George Manville Fenn (continued 4)

“I remember once,” said Lord Barmouth, “in the old days when they used to have moving figures dancing in front of their organs, one of Lady Betty Lorimer’s daughters actually got—he, he, he! carrying on a clandestine correspondence with one of those handsome vagabonds.”

Maude looked at her father in a startled way.

“Barmouth, be silent,” cried her ladyship, as the butler entered the room with a fresh present upon a tray. “Robbins,” she said, “go downstairs and tell that man that he will be given into custody if he does not go away directly. Tell him some one is ill,”—for just then a fresh strain was ground out in a most doleful fashion, and Maude began softly humming the air to herself as she gazed down, still in the man’s handsome face.

“Some one ill, my lady?”

“Yes; I am ill. You should have sent him away without orders.”

“I did try to dismiss him, my lady, when he came,” said the butler.

“Well, and what did he say?”

“Only smiled, my lady.”

“But did you say that the police should be sent to him?”

“Yes, my lady, but he only smiled the more; and then,” continued the butler, lowering his voice as he glanced at where Maude stood outside, “he pointed up to the drawing-room window here, and wouldn’t go. If you please, my lady,” he continued in an undertone, “he never will go while Lady Maude gives him money.”

“That will do: go away,” said her ladyship, sighing; and Lord Barmouth got up and toddled towards the window to look down and elicit a fresh series of bows from the Italian, who kept on playing till the window was closed, when he directed his attention to the area, where a couple of the maids were looking up at him, ready to giggle and make signs to him to alter the tune.

Tom came back into the drawing-room just as her ladyship had closed the window and sent Lord Barmouth back to a chair, where he sat down to rub his leg. Tryphie came back a few minutes later to glance timidly at her aunt, who, however, thought it better to ignore the past for the time being, fully meaning, though, to take up poor Tryphie’s case when her mind was more free.

“Will you come and see the dress that has just come in?” said Tryphie to Maude, who was sitting gazing dreamily out of the window.

“No,” she said, “no.”

“My dear child,” cried her ladyship, “pray, pray take a little interest in your dresses.”

“I cannot, mamma,” cried Maude, passionately. “I have not the heart.”

“Bah, Maude!” cried Tom, “be a trump, I say. When you are married and have got your establishment, I’d jolly soon let some one know who was mistress then.”

“Tom, your language is disgraceful,” cried her ladyship. “It is as low and disrespectful as that of the people in the street.”

“I wish your treatment of your children were half as good. Here’s every shilling a fellow wants screwed out, till I feel as if I should like to enlist; and as for Maudey here, you’ve treated her as if she were a piece of sculpture, to be sold to the highest bidder. I suppose she has not got a heart.”

“Lord Barmouth!” exclaimed her ladyship, faintly, as she lay back in her chair, and lavishly used her smelling-salts, “if one of my brothers had spoken to dear mamma as that boy speaks to me, dear papa would have felled him to the earth.”

“There you are, gov’nor, there’s your chance,” said Tom, grinning. “Come and knock me down, but don’t bruise your knuckles, for my head’s as hard as iron.”

Lord Barmouth took out his pocket-handkerchief, and wiped his hands upon it, not noticing that it was stained with gravy, gazing in a troubled way from wife to son, and back, and then crossed to the former to say something in a whisper, to which her ladyship replied—

“Pshaw.”

“Thank you, Tom,” whispered Tryphie, as he went to the window where she stood. “I did not think you could stand up so bravely for your sister, and be so true.”

“Didn’t you?” said Tom, sulkily. “It’s a good job I can be true, for I don’t believe there’s a spark of truth anywhere else in the world. If Charley had had the spirit of a fly, he’d have come and walked her off. Hang it all! I’m mad and savage. Pretty sort of a husband you’ve got for her. Pretty sort of a brother-in-law to have! I’m ashamed of him. I’m only a little one, and nothing to boast of, but he’s no better than a pantaloon. Truth indeed! There isn’t such a thing in the world.”

“Oh, Tom!” whispered Tryphie.

“More there isn’t,” cried Tom. “Pretty brother-in-law indeed!”

“Maude,” exclaimed her ladyship, “I think you might have a word to say on behalf of your intended husband.”

The girl glanced at her in a stony way, and turned once more to the window, where she had been looking out with Tryphie, listening with aching heart to the encounter between mother and son.

“Such a brilliant match as I have made,” cried her ladyship, harping on her old string. “And such opposition as I have from the girl who owes me so much.”

“Indeed, mamma, I have yielded everything. You are having your own way entirely,” said Maude passionately.

“Have I not saved you from throwing yourself away upon a disreputable creature?” sobbed her ladyship.

“Tryphie,” whispered Maude, “I cannot bear this. It is dreadful. I feel as if I should go mad.”

“He saw plainly enough,” whined her ladyship, “that it could not be—that it would have been a complete misalliance.”

“This is unbearable,” whispered Maude, clasping her cousin’s hand, which pressed hers warmly and encouragingly, as they stood in the window recess, half screened by the heavy curtains.

“Try not to listen, dear,” whispered Tryphie.

“It nearly maddens me. I feel as if I could do anything wicked and desperate.”

“Oh, hush, hush, dear,” whispered Tryphie; and Lady Barmouth maundered on in tones asking for sympathy, as she set herself up as the suffering ill-used mother whom no one tried to comfort in her distress.

“Saved you as I did from a life of misery,” continued her ladyship, whimpering. “Oh, dear! oh, dear! how children strive to throw themselves away.”

Maude moaned, and held her hand to her side.

“Are you ill, dear?” whispered Tryphie.

“No, no,” was the reply. “It is past now—past.”

“I shall be sorry when you are gone, Maude,” said her father simply.

“Oh, papa, papa,” she cried, running to him and throwing her arms round his neck; for the tenderly-spoken sympathetic words brought the tears to her eyes. Then, unable to bear it, she turned to leave the room, but just then the door opened and the butler announced Sir Grantley Wilters.

“Ah, how do!” he said in a high-pitched voice, saluting all in turn, and bending low over Maude’s hand. “Thought I’d come soon, don’t you know, sans cérémonie, eh, mamma!” he said with a smile to Lady Barmouth, and then gave his glass a screw, and brought it to bear on all present.

“I am so glad,” said her ladyship; “so is Maude; but don’t take any notice,” she whispered. “Poor child, she is distrait, and seems cold. So deeply attached to Lord Barmouth. Ready to break her heart at leaving him.”

“Yas, oh, yas,” said Sir Grantley; and he took his seat beside Maude.

“Tryphie,” said Tom, “I can’t help it. I must be off. This fellow makes me ill. May I go?”

She gave him a nod of intelligence, and he said something about being ready for dinner, and left the room to go out, take a hansom, and bowl down to one of the clubs, where he was soon so busily engaged in a game of pool that he forgot all about the dinner.

Very shortly after, Maude rose, bowed to Sir Grantley, and left the room with Tryphie, when the baronet crossed to Lady Barmouth’s side, and was soon engaged in a most interesting conversation, whose murmur sent Lord Barmouth into a pleasant slumber, out of sight in a lounging chair, where he was quite forgotten, when her ladyship suggested that Sir Grantley should go with her to her boudoir to see the last new presents sent in for Maude.

“And you would like to wash your hands, too, before dinner,” said her ladyship. “We will not trouble about dressing to-night.”

Sir Grantley opened the door, and the old gentleman was left alone to wake up about a quarter of an hour later to find it was dark, and sit up rubbing his leg.

