered thousands—the bright green course, the glossy horses making their preliminary canter, with the gay silken jackets of the jockeys filling out as they rose in their stirrups, and flashing in the bright sunshine. There was the trampling of hoofs over the springy turf, the starting as the flag was dropped, the dashing of one to the front, of others challenging, and the minutes of excitement as, in a gathering roar, one horse seemed to glide out from a compressed group, gradually increasing its distance as it sped.

Hiss, rush, roar! Then the vision had parsed away, and Chris Lisle was seated, not in a saddle, but on a cushion in a first-class carriage, the speed increasing and the wind rushing by the windows as, with cheeks flushed, he rode on, his teeth set, and completely now under the domination of one thought alone as he softly repeated to himself the words he had read upon the telegram,—

“Back the Princes filly.”

and a few minutes later the figures he had seen in that day’s news,—

“100 to 1.”

The simoom seemed to be scorching up his brains.

It was all one whirl of excitement to Chris Lisle—that railway journey to town, and there were moments when he asked himself whether he was sane to go upon such a mission. The night journey of the train seemed like a race, and the rattle of the bridges and tunnels suggested the shouts and cheers of the crowd as the horses swept on. But he had determined to persevere, and with stubborn determination he went on, reached town, and without hesitation laid his money—four hundred pounds, in four different sums so as to insure himself as well as he could, in each case getting the odds of 100 to 1, so that, should the Prince’s horse come in first, he would be the winner of forty thousand pounds.

As soon as this was done, he went to a quiet hotel to try and get some rest.

But that was impossible, for he was face to face with his folly. Four hundred pounds gone in an insane hope of winning forty thousand, and he could see now how absurd it was.

“Never mind,” he said bitterly; “I shall not be the first fool who has lost money on a race, and I shall have had the excitement of a bit of gambling.”

His idea was to stay in town and go to a theatre, so as to divert the current of his thoughts; then have a long night’s rest and go to some other place of amusement the next day, so as to pass the time till the race had been run, and he knew the worst.

He dined, or rather tried to dine, and for the first time in his life drank heavily, but the wine seemed not to have the slightest effect.

Then in a feverish heat he went to one of the best theatres, and saw a social drama enacted by the people who filled his brain, what was going on upon the stage being quite a blank.

He saw himself as a disappointed hero, and Glyddyr, as the successful man, carrying all before him, winning Claude’s love, and then, in what seemed to be the last act, there was a wedding, and a wretched man going afterwards right along to one of the towering cliffs overhanging the sea, below Danmouth, and leaping off to end his woes.

“I’m glad I came to the theatre,” he said mockingly to himself, in one of his lucid intervals. “Better have gone to a doctor for something to send me to sleep.”

Then he became conscious of the fact that people in the pit were saying “Hush!” and “Sit down!” and that somebody had risen and come out from the place where he was jammed in, right in the centre of the stalls, just as the climax of the play was being reached.

Then he grew conscious that he was the offender, and breathed more freely as he got out into the cool night air.

It was not ten, and he found a chemist’s open near the Strand.

“I’m not very well,” he said to the gentlemanly-looking man behind the counter. “Had a lot of trouble, made me restless, and I want to take something to give me a good nights rest. Can you give me a dose of laudanum?”

The man looked at him curiously.

“You ought to go to a doctor,” he said.

“Doctor! Absurd! What for? I’m as well as you are. Give me something calming. It will be better than going back to the hotel and taking brandy or wine.”

The chemist nodded, and prepared a draught.

“What’s that? Laudanum—morphia?”

“No; a mild dose of chloral. Try it. If it does not act as you wish, I should advise you to go to a physician in the morning.”

Chris nodded, took the bottle, and strolled back to his hotel, where he at once went to bed after swallowing his draught.

It did not have the desired effect. His idea was to take a draught which would plunge him in oblivion for a few hours; but this dose of chloral seemed to transport him to a plain, surrounded by mountains covered with the most gloriously-tinted foliage, where flowers rippled all over the meadow-like pastures, and cascades of the most brilliant iridescent waters came foaming down, sparkling in the glorious sunshine.

All deliciously dreamy and restful, but when the morning came it did not seem to him that he had slept. Still, he was calmer, and felt more ready to think out the inevitable.

“How many hours shall I have to wait?” he said.

The race would probably be run about three o’clock, and till then he must be as patient as he could.

“Better go back at once,” he thought, “and repent at leisure over my madness.”

But he did not, for he accepted the last suggestion of his brain, partook of a hurried breakfast, and jumped into a hansom; had himself driven to the station, and soon after was being borne away by the express.

The rest of that day’s proceedings were a dreamy whirl of confusion. The rushing noise of the train seemed to bring back the old excitement, and this increased as he reached the station, and had himself driven to the course, where one of the first things he learned was that the case was hopeless; for the horse he had backed had gone down in the betting, till two hundred to one could be obtained, and for the first time he felt sick at heart.

He went up into the principal stand, securing a good place to see the race, and waited while two others were run, the horses flying by without exciting the slightest interest; the only satisfaction he gained was in having them pass, so as to be nearer to the great feature of the day.

At last, just as he had pictured it from old recollections of a minor race he had once seen, there was the shouting and bawling of the odds, the clearing of the course, and then the preliminary canter of the ten competitors, among which he now made out the colours of Simoom, a big ordinary-looking horse, with nothing to draw attention to it, while the three first favourites of the cognoscenti were the perfection of equine beauty, and their admirers shouted with excitement as they flashed by.