“Oh, damme, my leg,” he said, softly. “Where—where are they all gone? Why it’s—it’s past dinnertime,” he said, looking at his watch by the dim light. “I shall be doosed glad when everybody’s married and—and—and—why the doose doesn’t the dressing-bell ring? Heigh—oh—ha—hum!” he added, yawning. “There’s—there’s—there’s another of those abominable organs. I—I—I wish that all the set of them were at the bottom of the sea, for I lie at night with all their tunes coming back again, and seeming to grind themselves to fit the pains in my leg. Poor girl! she was always encouraging the fellows. Why dear me! Damme, haven’t I got a single sixpence left to give him, to go away. No, that I haven’t,” he continued fumbling, “not a sou. She—she—she does keep me short,” he muttered, opening the French window and looking out. “Oh, he’s done playing now, so I shan’t want the money. Why eh—eh—eh? Why—he—he, he! the fellow’s talking to one of the maids. He—he—he! Hi—hi—hi! They will do it. I—I—I was a devil of a fellow amongst the girls when I was a young man; but now—oh, dear, oh dear! this wind seems to give me tortures, that it does.”

He closed the window, but stood looking out.

“You’d better take care, you two, that my lady don’t catch you, or there’ll be such a devil of a row. He’s—he’s going down into the area. Well, well, well, I shan’t tell tales. He—he—he! Hi—hi—hi!” he chuckled, sitting down and nursing his leg. “I remember when I was about twenty, and Dick Jerrard and I—he’s Lord Marrowby now, and a sober judge!—when we got over the wall at a boarding-school to see pretty Miss Vulliamy. Oh, dear, dear, dear, those were days. They preach and talk a deal now about being wicked, but it was very nice. I used to be a devil of a wicked fellow when I was young, and—and flirted terribly, while lately I’ve been as good as gold, and, damme, I haven’t been half so happy.”

He stopped rubbing his leg for a while.

“Everything’s at sixes and sevens, damme, that it is. I’m nearly famished, that I am. If it hadn’t been for that bit of chicken I should have been quite starved. Her ladyship’s too bad, that she is. Cold boiled sole, rice pudding, and half a glass of hock in a tumbler of water. I can’t stand it, that I can’t. Damme, I’ll make a good dinner to-night, that I will, if I die for it. I’ll—I’ll—I’ll, damme, I’ll kick over the traces for once in a way. Tom will help me, I know. He’s a good boy, Tom is, and he’ll see that I have a glass of port, and—damme, where’s Maude and her ladyship, and why isn’t dinner ready? and—eh—what?—what the devil’s that. There’s something wrong.”

For at that moment a piercing shriek rang through the house, and there was the sound of a heavy fall upon the floor.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Tom Diphoos stays out Late.

“Half thought I should have seen Charley Melton here; perhaps he has started for Italy after all,” said Tom, who had gone straight to Barker’s and engaged in a game of pool. “Might have stirred him up, but he don’t seem to mind it a bit. Well, no wonder, seeing how he was treated.”

“Red upon white; yellow’s your player,” said the marker, and Tom went up to make the stroke required of him; then he turned once more to glance at the table next to him, and watched two or three of the bets made.

“Past ten,” he said to himself, glancing at his watch. “That’s getting back to dinner. Never mind, I’m not the party wanted by her ladyship. Charley must have known she was to be married to-morrow. I liked him too,” he said, gazing at the players. “He’s a big, strong, noble-looking fellow. Ah, well! I suppose that’s because I’m little. One mustn’t go by outside appearances. Perhaps it’s all for the best.”

Just then a friend proposed that they should drop in at one of the theatres and see the new burlesque; and after a little hesitation Tom consented to go. After this a kidney had to be eaten at a tavern; so that it was one o’clock when he reached home, to find the lights burning, and a cluster of servants in the hall.

“Hallo, Robbins, what’s up? House on fire?” he cried, as the butler admitted him, looking very solemn and troubled.

“No, my lord. Oh, dear no.”

“Don’t be an old image. What is it? Sir Grantley had a fit?”

“My young lady, my lord,” said the butler in a solemn, mysterious whisper.

“Not ill—not ill?” cried Tom, excitedly.

“No, my lord,” said the butler, “not ill, but—”

“Confound you, you great pump. Speak out,” cried Tom, angrily.

“Gone, my lord—been missing hours. Her ladyship has been having fit after fit, and his lordship is ’most beside himself.”

“Bolted!” exclaimed Tom; and, running into the dining-room, he threw himself into a chair and laughed till his sides ached.

“Poor Wilters! oh, Lord, what a game! Cut!—skimmed!”

He got up, and stamped round the room in the very ecstasy of delight, “The little smug hypocrite!” he said. “That’s why she was so sanctified and sad to-day. Well, bless her, I like her pluck. Sold, my lady, sold!”

He suddenly woke up to the fact that he ought to go upstairs, and, turning serious, he walked into the hall.

“Where’s her ladyship, Robbins?” he asked.

“Upstairs, my lord.”

“Where’s Sir Grantley?”

“Went out, my lord, about ten, to find that tail, straight man, sir, as came—Mr Hurkle.”

“And he hasn’t found him?”

“No, my lord, I s’pose not.”

“Good job too,” said Tom, shortly, and running upstairs he entered the drawing-room so suddenly that her ladyship, who was lying upon a sofa, being fanned by Tryphie, began to shriek.

“There, don’t make that row, mother,” said Tom, coarsely. “Hang it all, what a smell of lavender!”

“Is that you, Tom?” sobbed her ladyship, as Justine came in with a bottle of hot water to apply to her mistress’ feet.

“I suppose so, unless I was changed at my birth,” he said, laughing at Tryphie, and then giving his father a free-and-easy nod. “Spirits and water—internal and ex.”

“Oh, my boy, your wicked, wicked sister!” sobbed her ladyship.

“Serve you right,” said Tom.

“Such a wanton disgrace to her family.”

“Of course,” said Tom.

“I shall never get over it.”

“Shouldn’t have tried to make the poor girl marry a man that she did not care a curse for.”

“Oh, but, Tom, Tom!” sobbed Tryphie, “this is too dreadful.”

“Stuff!” cried Tom. “I’ll be bound to say that you were in the secret.”

“Indeed, no,” cried Tryphie, reproachfully. “I did not know a word. I had left her in her room, as I thought, to dress, and when I went to fetch her because dinner was waiting she was gone.”

“Tell him, Justine, for mercy’s sake tell him,” wailed her ladyship.

“Yes, poor milady, I will,” said the Frenchwoman. “Miss Tryphie knocked many time, and I ascend the stairs then, and she say she begin to be alarmed that mademoiselle was ill. We enter then togezzer, and we find—”

“Nothing,” said Tom, coolly.

“Oh, no, monsieur, all her beautiful dresses, ze trousseau magnifique, lying about the room, but she is not there. Then I recollect that I see somebody pass down ze stair, in a black cloak and veil, but I take no notice then, though I think now it must have been my young lady.”

“But you knew she was going,” said Tom, gazing straight into her eyes, which only shone a little brighter, for they did not shrink.

“I know, monsieur?” she replied. “I know, I come straight to tell milady of ze outrage against ze honour of her family. Parole d’honneur no, I know nozing as ze lil bébé which come not to be born.”

This was said at a tremendous pace, and with a very strong French accent, for, as Mademoiselle Justine grew excited, so did she forget her good English, and began to return towards the language of the land of her birth.

“What’s been done?” said Tom, shortly.

“Aunt sent directly for Mr Hurkle, and then Sir Grantley went after him as well.”

“Curse Mr Hurkle,” cried Tom, and he hurried out of the room, and dashed, two steps at a time, downstairs, and nearly tumbled over one of the footmen, who looked quite scared.

“You’re always in the way,” cried Tom, savagely, and he dashed into the library, where he found Lord Barmouth busy with trembling hands examining a very old pair of flintlock duelling pistols.

“Hallo, dad!” cried Tom, “none of that. You’re not tired of life?”

“No, no, my son,” said the old gentleman; “damme, no, Tom, though it does get very hard sometimes. Tom, my boy, I’m going to find him out and shoot him.”

Tom slammed down the lid of the case, and pushed the old gentleman unresistingly back into an easy-chair.

“Now, look here, gov’nor, let’s talk sense,” he cried.

“Yes, my dear boy, I—I—I’m doosed glad you’ve come. We will—we will.”

“It’s true then, gov’nor, that poor Maude has bolted?”

“Well, yes, my boy, I don’t think there’s a doubt about it.”

“Then that’s all your fault, gov’nor,” said Tom.

“My dear boy, don’t you turn upon me and bully me too. I—I—I’ve lost my poor little girl, and I—I—I can’t bear much. It’s such a disgrace. I know I ought to have stood up for her more, Tom, my boy, but her ladyship is so very strong-minded, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” said Tom. “She was too much for both of us, gov’nor. Well, it’s no use to fret about it that I see. The little filly’s taken the bit in her teeth, topped the hedge, and away she’s gone. And she so sly over it too!”

“She was very sorry to go, Tom, I’m sure. She was in such trouble to-day.”

“Yes,” said Tom, quietly, “we ought to have suspected something. How about old Wilters?”

“He’s nearly mad, my boy. He has—has—has been running round—round the drawing-room like—like—like—”

“A cat on hot bricks, father.”

“Yes, my son. He’s furious—he’s going to kill him.”

“Yes, of course,” said Tom, grinning. “I should like to see him do it.”

“But—but—but, Tom, my boy, don’t take it quite so coolly.”

“Why not, father? Hallo? who’s this, eh? Oh, of course,” he said, “here are the women now.”

For her ladyship came in leaning upon Tryphie’s arm, to immediately shriek and fall back in a chair.

“Oh, Tom! oh, Tom,” she cried, “I shall never survive. The disgrace—the disgrace.”

“Nonsense. Here, father, Tryphie, Maude has gone off with Charley Melton, I suppose?”

“No, no, no!” shrieked her ladyship. “Oh, horror, horror, horror!”

“Tryphie, cork her mouth with a handkerchief, or they’ll hear her across the street. Here, father, what’s the row. Charley Melton, eh?”

“No—no—no, my dear boy,” stammered Lord Barmouth, “I—I—I—damme, though her ladyship’s here, I say it in her presence, I wish she had. It’s too dreadful to tell.”

“My God, father!” cried Tom, excitedly, as he turned pale, and the cold sweat stood upon his forehead, for like a flash came upon him the recollection of his sister’s words that day, and brought up such a picture of horror before his eyes, that he trembled like a leaf. “Don’t say—don’t tell me—”

He could not finish, but stood panting, and gazing at the horror-stricken face of his mother.

“No, my boy, I won’t if you don’t want me to,” said the old man, feebly; “but it’s—it’s—such a terrible disgrace.”

“Father,” faltered Tom, in a hoarse whisper, “has she—has she drowned herself?”

“Oh, no, my boy, no—no—no,” cried the old man, with the tears streaming down his cheeks. “She has eloped under disgraceful circumstances.”

“Not with one of the servants, father?” cried Tom.

“No, no, my boy, worse than that.”

“Hang it, father,” cried Tom, savagely, “there is no worse, without she has gone off with a sweep.”

“Yes, yes, my boy,” cried the old man. “She has gone off with an organ-grinder and a monkey!”

“Which?” roared Tom, seizing the poker; “it isn’t murder to kill an ape.”

“No, no, my boy, it’s the organ man. I saw him from the window to-night. I don’t think there was a monkey.”

Tom threw the poker into the fire-place with a crash, and stared blankly at his mother.

“Oh, Tom! oh, Tom!” she cried, hysterically, “the disgrace!—the disgrace!—the disgrace!”

“I—I—I don’t know what to do,” cried Lord Barmouth. “I can never stand it. It will be all the talk of the clubs. It’s—it’s—it’s—”

“It’s all damned nonsense, father!” cried Tom; “my sister isn’t such a fool.”

Chapter Twenty Four.

Tom assumes Command.

Ten minutes after Tom was busy trying to obtain some further information, after seeing his father comfortably settled down in the study with a good cigar and a pint bottle of port.

“May—may I have ’em, Tom, my boy?” he asked.

“Yes, yes, old gentleman,” said Tom. “Mamma really is ill now, and won’t interfere, and if it gives you a few twinges of the gout, hang it all, it will be a counter irritant.”

This was after Lady Barmouth had been assisted off to bed.

“Hold up, my little lassie,” Tom said, pressing Tryphie’s hand. “Hang me if you aren’t the only one left with a head upon your shoulders. You must help me all you can.”

“I will, Tom,” she said, returning the pressure; and he felt that any one else’s pretensions from that moment were cast to the winds.

“One moment,” whispered Tom, as Lady Barmouth was moaning on the stairs, half-way up the first flight of which she was seated, with her head resting on Justine’s shoulder. “You think there’s no mistake—Maude has bolted?”

“Yes, I have been to her room, and she has taken her little Russia bag.”

“But you don’t believe this absurd nonsense that they have got hold of?”

“I can’t, Tom,” she said; “but she has been very strange in her ways for some time past.”

“Enough to make her,” said Tom. “The old lady would drive me mad if she had her own way with me. There, be off and get her upstairs to bed while I see what’s to be done.”

Tryphie went up, and Tom entered the dining-room, developing an amount of firmness and authority that startled the butler into a state of abnormal activity.

“Now, Robbins,” he said, “look here: of course you know this absurd statement that has been going round the house, and that it’s all nonsense.”

“Well, my lord,” said, the butler, “Lady Maude has encouraged that sort of man about the place lately.”

“Confound you for a big pompous, out-of-livery fool!” cried Tom, bringing his hand down with a crash upon the table. “There, fetch all the servants in, quick.”

Robbins stared, and felt disposed to give notice to leave upon the spot, but Tom’s way mastered him, and, feeling “all of a work,” as he confided afterwards to the cook, he hurried out, and soon after the whole staff was assembled in the dining-room, Justine having been fetched from her ladyship’s side.

“Now then,” cried Tom, opening his informal court. “Who knows anything about this?”

“Please, m’lord,” said Henry, the snub-nosed little foot page, florid with buttons, and fat from stolen sweets, “I see a man playing the organ outside to-night.”

“So you did yesterday, and the day before.”

“Yes, m’lord,” said the boy, eagerly; “and I heard somebody go out.”

“Did you?” said Tom, politely. “Now, look here, my boy! If you dare to open that mouth of yours and get chattering to people this monstrous piece of nonsense, I’ll—I’ll, hang me, I’ll cut your ears off.”

The boy ducked and held one arm up, as if he expected to be attacked at once, and ended by taking refuge behind his best friend and greatest enemy—to wit, the cook.

“Speak, some of you, will you?” cried Tom. “Did any one see my sister go out?”

“If you please, my lord,” said the housemaid, “if I may make so bold—”

“Yes,” said Tom, with sarcastic politeness, “you may make so bold. Now go on.”

“Well, I’m sure,” muttered the woman. “Well, my lord, I was going upstairs to-night, and I heard my young mistress sobbing bitterly in her room.”

“Well,” said Tom, “and you stopped to listen.”

“Which I wouldn’t bemean myself to do anything of the kind,” said the woman with a toss of the head; “but certainly she was crying, and soon after I was a-leaning out of the second floor window, it being very ’ot indoors, as we’ve been a good deal ’arrissed lately by her ladyship.”

“Go on,” cried Tom, impatiently.

“Which I am, my lord, as fast as I can,” cried the woman; “and there was that tall handsome Italian gentleman, as cook thinks is a furrin’ nobleman in disguise, playing on his hinstrument.”

“Yes,” said Tom, sarcastically.

“And all of a sudden he stops, and I see him go into the portico.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Tom.