Then, after five false starts, each of which was maddening to Chris, who, while thinking the worst, could not help a gleam of hope piercing the dark cloud which overshadowed him, the cry arose that they were off, and amid a babel of sounds, as the parti-coloured throng of jockeys swept along the green course and disappeared, spasmodic cries arose, “Lady Ronald,” “Safflower—Safflower leads,” “Rotten race,” “The favourite shows ’em all her heels,” “Look! The favourite!”

The horses, after a period of silence, had swept round into sight again, and it was seen that three were together, then there was an interval, and there were four, another interval, and the rest behind.

The second group excited no notice, save from Chris, who made out that his horse was with them; and while every eye was fixed on the exciting race between the favourite and the two horses which strove hard to get abreast, there was suddenly a yell of excitement, for Simoom all at once shot out from among the second lot, and going well, with her jockey using neither whip nor spur, began rapidly to near the leaders.

The shouts increased, and a thrill ran through Chris as he saw the plain-looking mare glide on, but apparently too late to overtake the others.

Another roar as it was seen that the favourite’s jockey was beginning to use his whip, and the roar increased as Safflower was level with her shoulder, was head to head, was head in front, and the next moment, hopelessly beaten, the favourite was passed by Lady Ronald as well, who now challenged Safflower, and they were racing level for fifty yards.

The excitement grew frantic. “Safflower! Lady Ronald! Safflower! Safflower!”

“No, no, no!” shouted a man on Chris’s left. “Look!”

Chris heard all he said, and stood there bending forward, his lips apart, and eyes starting, as if turned to stone, living a very life in those seconds, as, amid a roar like the rushing of the tempest itself, the contemned mare came on.

“By George, sir, if the course had been a hundred yards more, she’d have won,” roared the man on Chris’s left. “Safflower’s done. It’s Lady Ronald; by—, no. Hurrah! Simoom! Simoom!” and in the midst of the frantic excitement, the mare upon which Chris’s hopes were fixed passed Safflower. There was a quick touch of the whip and she was alongside of Lady Ronald, and then Simoom’s nose showed in front, and in the next few bounds she was half-a-length ahead, and swept past the post—winner.

The man on Chris’s left suddenly seized his arm.

“Hurrah for the dark horse,” he cried. “Just for the fun of the thing, I put a sov on her, and I’ve won two hundred pounds. I beg your pardon, sir, I see you’re hit. Forgive my excitement. Don’t be down-hearted; come and have a glass of champagne.”

“Thank you,” said Chris quietly; but he did not move, for the place seemed to be spinning round him, and he held tightly by the rails till a hand was laid upon his arm.

“Can I help you? You look ill.”

“Help me? No; I’m all right now,” said Chris, making an effort. “It was so sudden.”

“Have you lost heavily?”

“Lost?” said Chris, looking at him wildly. “No; I’ve won.”

He felt his hand being shaken warmly, and then he sank back into a wild, confused dream, in the midst of which he knew that he was being borne back by one of the express trains, with the roar of the race in his ears, and the sight of the horses sweeping by before his eyes.

As he neared town he began to grow more calm, and he found himself repeating the words,—

“Forty thousand pounds! I’ve won; but shall I win her now?”

And then, like a dark cloud, came the recollection of how he had obtained the information upon which his success was based.

“I can never name it to a soul,” he muttered. “I must have been mad.”

Volume One—Chapter Sixteen.

Gartram Takes his Dose.

“It’s all right, I tell you, my dear boy. You don’t understand women yet. A girl who says snap the moment you say snip, isn’t worth having. A good, true woman takes some wooing and winning; and no wonder, for it is a tremendous surrender for her to make.”

“Yes, sir, you are quite right, but—”

“Yes; never mind the buts, Glyddyr. I could put my foot down, and say: ‘Claude, my dear, there’s your husband,’ but it would mean a scene, and a lot of excitement, and I should be ill—perhaps have one of my confounded fits.”

“But without going so far as that, sir, couldn’t you—just a little, you know—parental authority—you understand. I am kept back so terribly as yet.”

“No, my lad, I should not be serving your cause,” said Gartram firmly. “You see, she had always been so intimate with that fellow Lisle. Boy and girl together. It will take a little time to wean her from the fancy, and if I pull out the authoritative stop I shall be making him into a hero and her into a persecuted heroine. I may as well tell you that she is a bit firm, like I am, and any angry discussion on my part would perhaps make her stubborn.”

“Then, perhaps, you had better not speak, sir.”

“Decidedly not. There, you have the run of my place. Set to and win her like a man. Get along with you, you dog. Smart, handsome fellow like you don’t want any help. It’s only a matter of time. Don’t seem to push your suit too hard. Treat it all as a something settled; and all you have to do is to get her used to you and her position as your betrothed. Bah! it will all come right, so don’t let’s risk opposition. You will win.”

“You are right, sir,” said Glyddyr. “I’ll be patient.”

“Of course you will. That’s right. I say, though, that little upset?”

“Little upset, sir?” said Glyddyr starting.

“I mean about your friend, the visitor from town, whose wife came after him.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Glyddyr. “I didn’t know what you meant.”