“And then there was a lot of whispering.”

“Yes, yes,” said Tom; “oh, yes, of course.”

“And that’s all, my lord, only my young mistress wasn’t in the room when I came back.”

“Now then, all of you,” cried Tom, “once for all, this absurd rumour is one of the most ridiculous—What’s that you say?” he cried sharply, as he heard a whisper.

“I was saying to Ma’amselle Justine that my young lady was always encouraging them men about, my lord,” said the housemaid, “and that if I’d been one of the spying sort I might have seen her.”

“Poor thing,” said the cook, loudly. “She has been drove to it. I have a heart of my own.”

“Silence!” roared Tom. “How dare you? Here, has any one else got anything to say? You? Oh yes, you are my sister’s maid.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Dolly Preen, spitefully.

“Well, what do you know?”

“I know that my mistress was always listening at first to that dreadful Italian,” said Dolly.

“No, no—you, you,” cried Justine.

“I fought against it, and mastered it,” said Dolly proudly; “Lady Maude found it too much, I suppose.”

“Well, I never!” ejaculated Mrs Downes.

“Go on,” cried Tom.

“And then she got to dropping notes to him out of the window, my lord.”

“It isn’t true,” cried Tom. “Woman, you ought to be turned out of the house.”

“Oh, it’s true, though,” said Mrs Downes.

“Silence, you silly old meat murdress,” raged Tom.

“Meat what?” cried the cook. “There are times, my lord, when one must speak. I’ve seen a deal in my time, and there’s no doubt about it. We’re all very sorry for you, but we all knows that my young lady’s been drove to go away with that dark young man.”

“It is not true,” said a sharp voice; and Justine stepped forward to the table, with her dark eyes flashing, her white teeth set, so that she cut the words as they came through, and in her excitement and championship of her young mistress becoming exceedingly French. “I say it is not true. You canaille you, vis your silly talk about ze organiste. It is all a lie—a great lie to say such vicked, cruel thing of my dear young lady. Ah, bah! that for you all,” she cried, snapping her fingers, “you big silly fool, all the whole. What, my young mistress go to degrade herself vis one evasion, comme ça! She could it not do. Sare, I am angry—it make me folle to hear you talk. I say it is not true.”

“Damme, you’re a trump, Justine,” cried Tom, excitedly, as he caught her hand and wrung it. “You are right. She would not degrade herself like that.”

“They are so stupide.”

“Yes,” cried Tom; “and mind this—any one who dares to put about such a disgraceful scandal—hallo! who’s this?”

There was a loud ring just then, and the butler looked in a scared way at Tom.

“Well, go and open it,” he said.

The next minute there were voices and steps heard in the hall, and directly after Sir Grantley Wilters came in, followed by a policeman, and a ragged, dirty looking little man, whose toes peeped out in rows from his boots, and who held in his hand a very battered brimless hat, which he kept rubbing when he was not engaged in pulling his forelock to first one servant and then another.

“Oh, here you are,” said Tom, sharply, as the baronet advanced. “She’s gone off with Melton, hasn’t she?”

“N-no,” said the bridegroom elect, dejectedly. “I believe it’s as they say.”

“Then you’re a bigger fool than I took you for,” said Tom, sharply. “Now then, what do you know about it?” he cried to the policeman. “But stop a moment. Here, the whole pack of you, clear out. And mind this—Mademoiselle Justine is right. Thank you, Justine. Go to her ladyship now. I shan’t forget this.”

The Frenchwoman bowed and smiled, and drew her skirts aside as she swept out of the room, while the rest of the servants shuffled out in an awkward fashion, as if every one was eager not to be the last.

“Now then,” cried Tom to the policeman, as the baronet went to the chimney-piece to rest his head upon his hand, “why are you come?”

“This gentleman, sir,” said the constable, nodding his head at Sir Grantley, “asked me to take up the case. Been investigating, and I’ve got some evidence.”

“What is it?” cried Tom.

The constable led the way into the hall, where there was a rush, for the servants had been standing gazing at something near the door.

“Well?” said Tom.

“Thought I’d take a look round, sir,” said the constable, “to see if there was anything in the way of a clue, and I found this.”

He pointed to an oblong chest, covered with green baize, and with a couple of broad leather straps across it.

“Well, it’s an organ,” said Tom.

“Yes, sir,” said the constable nodding. “That’s just about what it is.”

Tom stared at the man, and the man stared at Tom, and then they returned to the dining-room.

“Where was it?” said Tom shortly.

“Just underneath the area steps, sir, close agin the dust-bin,” said the constable.

“Ought to have been in it,” cried Tom, sharply. “Now, who’s this fellow?”

The ragged man, who had been standing on one leg with the foot of the other against his knee, looking like a dilapidated crane, put his foot down and began to make tugs at his hair.

“Beg parding, sir, on’y a poor man, sir. Been pickin’ up a job or two, fetching up kebs and kerridges, sir—party, sir, over at three ’undred and nine, sir. I was a waitin’ about afore the swells began to come, when I sees a big tall man a-hangin’ about, lookin’ as if there was something on, so I goes into the doorway lower down and watches on him.”

“Had he got an organ with him?” said Tom excitedly.

“I heerd one a-playin’ just before, sir, and then I see him a-leaning agin the hairy railings, and arter a bit he seemed to chuck somethin’ up agin the winder and then walks off.”

“Well, go on, my man,” said Tom, eagerly.

“Then I didn’t think no more on it, sir, till all at once I sees a hansom come up and stop at the corner, and this same chap gets out, and that made me feel wild-like and take notice, ’cause it seemed as if I ought to have looked out sharper, and got the job.”

“All right; go on,” cried Tom.

“Well, sir, then he goes away and the keb waits and he walks by this here house, and begins whistling this chune as I’ve often heerd them orgin grinders play.”

The man sucked in his cheeks, and whistled three or four bars of the prison song in Trovatore.

“Then, as I kep my hye on him, I sees the front door open quietly, and a lady come out in a long cloak; and she seemed as if she was a-goin’ to faint away, but he kitches her tight, and half runs her along to wheer the keb was a-standin’, and I was ready for him this time, holding my arm over the wheel so as to keep the lady’s dress outer the mud.”

“Yes, yes,” cried Tom, for the man, who had kept on polishing his hat, dropped it and picked it up hastily, to begin repolishing it.

“Well, sir, she was a-cryin’ like one o’clock—in highsteriks like—and he says something to her in a furren languidge, and then, as she gets in he says, ‘Take keer,’ he says, called her by her name, like.”

“Name? What name?” cried Tom, eagerly.

“Well, you see, gov’nor, it sounded like Bella Meer, or Mee-her. ‘Take keer; Bella Mee-her,’ he says just like that.”

“Bella mia,” muttered Tom.

“Yes, sir, that’s it, sir; that were the young lady’s name; and then he jumps in, and I shoves down the apron, and he pokes the trap-door open, and away they goes down the Place like one o’clock.”

“Well?” said Tom.

“That’s about all, gov’nor,” said the man, looking into his dilapidated hat, and then lifting and peeping inside the lining, as if he expected to find some more there.

“No, it ain’t,” said the constable, “come now. He give you something, didn’t he?”

“Well, s’pose he did,” said the man, sulkily; “that ain’t got nothing to do with it, ’ave it? The gent don’t want to rob a pore man of his ’ard earnin’s, do he?”

“What did he give you, my man?” said Tom, eagerly, “There, there, show me. Not that it matters.”

“Yes, sir, excuse me, but it does matter,” said the constable. “Now then, out with it.”

The man thrust his hand very unwillingly into his pocket, and brought out what looked like a small shilling, which was eagerly snatched by Tom.

“Vittoria Emanuele—Lira. Why, constable, it’s an Italian piece!”

“That’s so, sir,” said the constable.

“There, be off with you; there’s half a crown for you,” said Tom. “Constable,” he cried, as the latter closed the door on the walking rag-bag, “quick, not a moment to be lost. That cabman’s number, and as soon as you can.”

“Right, sir; that’s first job,” said the constable. “You’ll be here?”

“Yes, till you come back. Spare no expense to get that number.”

The constable was off almost before the words had left his lips, and as the door closed Tom turned to Sir Grantley, who still stood with his head leaning upon his hand.

“Now then,” he said, “what are you going to do?”

“Don’t know,” was the reply.

“It looks bad,” said Tom, “but I won’t believe it yet.”

“No—poor girl,” said the baronet, sadly—“I’m beginning to think she didn’t care for me, don’t you know.”

Tom stared at him wonderingly.

“Are you going to help me run them down?”

“Yas—no—I don’t know,” said the baronet. “I suppose I ought to shoot that fellow—Belgium or somewhere—if there is a fellow. But I don’t think there is.”

“You don’t?” said Tom.

“No,” said the baronet, slowly.

“But you heard? She must have gone off with somebody. You know what the people think. If it is so, she must be saved at all costs.”

“Yas—of course,” said the baronet, slowly; “but—don’t think it. Poor girl, she was a lady—she couldn’t stoop to it—no—couldn’t—she’d sooner have married me.”

“Wilters,” said Tom, holding out his hand and speaking huskily, “thank you for that. We never liked one another, and I’ve been a confounded cad to you sometimes; but—but—you—you’re a gentleman, Wilters, a true gentleman.”

They shook hands in silence, and then Tom said eagerly—

“You’ll come with me?”

“Yas—no,” said the baronet, quietly. “It’s best not. All been a mistake, poor girl. I’ve been thinking about it all, and it wasn’t likely she’d care for me. Lady Barmouth is very flattering and kind; but I’ve driven your sister away.—I think I’ll go home now.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said Tom, quietly.

“It’s very awkward,” continued the baronet, “things have gone so far. But I ought to have known better. Could you—a soda and brandy, Tom—this has shaken me a bit—I’m rather faint.”

The cellaret was open, stimulants having been fetched from it for her ladyship’s use, and Tom hastily poured out some spirit into one of the glasses on the sideboard, and handed it to the baronet.

“Thanks,” he said—“better now; I think I’ll go home;” and bowing quietly to Tom, he slowly left the house.

Chapter Twenty Five.

In Pursuit.

“Poor old Wilters,” said Tom, as he heard the door close. “I didn’t think he was such a thorough gentleman. But this won’t do.”

He was so wound up by the excitement, and the feeling that everything now depended upon him that he seemed to forget that there was such a thing as fatigue.

“Now, gov’nor,” he said, hurrying into the library, where the old man had finished his port and cigar, and then laid his head upon his hand to sit and think of the little fair-haired girl who had played about his knees, and who had, as it were, been driven from him, to go—whither? who could tell?

“Eh? yes, Tom,” said the old man.

“Quick as lightning, father. Clean linen and socks, brush and shaving tackle in a small bag, and we’re off—pursuit.”

“Pursuit, Tom, eh? Do you mean me?”

“Yes, you, of course,” said Tom.

“Hadn’t—hadn’t her ladyship better go, Tom?” said his lordship, feebly.

“Hang it, no, father. You and I go together.”

“But—but—but, Tom,” faltered the old man; and there was a lingering look of hope in his pathetic face; “it isn’t so bad as I thought, is it?”

“I don’t know, father, ’pon my soul, I can’t say, really. We’ll see. Poor Maude has been driven to this mad step by her ladyship, and it is possible—mind, I only say possible—that she may have preferred to accompany—no, damn it all, I’m as mad as she is, even Wilters don’t believe it. Father, no! no!! no!!! Wilters is right—my sister would not stoop to take such a step. She is a true lady.”

“Yes, Tom, God bless her, she is,” faltered the old man, “and I shall—shall about break my heart if I’m to lose my darling.”

“Come, father, come, father,” cried the young man huskily. “This is no time for tears, you must act. Yes, and in future too. You see what giving way to her ladyship has done.”

“Yes, yes, my son,” said the old man. “I’ll rebel—I’ll strike for freedom.”

Tom smiled sadly as he gazed at his father; and then he rang the bell, which was responded to promptly by Robbins.

“Send up and ask her ladyship if she can see us. Then put a change of linen in one valise for his lordship and myself.”

The butler bowed, and returned at the end of five minutes to say that her ladyship was sitting up in her dressing-room if they would come.

Her ladyship looked really ill as she sat there, tended by Tryphie and Justine, and the latter moved towards the door.

“You need not go, Justine,” said Tom, quietly, and the Frenchwoman’s eyes sparkled at this token of confidence as she resumed her seat at her ladyship’s side.

Tom marked the change in his mother, and he was ready to condole with her, but she swept his kind intentions to the winds by exclaiming—

“Oh, Tom, I can never show my face in society again. Such a brilliant match too. My heart is broken.”

“Poor old lady!” said Tom, bursting into a sarcastic fit in his rage at her selfishness and utter disregard of the fate of her child. “But we want some money to go in search.”

“Money?” cried her ladyship. “Search? Not a penny. The wicked creature. And to-morrow. Such a brilliant match. Oh, that wicked girl!”

“No, no,” said Tom, “it was to be to-day. But don’t fret, mia cara madre, as we say in Italian. It is only a change. A fine handsome son-in-law, Italian too. You ought to be proud of him.”

“Tom!” cried her ladyship.

“Oh, milord Thomas, it is not so,” cried Justine, shaking her head.

“Oh yes,” cried Tom, sarcastically. “Such a nice change. You adore music, mamma, and the signor can attend your reunions with his instrument.”

“Tom, you are killing me. Oh, that I was ever a mother.”

“It will be grand,” cried Tom, rubbing his hands. “Maude can sing too, and take a turn at the handle when the signor gets tired.”

“Take what money you want, Tom,” sobbed her ladyship, and she handed her keys.

Tom smiled grimly, took the keys, and did take what money he wanted—all there was—from a small cabinet on a side table.

“Where—where are you going?” sighed her ladyship.

“Where!” said Tom, “everywhere. To bring poor Maude home.”

“No, no, Tom, impossible—impossible,” cried her ladyship.

“We’ll see about that,” said Tom. “Now, father, come along;” and the couple descended to the dining-room.

“Here, Robbins,” cried the young man, as the butler came to answer the bell, “what time is it?”

“Harpus four, my lord,” said the butler, who looked haggard and in want of a shave.

“Humph! Well, look here, we’ve gone on to Scotland Yard if that policeman returns.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And then—well, never mind about then. Here, go up and ask Miss Wilder to come and speak to me, and send Joseph for a cab. Not gone to bed, has he?”

“No, sir; they’re all having a cup o’ coffee in the kitchen, sir.”

“Trust ’em, just the time when they’d like a feed,” growled Tom. “There: Miss Wilder. Look sharp.”

Five minutes after Tom stood at the door holding Tryphie’s hand, while his father went slowly down to the cab.

“Good-bye, little one,” he said.

“But, Tom, what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to bring my sister back, and then—”

“And then, Tom dear,” whispered Tryphie, throwing her arms about his neck—“There, do you believe I care for you now?”

“My little pet,” he whispered hoarsely, and rushed away just as Mr Hurkle came up undulating, and looking more like a pulled out concertina than ever.

“Sorry I’ve been so long, sir,” he panted; “but I understand I am required to—”

“Go to the devil,” cried Tom, brushing past him; and as the daylight was growing broader the cab drove into Great Scotland Yard, where there was a certain conversation, and wires were set to work, after which there was an adjournment for breakfast to an hotel at Charing Cross.

“Are—are we going in pursuit, my dear boy?” said his lordship, feebly.