“Rather an exciting affair, that. Strikes me that if it had had a tragic termination, your friend would not have broken his heart. I say, here you are in a hurry to get married, and you never know how the lady may turn out.”

“Ah, that was an exception, sir,” said Glyddyr hurriedly.

“Yes; but depend upon it, my dear boy, that was a hasty marriage. The gentleman said snip, and she said snap. Wasn’t it so?”

“Yes; I think you are right,” said Glyddyr.

“What a temper that woman must have. They tell me she deliberately stepped off the pier to follow him, or drown herself in a fit of passion.”

“Well, I’ll take your advice, sir,” said Glyddyr, hurriedly changing the conversation. “Of course, I can’t help feeling impatient.”

“No, of course, no,” said Gartram. “Come in,” he added, as there was a timid knock at the door.

“I beg pardon, sir, but Doctor Asher said I was to be particular as to time.”

Sarah Woodham entered the room with a small tray, bearing glass and bottle.

There was a peculiar, shrinking, furtive look about the woman, that would have impressed a stranger unfavourably; but Glyddyr was too intent upon his own business, and Gartram already disliked his old servant, and did not shrink about showing it.

“Oh!” he said roughly. “Well, pour it out. Won’t take a glass, I suppose, Glyddyr?”

“Oh, no, thanks. Not my favourite bin.”

“Thank your stars. Nice thing to be under the doctor’s hands. Hard, isn’t it? Regular piece of tyranny.”

“Oh, you’ll soon get over that, Mr Gartram. Temporary trouble.”

“Ah, I don’t know, my lad. Here, that’s more than usual, isn’t it, Sarah?”

“No, sir. Exactly the quantity.”

“Humph! Bah! Horrible!”

He had gulped the medicine down, and thrust the glass back on the tray.

“There, take it away,” he said.

The woman looked at him furtively, and slowly left the room.

“How I do hate to see a nurse in black,” exclaimed Gartram impatiently. “When a man’s ill, the woman who attends upon him ought to look bright and cheerful. That woman always gives me a chill.”

“Why not make her dress differently?”

“Can’t. Widow of that poor fellow who was killed.”

“Oh, yes; I remember.”

“Whim of Claude’s to have her here.”

“Yes, I know. Your old servant. Well, it was a graceful act on Miss Gartram’s part.”

“Of course; but it worries me.”

“The medicine makes you feel a little irritable, perhaps.”

“No, it does not, man. It’s tonic, and I’m taking chloral, which is calming, or I don’t know what I should do.”

“Chloral?” said Glyddyr.

“Yes; curse it—and bless it. I don’t know what I should do without it. Tell you what though. You must give me some more sails in your yacht. Cuts both ways?”

“I shall be most happy.”

“Yes; does me good and gives you pleasant opportunities, eh? I ought to be ashamed to say it, perhaps, but I am not. Confound that medicine! What a filthy taste it does leave in one’s mouth; quite makes one’s throat tingle, too.”

“When will you have another sail, sir?”

“Oh, I don’t know. When did we go last?”

“Tuesday.”

“To be sure; and this is Thursday. That medicine seems to confuse me a bit sometimes. Well, say this evening. By-the-bye, Glyddyr, that was a pleasant little idea of yours.”

“What idea, sir?”

“Quite startled my girl when that puss Mary drew her attention to it. How cunning you young fellows grow now-a-days.”

“I don’t quite grasp what you mean, sir.”

“Altering the name of the yacht.”

“Oh!”

“A very delicate little compliment, my lad, and it does you credit.”

“But Miss Gartram, sir?” said Glyddyr hurriedly; “is she in the drawing-room?”

“In the drawing-room? no,” said Gartram, with a strange display of irritability. “I told you when you first came that she had gone for a long walk up the glen with her cousin.”

“I beg your pardon, sir. I don’t think—”

“Now, damn it all, Glyddyr, don’t you take to contradicting me; and perhaps by this time that confounded scoundrel Lisle has followed her.”

Glyddyr leaped from his seat.

“No, no; I don’t mean it,” said Gartram, calming down. “Lisle is not at home. Gone to London, I think, or I wouldn’t have let them go. There, my lad, don’t you take any notice of me,” he continued, holding out his hand; “it’s that medicine. I wish Asher was hung. So sure as I take a dose, I grow irritable and snappish, just as if a fit was threatening; but it keeps ’em off, eh?”

“I should say so, decidedly; and I wouldn’t dwell upon the possibility if I were you.”

“Well, curse it all, man, who does?” cried Gartram fiercely. “There, I beg your pardon. Go and meet the girls and come back, and we’ll have an early dinner, and then you can take us for a sail. Well, what the devil do you want?” he roared, as Sarah re-entered the room; “haven’t I just taken the cursed stuff?”

“Beg pardon, sir, a telegram.”

“Well, don’t stand staring like a black image. Give it to me.”

“For Mr Glyddyr, sir—the boy heard from the sailors at the pier that he was here, and brought it on.”

“Well, then, give it to him; and look here, I’m sure you must have given me too strong a dose this morning.”

“No, sir; Miss Claude measured it before she went. I took the bottle and glass to her.”

“Humph! Feels wrong somehow. Is it fresh stuff?”

“No, sir; the same.”

“Humph! Well, Glyddyr, good news?”

“Ye-es,” said Glyddyr, with a peculiar look in his eyes. “Only from my agent in town. You’ll excuse me now?”