“Yes, certainly, and in earnest.”

“When, my dear Tom?”

“Now directly, father,” said the young man sternly. “The poor girl has been driven mad by her mother’s cruelty; and in a wild fit of infatuation she has preferred to share the fortunes of this handsome foreign vagabond to marrying a worn-out roué.”

“But, my dear Tom, it is impossible.”

“Look here, father,” said the young man, “the poor girl’s future is at stake. She has been cruelly treated. Our behaviour to Charley Melton was simply disgusting—one day he was worshipped, supposed to have money; the next he was forbidden the house, because he was poor. As for Maude’s feelings—of course, poor girl, as a young lady of fashion, she ought to have had none. I hope mamma is satisfied with her new son-in-law.”

“But—but where are we going?”

“Don’t know yet,” said the young man, harshly. “To Paris certain—probably to Italy. Maybe, though,” he said, with a bitter laugh, “only as far as the padrone’s at Saffron Hill.”

By the time father and son had made a very poor breakfast, a sergeant was ushered in by the waiter.

“We’ve got the cabman, sir.”

“Well, where did he take them?”

“Charing Cross station, sir.”

“Of course,” said Tom—“they would just catch the night train for the tidal boat. Come along, father.”

“Too soon for the train yet, sir,” said the sergeant; “but I dare say they’ll have been stopped at Folkestone or Dover, unless it was a dodge, and they haven’t left town.”

“You see to that,” said Tom; “I’ll go on to Folkestone.”

“Right, sir,” and in due time the pair—father and son—were in pursuit, with the wheels of the fast train seeming always to grind out a tune such as is played by an organ whose handle is turned by a dark-eyed, olive-skinned Italian; while when the engine stopped, instead of calling out the name of the station, the men seemed to whine—“Ah, signora—ah, bella signora,” and in his irritation Tom lit a cigar, and yelled forth the word condemnation in its most abbreviated form.

Chapter Twenty Six.

On the Track.

Telegram—

“From Barmouth, Folkestone, to Lady Barmouth, 999 Portland Place, London.

“No news as yet.”

This was the first sent during the chase.

“From Barmouth, Beurice’s, Paris, to Lady Barmouth, 999 Portland Place, London.

“No news as yet.”

Fresh messages were despatched at intervals of twelve hours, and in addition Tom sent long letters to “My dearest Tryphie.”

But all the same he was in a state of feverish excitement, while Lord Barmouth was reduced to imbecile helplessness, but ready to obey his son to the very letter, and trotting about after him through Paris like a faithful dog. They had been most unfortunate in their quest: they had succeeded in tracing the fugitives to Paris, and there they had been at fault. Twenty times over Viscount Diphoos had declared that they must have gone on somewhere; but the police said no, it was impossible. And so they went on wearily searching Paris, until his lordship declared his heel to be so sore that he could go no farther.

“They must have left Paris,” vowed Viscount Diphoos in one of the bureaux.

“But, monsieur, it is not possible. Our cordon of spies is too perfect. No, my faith, they are still here. Have patience, monsieur, and you shall see.”

So the chief at each bureau; and so the days passed on, till the young man felt almost maddened and rabid with despair. These were the descriptions—“Young lady, fair, brown hair, blue eyes, pale, rather thin face, tall and graceful; her companion, a tall, swarthy Italian, with black curly hair and beard.” But descriptions were all in vain, and when, regularly fagged out, Viscount Diphoos sat at his hotel, smoking his cigar, he would let it go out, and then heedless sit on, nibbling and gnawing at the end till he had bitten it to pieces, and still no ideas came.

“I’ll shoot the scoundrel, that I will,” he muttered aloud one evening.

“No, don’t do that, Tom,” said Lord Barmouth, feebly. “But don’t you think we had better go home?”

“No,” said Tom, snappishly; “I don’t, sir. Let’s see what to-morrow brings forth.”

“Letters for messieurs,” said a waiter, handing some correspondence from London; but there was no news worthy of note.

“Here, stop a minute, garçon,” said Tom, drawing a note and his sister’s photograph from his pocket-book. “Look here, this is an English five-pound note.”

“Oh, yais, monsieur, I know—billet de banc?”

“And this is the carte of a lady we wish to find in Paris, you understand?”

The man nodded his closely cropped head, smiled, and, after a long look at the carte, left the room.

“You seem to pin a good deal of faith to five-pound notes, Tom,” said Lord Barmouth.

“Yes,” said his son, shortly. “Like ’em here.”

The next day he sent for the waiter, but was informed that the man had gone out for a holiday.

“I thought so,” said Tom, enthusiastically, as soon as they were alone. “That fellow will go and see all the waiters he knows at the different hotels, and find out what we want.”

Viscount Diphoos was quite right. About ten o’clock that evening the waiter entered, and beckoned to them, mysteriously—

“Alaright,” he said, “ze leddee is trouvée. I have ze fiacre at ze door.”

Tom leaped from his chair, and was going alone, but Lord Barmouth persisted in accompanying him, and together they were driven to a quiet hotel in the Rue de l’Arcade, near the Madeleine.

“You think you have found the lady?” queried Tom.

“Oh, yais m’sieu; and ze milord vis she.”

“Bravo!” cried Tom, “a big black-bearded, Italian scoundrel!”

“Scoundrail, vot is you call scoundrail, sare?”

“There, there, never mind,” said Viscount Diphoos—“a big, black-bearded Italian!”

The waiter shrugged his shoulders.

“Zere is no beard, m’sieu, and ye zhentlemans is not black. He is vite; oh, oui, yais, he is vite.”

“Another disappointment,” growled Tom.

“M’sieu say, ze billet de banc if I find ze lady. I not know noting at all of the black shentailman.”

They were already in the hall, where they were encountered by one of the garçons of the establishment, whose scruples about introducing them to the private rooms of the gentleman and lady staying there were hushed with a sovereign.

“Pray take care, my dear boy,” said Lord Barmouth; “don’t be violent.”

“We must get her away, father, at any cost,” said Viscount Diphoos, sternly. “What I want you to do is this—take charge of Maude, and get her to our hotel. Never mind me. I shall have the police to back me if the Italian scoundrel proves nasty.”

“But mind that he has no knife, my dear boy. Foreigners are dangerous.”

“If he attempts such a thing, dad, I’ll shoot him like a dog,” exclaimed the young man, hotly.

And then the door was thrown open, and they entered.

The room was empty, and upon the proprietor being consulted, it was announced that the gentleman and lady had left that evening by the Lyons mail.

Telegraph communication failed.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

An Encounter.

Sunny Italy, the home of music.

The sun was shining as it can shine in Naples, but the courtyard of the Hotel di Sevril was pleasantly shady, for there was a piazza all round, and in the centre a cool and sparkling fountain played in its marble basin, while evergreen trees spread dark tracery on the white pavement.

In one of the shadiest and coolest spots sat Maude, daughter of The Earl of Barmouth, looking exceedingly pretty, though there was a certain languid air, undoubtedly caused by the warmth of the climate, which seemed to make her listless and disposed to neglect the work which lay in her lap, and lean back in the lounging chair, which creaked sharply at every movement.

“I do wish he would come back,” she said softly, and as she spoke her eyes lit up with an intense look of happiness, and a sweet smile played about her lips. “But he will not leave me alone long.”

Here she made a pretence of working, but ceased directly.

“I wonder what they are all doing at home. How dear Tryphie is, and papa, and darling Tom. Will Tom marry Tryphie? Yes, he is so determined, he will be sure to. Heigho! I shall be so glad when we are forgiven, and Tom and he are friends. I can feel sure about papa, but Tom can be so stern and sharp.”

There was no allusion made to Lady Barmouth, for she seemed to have dropped out of her daughter’s thoughts, but Sir Grantley Wilters was remembered with a shudder, which was cleared away by the coming of a smiling waiter.