“To be sure. Go round by the bridge and you’ll meet ’em. Dinner at five. Hi, Sarah! Mind that: five.”

“Yes, sir,” said the woman, and she glided like a black shadow out of the room after Glyddyr, who hurried along the terrace down to the beach, where he could light a cigar and smoke.

“I feel as if they were poisoning me amongst them,” said Gartram quite savagely. “Not trying to put me out of the way, are they, for the sake of my coin? How I do hate to see that woman going about like a great black cat. Bah! I’m as full of fancies as a child.”

Glyddyr lit his cigar and took out his telegram again and read it.

“My congratulations. Hope you put it on heavy. I did. Coming down.—Gellow.”

The curse which Glyddyr uttered was, metaphorically speaking, glowing enough to fuse the sand.

The next minute he began walking swiftly along under the towering granite cliffs, so as to get out of sight and hearing while he gave vent to his feelings, for he felt that he could not command himself.

The telegram meant so much.

“I shall have to kill that man before I have done. Yes; I shall have to kill that man,” said Glyddyr.

He started and looked up, for, plainly heard, some one seemed to repeat his words, “Kill that man.”

“Bah!” he cried impatiently, as he looked in the direction from which the sounds came, to find he was facing a huge wall of rock. “Frightened at echoes now!”

End of Volume One.

Volume Two—Chapter One.

The Looming of a Storm.

“Well, my dear,” said Gartram, as Claude entered the room; “want to see me?”

“Yes, papa; you sent for me.”

“I sent for you? Oh, to be sure; I forgot.”

He was seated in an easy-chair, leaning back as if half-asleep, and he raised himself slowly as Claude came to his side.

She looked at him keenly, and felt a curious sensation of sinking and dread, as it struck her that her father was suffering from the effects of the sedative in which he indulged.

“Well,” he said smiling, “what are you looking at?”

“At you, dear; are you well?”

“Never better, my dear. Sit down; I want to talk to you.”

Claude shrank inwardly as she took a chair, but he was not satisfied.

“Come a little nearer, my dear.”

She obeyed, and the shrinking sensation increased as she felt that there was only one subject upon which her father was likely to speak.

“That’s better,” he said, taking her hand. “Mr Glyddyr has been here this morning?”

“No, father.”

“Ha!” he exclaimed rather sharply. “Now, I don’t quite like the tone in which you said that ‘No, father,’ my dear; and I think it is quite time that you and I came to an understanding. Claude, my dear, you have been thinking a good deal lately about what young people of your age do think of a great deal—I mean marriage.”

“Oh, no, papa,” said Claude emphatically.

“Don’t contradict, my dear. I am not blind, and it is perfectly natural that you should think of such a thing now.”

Claude was silent.

“You and Christopher Lisle were a good deal thrown together.”

Claude’s cheek began to deepen in colour.

“You were boy and girl together, and if not brother and sister in your intimacy, at least like cousins.”

“Yes, papa.”

“Well, presuming upon that, Master Christopher must suddenly forget he was a boy, and came to me with the most impudent proposals.”

“Papa!”

“There, I am not going to say any more about him, only I have taken that as a preface to what will follow.”

Claude drew a deep, long sigh.

“Now, of course, that was all boyish folly, and I bitterly regret that we should have had such a scene here; but the natural course of events was, that I should think very seriously of your future settlement in life.”

“I am settled in life, father,” said Claude firmly. “I do not intend to leave you.”

“Thank you, my darling. Very good and filial of you,” said Gartram, taking and holding her hand. “One moment, the room is very warm; I’ll open the window.”

“Let me open it, dear,” said Claude; and she went and threw open the French window, returning directly to sit down, her countenance growing a little hard.

“Now, then, child, we may as well understand each other at once.”

“Yes, papa, if you wish it.”

“Well, my darling, I began life as a very poor man. I had a good name, but I was a pauper.”

“Not so bad as that, papa?”

“Worse. The worst kind of pauper—a gentleman without an income, and with no means of making one. But there, you know what I have done; and I can say now that, thanks to my determined industry, I have honourably made a great fortune. Well, you don’t look pleased.”

“No, dear; I often think you would have been happier without the money.”

“Silly child! You have had your every wish gratified, and do not know the value of a fortune. Some day you will. Well, my dear, I am growing old.”

“No, not yet.”

“Yes, yes, my dear, I am; and my health is getting completely wrecked.”

“Then let’s go away and travel.”

“No; I have another project on hand, Claude. It has long been my wish to see you married.”

“Papa!”

“To some good man who loves you.”

“Oh!”

“A man of wealth and some position in the world, and that man I believe I have found in Parry Glyddyr.”

“Papa, I—”

“Hush, my dear, let me speak; you shall have your turn. Glyddyr is the representative of a good old Welsh family. He had three hundred thousand pounds at his father’s death, and, best of all, he loves my darling child very dearly. Now, what do you say to that?”

“I do not love Mr Glyddyr,” replied Claude coldly.

“Tut, tut, tut. Nonsense, my dear, not yet. It is the man who loves first; that makes an impression upon the woman, who, as soon as she feels the influence of the man’s affection, begins to love him in return. A man’s love begins like a flash; a woman’s is a slow growth. That is nature, my dear, and you cannot improve upon her.”

“Papa, I—”

“Now, don’t be hasty, my child. Glyddyr is a very good fellow—a thorough gentleman. I like him, he loves you, and if you will only put aside all that boy and girl nonsense of the past, you will soon like him too—more than you can conceive. But, as he reasonably enough says, you don’t give him a chance.”

“Did Mr Glyddyr say that?” said Claude, with her lip curling.

“Yes; and really, Claude, you are sometimes almost rude to him with your coldness. Come, my dear, I want you to see that it is the dearest wish of my life to have you happy.”

“Yes, papa dear, I know it is, but—”

“Now, let’s have no buts. I favour Glyddyr’s suit because he is all one could desire, and he came to me like a frank gentleman and told me how he saw you first and took a fancy to you, but thought he should forget it all; then felt his love grow stronger, and, as he has shown us—he has waited months and months to prove himself—felt that you were the woman who would make him happy and—”

“I could not make Mr Glyddyr happy, papa.”

“Nonsense, dear! What do you know of such things? I say you can, and that he can make you very happy and me, too, in seeing you married well.”

“Papa, dear, I don’t think you quite understand a woman’s heart,” said Claude.

“I understand a girl’s, my dear—yours in particular—so now I want you to set aside some of this stiff formality, and to meet Glyddyr in a more friendly way. Of course I don’t want you to throw yourself at his head. You are an extremely wealthy heiress. I’ve made my money for you, my pet, and you can afford to be proud, and to hold him off. Make him know your value, and woo and win you, but, hang it all, my child, don’t turn yourself into an icicle, and freeze the poor fellow’s passion solid.”

“Papa, dear, you said I should speak soon.”

“And so you shall, my darling; but I have not quite done. I want you to think all this over, and to look at it as a duty first, then as a matter of affection. Oh, it’s all right, my pet. I’m glad to see so much maiden modesty and dutiful behaviour. I didn’t want him to think he had only to hold out his hand for you to jump at it; certainly not. You are a prize worth winning, and you are quite right to teach him your value, you clever little jade. There, I think I’ve nearly done. Only begin to melt a little now, and give the poor fellow a bit of encouragement. And you must not be piqued at his saying you were so distant. I drew that out of him. He did not come to complain, though I must say he had good cause. There, now, I have quite done, and I am sure my darling sees the common sense of all this. I don’t want to lose my Claudie, and I shouldn’t at all dislike a trip on the Continent with her. There’s no hurry—a year—two, if you like. I’ll let my pet make her own terms, only let’s give the poor fellow a chance. Then I may tell Glyddyr?”

“No, father dear,” said Claude firmly; “you must not tell Mr Glyddyr anything.”

“What?”

“He is a man I do not like.”

Gartram’s countenance changed a little, but he kept down his anger.

“Not yet, my dear, not yet, of course. It is not natural that you should, but you will in time, and the more for feeling a bit diffident now. Come, we understand one another, and I won’t say a word to the poor boy. You will let him feel that the winter is passing, the thaw beginning. Give him a little spring first, and the summer in full swing by-and-by.”

Claude shook her head.

“It is impossible, papa, dear. I could never like Mr Glyddyr.”

“Now, my dear child, don’t make me angry by adopting that obstinate tone. You are too young yet to understand your own mind.”

“I know I could never love Mr Glyddyr sufficiently to be his wife.”

“Now, look here—”

“Don’t be angry with me, dear. You wish me to be always frank and plain with you?”

“Of course, but—”

“I must know about a matter like this. I do not and cannot love this man.”

“Absurd, Claude.”

“I don’t want to marry. Let me stay here with you. I can be very happy amongst the people I know, and who know me, and require my help.”

“Yes; a gang of impostors sucking my money through you.”

“No, no. What I give is to make you loved and venerated by the poor people who are sometimes in distress.”

“Now I don’t want a lecture on the relief of the poor, my dear,” said Gartram quickly. “I want you to quietly accept my wishes. I am your father, and I know what is for your good.”

Claude was silent, for she knew by familiar signs that the tempest was about to burst.

“Do you think I wish you to marry some penniless scoundrel, who wants to get my money to make ducks and drakes with it? There: I was getting cross, but I am not going to be. Once more, there is no hurry. Thaw by degrees. It will prove Glyddyr to you, and let you see that the poor fellow is thoroughly sincere. Come, my pet, we understand each other now? Hang it all, Claude, don’t look at me like that!”

“My dearest father,” she cried, after a moment’s hesitation, and she threw herself upon his breast and nestled to him, “are you not making a mistake?”

“No; I am too much of a business man, my dear. I am not making a mistake, unless it is in being too easy with you, and pleading when I might command. There, I’m glad you agree with me.”

“No, no, papa; I cannot,” she said tearfully.

“Now, Claude, my darling, don’t make me angry. You know what my health is, and how, if I am crossed, it irritates me. You are my obedient child, and you agree with what I say?”

“No, papa,” she said imploringly; “I cannot.”

“Then you are thinking still of that beggarly, fortune-hunting scoundrel Lisle?”

“Father, dear, don’t speak like that of Christopher Lisle. He is a true gentleman.”

“He is a true money-seeking vagabond, and I have forbidden him my house for the best of reasons. I would sooner see you dead than the wife of a man like that.”

Claude shrank away from him, and her convulsed face hardened, with the faint resemblance to her father beginning to appear.

“You are unjust to him.”