“Would the signore and signora dine at the table-d’hôte?”

Maude hesitated for a few moments, moved by monetary considerations, and then said—“Yes. Has the signore returned?”

“No, signora,” said the waiter, and he bowed and went back into the old palazzo.

“I wanted to go to a cheap hotel,” said Maude, dreamily, and with a happy smile upon her face—somewhat inane, it is true, for it was the young married lady’s smile—“but he said his cara bella sposa must have everything of the best. Oh, my darling! my darling! how he loves me. Poor? What is poverty? I grow more proud of him every day. What do we want with society? Ah, how I hate it. Give me poverty and love. Oh, come back, my darling, come back. That’s what my heart keeps beating whenever he is away.”

It was certainly a very pleasant kind of poverty, in a sunny land with a delicious view of the bay, and a good table-d’hôte; and a loving husband; and as Maude, the young wife, dreamed and adored her husband in his absence, she smiled and showed her white teeth till a sound of voices made her start and listen.

“Oh, how I do tremble every time any one fresh comes to the hotel. I always fancy it is Sir Grantley Wilters come to fetch me back. But he dare not try to claim me now, for I am another’s. But what are we to do when the money is all gone?”

She thought dreamily, but in a most untroubled fashion.

“I can sing,” she said at last, “so can he, and he plays admirably. Ah, well, there’s time enough to think of that when the money is all gone. Let me be happy now after all that weary misery, but I must write home. There, I’ll go and do it now before he returns.—Oh!”

She had risen to go, but sank back trembling and half-fainting in her seat as a pallid, weary-looking, washed-out elderly gentleman tottered out of the house into the piazza, and dropped into a chair just in front of the door.

“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” he sighed, as he let his walking-stick fall clattering down. “How tired out I do feel.”

“Oh!” sighed Maude, as she saw that her only means of exit was barred.

“I with—I wish—damme, I wish I was back at home with my legs under my own table, and—and—and a good glass of port before me. Hang that Robbins, a confounded scoundrel; I—I—I know I shall finish by breaking his head. Four days before I left England I asked him to put one single bottle of the ’20 port in my dressing-room with the cork drawn, and he threw her ladyship at my head, and, damme, I didn’t get a drop. And my own port—a whole bin of it—my own port—my own port. Hah! how comfortable a chair is when you’re tired. He was a good fellow who first invented chairs.”

He shuffled himself down, and lay right back.

“Shall I never find my little girl?” he sighed.

“What shall I do?” murmured Maude. “Why isn’t he here?”

“I’m not fit to come hunting organ men all over the continent,” continued the old gentleman; “but Tom insisted, you see. Oh, my poor leg! It’s worse here than it was in town.”

He rubbed his leg slowly, and Maude made a movement as if to go to his side, but something seemed to hold her back.

“Tom is sure to be near,” she thought, “and they must not meet yet. Tom would not forgive him. If I could only get away and warn him.”

“Why don’t Tom come and order something to eat? I’m starving. Oh, dear: London to Paris—Paris to Baden—Baden to Nice—Nice to Genoa, and now on here to Naples. Poor Tom, he seems to grow more furious the more we don’t find them. Oh, hang the girl!” he added aloud.

Maude started, and had hard work to suppress a sob.

“They’ll separate us; they’ll drag me away,” she sighed.

“No, no, no, I will not say that,” cried Lord Barmouth, aloud. “I am hungry, and it makes me cross. My poor leg! I should like to find my poor darling,” he said, piteously. “Bless her! bless her! she was a good girl to me.”

“Oh! oh! oh!” sobbed Maude, hysterically, for she could contain herself no longer.

“Eh! eh! eh!” ejaculated Lord Barmouth. “What the deuce! A lady in distress. Doosed fine woman too,” he added, raising his glass as he tottered to his feet. “I was a devil of a fellow among the ladies when I was a youngster. Can I, madam—suppose she don’t understand English—can I, madam, be of any service? What, Maudey, my darling? Is it you at last?”

“Oh, papa! papa!”

There was a burst of sobbing and embracing, ended by the old man seating himself in Maude’s chair, and the girl sinking at his feet.

“And—and—and I’ve—I’ve found you at last then, my dear, or have you found me? Is—is it really you?”

“Yes, yes, yes, my own dear darling father,” sobbed Maude.

“Yes, it is—it is,” he cried, fondling her and drawing her to his breast, till he seemed to recollect something.

“But, damme—damme—damme—”

“Oh, don’t—don’t swear at me, papa darling!”

“But—but I must, my dear. Here have I been searching all over Europe for you, and now I have found you.”

“Kiss me, papa dear,” sobbed Maude.

“Yes, yes, my darling, and I am so glad to see you again; but what a devil of a wicked girl you have been to bolt.”

“Oh, but, papa darling, I couldn’t—I couldn’t marry that man.”

“Well, well, well,” chuckled Lord Barmouth, “he was a miserable screw for a girl like you. But I—I hear that he’s going to shoot him first time he sees him.”

“Oh, papa! Then they must never meet.”

“But—but I’m not saying what I meant to say—all I’d got ready for you, Maudey. How dare you disgrace your family like that?”

“Don’t—don’t blame me, papa darling. You don’t know what I suffered before I consented to go.”

“But, you know—”

“Oh, papa, don’t blame your poor girl, who loves you so very dearly.”

“But—but it’s such a doose of a come down, my darling. It’s—it’s—it’s ten times worse than any case I know.”

“Papa, for shame!” cried Maude, indignantly.

“Now—now—now, don’t you begin to bully me, Maudey my dear. I get so much of that at home.”

“Then you will forgive me, dear?” said Maude, nestling up to the poor weak old man.

“But—but I oughtn’t, Maudey, I oughtn’t, you know,” he said, caressing her.

“But you will, dear, and you’ll come and stay with us often. We are so happy.”

“Are so—so happy!” said the old man, with a look of perplexity on his countenance.

“Yes, dear. He loves me so, and—oh, papa, I do love him. You will come? Never mind what mamma and Tom say.”

“But Tom is like a madman about it, Maudey. He says he’ll have you back if he dies for it.”

“Oh, papa!”

“Yes, my pet, he’s in a devil of a rage, and it comes out dreadfully every time he grows tired.”

“Then they must not meet either.”

“No, my dear, I suppose it would be best not,” said the old man; “but—but do you know, Maudey, I feel as if I was between those two confounded stools in the proverb, and—and I know I shall come to the ground. But—but where—where did you get married?”

“At a little church, papa dear, close to Holborn.”

“Of course,” groaned the old man to himself. “Close to Saffron Hill, I suppose.”

“I don’t know the street, papa dear.”

“That’s right, my pet. I mean that’s wrong. I—I—really, Maudey my pet, I’m so upset with the travelling, and now with finding you, that I—I hardly know what I ought to say.”

“Say you forgive your own little girl, dear, and that you will love my own darling husband as if he were your son.”

“But—but, Maudey, my dear, I don’t feel as if I could. You see when a poor man like that—I wish Tom would come.”

“Tom!” cried Maude, springing up and turning pale.

“Yes, yes, he’s coming to join me, my pet. Would you like to see him now, or—or—or wait a bit till he isn’t so furious?”

“Oh, papa dear, I dare not meet him. They would quarrel, and what shall I do? We must escape—”

“But are you staying in this hotel?”

“Yes, papa dear.”

“That’s—that’s doosed awkward, my pet, for I shouldn’t like there to be a row.”

“No, no, pa dear. Don’t say a word to Tom, or there will be a horrible scene.”

“But, my pet, we’ve come on purpose to find you, and now you’re going away.”

“Only for a time, dear,” cried Maude, embracing the old man frantically. “Don’t, don’t tell Tom.”