“It is false, madam,” he cried excitedly, with his brow beginning to grow knotty. “I know the scoundrel by heart, and as you are refusing to meet me on the terms full of gentleness and love which I propose, you must be prepared for firmness. Now, please understand. It is the dearest wish of my heart that you should marry Parry Glyddyr. I like him; he is the man I wish to have for my son-in-law; and he loves you. Those are strong enough points for me, and I’ll have no opposition.”

“Father!”

“Silence! I will not hurry matters, but you may look upon this as a thing which is definitely settled. Glyddyr is coming here this morning, as I told you before. I shall tell him that we have come to an understanding, and that he may consider himself as accepted, with a long probation to go through. There, you see, I am quite calm, for I make that concession to you—plenty of time.”

“Father, dear, listen to me,” cried Claude passionately.

“No! I’ll listen to no more. You can go now and think. You will come to your senses by-and-by, I have no doubt, even if it takes time.”

Claude caught his hand in hers, but he withdrew his own with an angry gesture, and she shrank back for a moment. There was that, though, in his face which made her hesitate about saying more, and reaching up, and kissing him hurriedly, she left the room, thinking that he would calm down.

He stood watching her as she left, and then, grinding his teeth with rage, his face flushing and his temples beating hard, he strode across to the door, locked it securely, and drew a curtain across.

“The scoundrel! He has poisoned her mind. But I’d sooner kill him—I’d sooner—Oh, it’s maddening,” he cried, as he went to a drawer, fumbled with the key on a bunch he drew from his pocket, and had some difficulty in opening it, for his hand trembled with suppressed passion.

Then he drew open the receptacle, and from the back took out a ring with three curiously formed keys. These clinked together with the involuntary movements of his hands as he crossed to a bookcase, took out a couple of books, opened a little door behind them, and thrust another key in at the side. There was a sharp click, and he started back, withdrawing the key, and stood and gave his head a shake as if to clear it.

“How I do hate to be put out like this,” he muttered, as he laid his hand in a particular way upon the end of the bookcase, which slowly revolved on a pivot, and laid bare a large iron door.

“I don’t feel at all myself,” he continued, as he used the third and largest key, which opened the great door of his safe, and exposed a massive-looking closet built in the wall with blocks of granite, at the back of which were half-a-dozen iron shelves.

“Hah!” he exclaimed, as he stood in the opening, reaching forward and taking down a small square box, which was heavy. “He’d like to have the pleasure of spending you, no doubt, but I can checkmate him. Now,” he continued, “let’s finish counting.”

He carried the box to the table, set it down, and then took out, one by one, five canvas bags, one of which he untied, and poured out a little heap of sovereigns. This done, he went back to the safe and took a small, thick ledger from another shelf, walked back to the table, opened the book, and made an entry of the date therein, then, leaving the pen in the opening, seated himself once again to count the coins into little piles of twenty-five.

“No,” he murmured; “I haven’t worked all these years to have my money swallowed up by a fortune-hunter. No, Master Chris Lisle.”

He started from his seat, overturning a pile of sovereigns, for at that moment, sweet and clear, came the song of a robin seated upon a tamarisk just outside the window.

“Good heavens! I must be mad,” he cried. “Who opened that window? Yes; Claude, I remember,” he muttered; and he was in the act of crossing to close it when he stopped short, threw out his hands, and fell with a heavy thud upon the thick Turkey carpet, to lie there with his face distorted, struggling violently, and striking his hands against a chair.

Volume Two—Chapter Two.

Chris Visits the Museum.

Racing did not agree with Chris Lisle, for the morning after his return from town he rose with a bad headache; and as he lived one of the most regular lives, he knew that it could not be caused by errors of diet. It would have been easy enough to have attributed it to the true cause—constant worry—but he was not going to own to that, as it seemed weak, so he set it down to his hair being too long.

“No wonder my head’s hot,” he said to himself; and, acting upon impulse, he hurried out of the room, and walked straight along the cliff road toward where, a few minutes before, Michael Wimble had had his head out of his door, looking for customers, after the fashion in which a magpie looks about for something to secrete.

He was a dry, yellow-looking man, thin, quick and sharp in action as the above-named bird, one to which his long nose and quick black eyes gave him no little resemblance; and this he enhanced by his habit of thrusting his head out of his door, laying his ear on his shoulder, and looking sidewise in one direction, then changing the motion by laying his other ear upon the fellow shoulder, and looking out in the opposite direction.

The Danmouth people, as a rule, always looked straight out to sea in a contemplative fashion, in search of something which might benefit them—fish, a ship in distress, flotsam and jetsam; but Michael Wimble looked for his benefits from the shore, and seldom gazed out to sea.

His place of business was called generally “the shop,” in spite of an oval board bearing upon it, in faded yellow letters upon a drab green ground, the word “Museum” as an attraction to any strangers who might visit the place, and be enticed by curiosity to see what the museum might contain, as well as by a printed notice pasted on each door-post, “Free admission.” Once within, they might become customers for shaving, haircutting, a peculiar yellow preparation which Michael Wimble called “pomehard,” or some of the sundries he kept in stock, which included walking-sticks, prawn nets, fishing lines, and white fish hooks, made of soft tinned iron, so that, if they caught in the rough rocky bottom, or some stem of extra tough seaweed, a good tug would pull them through it—bending without breaking—a great advantage and saving, so long as they did not behave in this way with a large fish.

Michael Wimble was very proud of his museum, and took pleasure in telling the seaside visitors that he had collected all his curiosities himself, and very much resented upon one occasion its being called a “Marine store” by a gentleman from town.

The museum began as a labour of love, for Michael had cast his eyes upon the fair elderly motherly widow, Chriss landlady, and, since the commencement of his collection, he had laboured on, in the belief that, as it increased in importance, so would the woman soften toward him; and that some day all his four-roomed dwelling would become museum and business place, while he would go and reside at the widow’s house—widow no longer, but Mrs Wimble—his own.

The beginning of the museum was a star-fish, with four small rays and one of enormous size, that he picked up during his regular morning walk along the sea shore, wet or dry, summer or winter, at six o’clock, as near to the edge of the water as he could get, returning close under the cliffs in time to have his place of business opened by eight.

The star-fish was duly dried and admired, and talked about by his regular customers; and this seemed so satisfactory that it was soon supplemented by a cuttlefish bone.

A piece of wood well bored by teredoes followed. Then a good-sized chump of ship timber, with a cluster of barnacles attached, was carried in one morning to commence the fine, fusty, saline, sea-weedy odour which smothered completely the best hair oil, the pomade and the scented soap.

The museum grew rapidly: hanks of seaweed, more cuttlefish bones, native sponges, shells of all sorts and sizes, some perfect, and some ground thin and white by long chafing in the shingle. Stones of all kinds, from spar to serpentine, and grey and ruddy granite; sharks’ teeth, pieces of mineral of metallic lustre, fragments of spar, and fossils, including great ammonites, chipped out of a bed of rock which presented its water-washed face to the advancing tide.

There was always something to bring home to suspend from the wall, arrange on shelf, or give a place of honour in one or other of the glass cases, which by degrees were purchased; and as Wimble’s museum increased, so it became of local celebrity.

Michael Wimble had been peering out when a customer appeared, and after due soaping and softening with hot water, the barber was operating with a thin razor, which scraped off the harsh bristles off the fisherman with a peculiar metallic ring.

The final triumphant upper scrape was being given when Chris entered the museum, and the barber’s eyes twinkled, for there were signs about Chris which suggested a new customer, one who was in the habit of getting his professional aid in the county town.

“At liberty in a moment, sir,” said the barber obsequiously; and he rapidly wrung out a sponge, removed the unscraped-off soap from the fisherman’s face, and threw a towel at him with a look which seemed to say, “Take that and be off.”

“Nyste mornin’ this, Mis’ Lisle, sir,” said the fisherman, wiping his face slowly. “Long time since you’ve had a run after the bahss.”

“Yes, ’tis,” said Chris shortly.

“Ay, ’tis as you say, sir, that it is; but when you feel in the right mind you’ve only got to say so, and I’m your man, punt and all.”

“Cut or shave, sir?” said the little barber, with a look at his regular customer which seemed to say, “Go.” And he went.

“Cut,” said Chris laconically; and he took his seat in the operating chair.

The barber looked disappointed as he drew his professional print cloth round his customer, giving it a shake, and then securing it about his neck like a Thug with a new victim.

“Much or little off, sir?” continued Wimble, with a preliminary snip in the air.

“Much; but don’t make it a confounded crop,” said Chris sourly; for he had a natural dislike to the barber, and was vexed with himself for not having had his hair cut in London.

“Much, but not too much,” said Wimble thoughtfully; and then, with the customary chatter of his profession, he started a topic.

“Been up to the quarry, sir, lately?”

“No.”

That was a negative strong enough to have crushed some men, but it only acted as a spur on the proprietor of the museum.

“Then I should advise you to go up, sir. I was there this morning, just casting an eye round for spars and crystals, and natural hist’ry specimens in general, and Mr Gartram’s men have blasted out some of the finest stones I think I ever saw.”

Wimble waited for an answer, but none came; and, after a little snipping, which was all done with the operator’s head very much on one side, he continued—

“Fine property, that of Mr Gartram’s, sir. Grand estate.”

Chris felt as if he would have liked to gag the barber with his own lather brush. But he sat still, holding his breath while the man prattled on.

“You said much off, sir? yes, sir; very good plan, sir; keeps the head cool, and after a wash or a shampoo, just a rub with the towel and there you are. I often admire our visitor, Mr Glyddyr, for that, sir.”

Chris flinched.

“Don’t be alarmed, sir; only the scissors touched the skin; cold steel, sir. Keeps his hair very short, sir; quite like a Frenchman. Wonderfully fond of our town, sir. His yacht’s always here.”

Chris grunted, and wished he had not come to have his hair cut, as the man innocently prattled on.

“If I might take the liberty of saying so, why don’t you take to a yacht?”

“Can’t afford it,” said Chris bluntly.

Wimble uttered a little laugh that suggested disbelief.

“They do say, sir, as this Mr Glyddyr is making up to Miss Gartram, sir.”

Chris set his teeth hard. He could not jump up and run out of the place with his hair half cut.

“And that Mr Gartram is set upon it, sir. Well, it’s a fine opening for any young man, I’m sure. Mr Gartram must have a deal of money up yonder. I often wonder he has never been robbed—that’s it, sir. The other side, please: thank you. Stone walls and bolts and bars are all very well, but, as I said to Doctor Asher when I was cutting him the other day—If a man wants to commit a robbery, stone walls and iron bars is no use. ‘No, sir,’ I says, ‘there’s sure to be times when doors is open and iron bars undone, and those are the times that a thief and a robber would choose.’”

“Humph!” ejaculated Chris. “So you think there are times when a man might easily rob Mr Gartram?”

“I do, sir, indeed; and if you’ll believe me there, I wouldn’t have his money and live as he does for anything.”

“Ah, well, I won’t believe you,” said Chris drily.

“But you may, sir. Yes, sir, it isn’t safe to live with so much money in your house.”

“Well, I’ll tell Mr Gartram what you say.”

The scissors dropped on the floor with a crash, and Wimble stood, wide-eyed, and harrowing his thin whiskers with his comb.

“What’s the matter?”

“I beg pardon, sir,” faltered the barber; “you said—”

“That I’d tell Mr Gartram.”

“I—I—I beg your pardon, Mr Lisle, sir; don’t do that. Mr Gartram’s my landlord—a hard man, sir, in paint and repairs; and if he knew that I’d said such a thing about him being robbed or murdered, why, I do believe, sir, he’d turn me out of house and home.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Chris gruffly. “Lesson to you to hold your tongue.”

This was so decided a rebuff that Wimble frowned, picked up his scissors, and went on snipping in silence for nearly half a minute, when the desire to talk, or habit of using his jaws in concert with the opening and shutting of his scissors, mastered him again.

“If I might be so bold as ask, sir, Mrs Sarson quite well?”

“Yes, quite well.”

“Most amiable woman, sir,” said the barber, “Her house always seems to me as if it might take a prize—so beautifully kept, sir—so delicately clean.”

“Yes.”

“I often wonder she hasn’t married again.”

Chris had heard hints from his landlady about an offer of marriage from the owner of the museum, but it had slipped from his memory till now, when the suggestive remark brought it all back, and a mischievous spirit seemed to enter into him.

He could not find it in his heart to bully the man, whose prattling gossip was a part of his trade, but he could vex him and revenge himself in another way for the annoyance Wimble was inflicting, and with boyish love of mischief he replied—

“Yes; so do I. But perhaps it is probable.”

Wimble checked his scissors as they were half-way through a tuft of hair.

“Indeed, sir?” he said, as he went on snipping. “Yes; of course you, being, as you may say, one of the family, and living on the premises, would know.”

“Yes,” said Chris, in a tone suggestive of much knowledge; and then there was an interval of snipping, and Wimble coughed.

“If one might say so, sir,” he said, “that was a most gallant act of yours the other day.”

“Eh? What was?”

“Swimming out after that handsome French lady, and saving her life.”

“Pooh! Nonsense!” said Chris pettishly.

“But it was, sir. People talk about it a deal.”

“More fools they.”

“Yes, sir; but people will talk.”

“Yes,” said Chris meaningly; “they will.”

“Yes, sir; and it’s wonderful what a man will go through for a woman’s sake—I mean a gentleman for a lady.”

“You miserable little pump,” muttered Chris to himself.

“Elderly gentleman, or young, sir?” said Wimble insinuatingly.

“Eh? What do you mean?”

“What you said, sir, about Mrs Sarson, sir—her future, sir.”

“Oh, you mustn’t ask me, Mr Wimble. It would be very much out of place for me to say anything. Done?”

“One minute, sir. Anything on, sir? Lime cream?”

“No; just a brush.—Thanks; that will do.—Good morning.”

Trifling words do a great deal of mischief sometimes, and Chris Lisle’s had the effect of making the owner of the museum stand at his door with his head sidewise, watching his last client till he was out of sight, and as he went down the street, dark thoughts entered his mind about age and good looks and opportunity; of the result of his own observations in life as to the weakness of elderly ladies for youth; and one by one ideas came into his mind such as had never been there before.

“If it does turn out so,” he muttered, as he slowly went back into his place of business, and apostrophised the head of a huge dog-fish which had been preserved and furnished with two glass eyes, asquint, and whose drying had resulted in a peculiar one-sided smile; “yes, if it does turn out so, I hope, for his sake and mine, he will not come here to be shaved.”

His thoughts had such a terrible effect upon Michael Wimble, that he took a razor from where it reposed in one of a series of leather loops against the wall, opened it, seized a leather strap which hung by one end from a table, and began to whet the implement with a degree of savage energy that was startling.

Chris had his hair cut, and his head felt easier, but the barber’s did not.

Volume Two—Chapter Three.

Glyddyr Sees the Golden Cave.

Faithful to his time of tryst with Gartram, Glyddyr made his way up to the Fort that morning, thinking deeply of his position, and wondering whether Gartram had good news to report.

He reached the frowning gateway, went along the granite-paved passage, and was passing the end of the terrace walk which ran along the front of the house, when he caught sight of a dress just as the wearer passed round the corner of the house to the garden formed at the end.

“Claude or Mary,” he said to himself. “Shall I? The old man likes me to make myself at home, and it may mean a tête-à-tête there, overlooking the sea. I will.”

With a sinister smile he turned off to the left, instead of going up to the door. He went by the bay window of the dining-room, and was in the act of passing that of Gartram’s study when the robin flew out of the feathery tamarisk, and as he was looking at the flight of the bird, he turned sharply, for a curious, gasping cry came from the room on the right.

He ran into the room, instinctively feeling what was wrong, and in nowise surprised to find that Gartram was struggling in a fit upon the carpet.