“But I feel as if I must, my darling. Tom is so angry, and we’ve spent such a lot of money trying to find you. It would have paid for no end of good dinners at the club.”

“Yes, yes, but we will escape directly, and Tom will never know.”

“But what’s the good of my finding you, my darling, if you are going to bolt again directly?”

“Only to wait till Tom has cooled down, dear.”

“Well, well, I suppose I must promise.”

“My own darling papa,” cried Maude, kissing him. “I’ll write to you soon, dear; and as soon as Tom is quiet and has forgiven us, we shall all be as happy as the day is long.”

She kissed him again quickly on either cheek, and then, before he could even make up his mind to stay her, she had hurried into the hotel, leaving her father scratching his head and setting his dark wig all awry.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

The Reinforcement.

“This—this is a pretty devil of a state of affairs,” muttered the old man. “How can a man in my position make friends with a confounded fellow who goes about turning a handle in the street? The girl’s mad—mad as can be, and—Ah, Tom, my boy.”

“Hallo, governor,” said that personage, sharply. “What’s the matter?”

“Doosed tired, my boy.”

“Why, you look as if you’d seen the chap who drew what’s-his-name’s curtains in the dead of night.”

“Do I—do I, my boy?” stammered the old man; and then to himself, “I feel sure he’ll find me out.”

“Get up, and you shall have a feed, and a glass of good honest wine. That’s the thing to brace you up, dad.”

“Yes—yes, my son. I—I feel—feel as if I’d give anything for a glass of good wine.”

“Come along.”

“I know he’ll find me out,” said his lordship to himself.

“I say, gov’nor,” cried Tom, “here’s a go.”

“Have—have you found them,” said the old man, starting.

“Wait a bit. Perhaps I have. But I say, I’ve found telegrams waiting to say that the old lady is on the way to meet us here.”

“Here, Tom, my boy?”

“Yes, gov’nor, here, in Naples.”

“But—but don’t you think we had better go on at once?”

“What with you so tired?” said Tom with a twinkle in his eyes.

“I—I don’t think I’m quite so tired as I was, Tom, my boy,” said the old man nervously. “After a glass of wine or two, I—I think I could manage to go on again.”

“But don’t you understand? The mater is coming here with Tryphie and Justine.”

“Then—then I think we had better get on, Tom, my boy—away from here. Her ladyship would hinder us, and stop us from finding Maude. Let’s go on to Rome or Constantinople, only let’s be off at once.”

Tom laughed silently.

“No, father,” he said, “I think we’ll go no further. I’m going to have a thorough good look round, and from hints I have heard, I think we are once more on their track; but if they are not here we’ll go back home, for I’m sick of all this journeying. Poor girl, she has chosen her lot.”

“Yes—yes, Tom, my boy,” said the old man dolefully.

“And I’ve done my duty as a brother to try and find her.”

“Yes, Tom, my boy, you have—you have.”

“Some day she’ll wake up out of her mad dream, and come back to us, and then, no matter what is said, she must find a home.”

“Of course, my boy, of course.”

“Poor girl! It’s all our fault, governor. If we had been firm she might have married Charley Melton.”

“Eh,” said Lord Barmouth, “Charley Melton? Yes, my boy, I wish she had. I—I wonder whether she has gone,” thought the old man. “Oh dear me, I’m very tired.”

“Did you speak, gov’nor?” said Tom.

“Yes, my boy, I said I was very tired.”

“Then come along and let’s feed. We’ll have a bottle of that red wine, and enjoy ourselves till the old lady comes, and then, governor—”

“You think we shan’t enjoy ourselves any more, Tom?”

“What do you think?”

“Well, my boy, I hardly know what to say. Her ladyship is very particular, but then, you see, my boy, she studies my health more than I do and I’ve no doubt it is quite right.”

“I dare say it is, dad, but come along.”

“Yes, my boy, yes,” said Lord Barmouth, taking his son’s arm; “but really, Tom, I begin to wish I was back within reach of my club.

“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” he added sotto voce, “I wonder whether they have gone.”

“What say, governor?”

“Nothing, my boy, nothing. Talking to myself.”

“Bad habit, gov’nor.”

“Yes, my boy, yes,” he said in acquiescence. But bad as was the habit, he kept on, as he told himself that he hoped Maudey had gone, and yet he hoped she had not; and he kept on getting deeper and deeper into a bog of bewilderment, till he found himself seated at a little table opposite his son, listening to the gurgling of wine in a glass, and that brought him back from his maze of troubled thought at once.

“What—what could have induced her ladyship to come out here?” he said, with a piteous expression upon his countenance.

“Old game,” said Tom gruffly—“to look after us.”

“I—I—I should be sorry to speak disrespectfully of her ladyship,” said Lord Barmouth, now under the influence of his third glass of wine, “but—but I’m afraid there’ll be no more peace now, Tom, my boy.”

At that moment a waiter entered.

“Visitors for milor,” he said.

“Here they are, governor. Now comes the tug of war.”

For at that moment her ladyship entered and tottered to a seat, wiping her brow, and making signs to Tryphie, who half supported her, for her salts. That young lady had to turn to Justine, who was supposed to be carrying the bag, but who in turn had to take it from Robbins, who looked as if he had been in a bath, and had dressed himself without a prior reference to a towel. For his fat face was covered with drops and runlets, and his grey hair hung wetly upon his brow. The smelling-bottle was, however, found, and her ladyship took a long inhalation, and said, “Hah!”

Chapter Twenty Nine.

On the Brink.

“I’ve found you then at last,” said her ladyship, recovering fast. “Robbins, go and tell that wretched Italian porter creature I will not pay him another penny. No, say soldi, or scudi, which you like. It’s a gross imposition.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Justine,” continued her ladyship, “you understand the language?”

“No, my lady, not Italian.”

“Then speak to him in French, it will impress the man. Go and see that Robbins is not imposed upon. Now, Robbins, mind and be firm. This is not London.”

“No, milady.”

“And don’t lose any more luggage.”

“No, my lady,” said Robbins; and he left the room with Justine.

“Luggage, indeed,” he growled; “all this row about a sandwich-box, and she left it in the rack herself.”

“Nevaire mind her, Rob—bain,” said Justine; “take him coolly.”

“Take him coolly. Yes, ma’amselle, I can the governor; but her ladyship.”

“Ah, yais, she is a womans. But see me, I do not complain; I am drag all ovaire Europe by her ladyship, who have rob me of my loaf till I return and see him once again. I do not complain.”

In the coffee-room her ladyship button-holed Lord Barmouth directly, and then took Tom’s seat at the table, while that gentleman grasped Tryphie’s hand.

“Oh, Tom,” she said, “what news?”

“You’ve both come,” he said shortly. “Is that all you have to say?”

“All? Ah, Tom dear, if you only knew how much.”

This was accompanied by so pleasant a pressure of the hand that Tom’s acidity began to evaporate in gas, and he turned to help his father, who was giving way under a vigorous attack. For as he approached the table her ladyship exclaimed, with a warning motion of her index finger—

“Now, Barmouth, your gout is much worse.”

“Ye-yes, my dear,” said his lordship, “I’m—I’m afraid it is.”

“Of course! You’ve been taking port wine recklessly.”

“No, no, really, my dear: the port is so horribly bad that—”

“Then you’ve had Burgundy.”

“Well—well, yes, a little, my dear.”

“I knew it! What’s this?” cried her ladyship, seizing the bottle on the table. “Burgundy, of course.”

“No, Barolo,” said Tom. “Regular physic for gout, isn’t it, gov’nor. Take another glass.”

“Shall I, my boy?” said the old man, hesitating.

“Of course,” cried Tom, pouring one out, which his lordship eagerly drank.

“Tom!” ejaculated her ladyship, whose breath seemed to be taken away by the daring displayed.

“Physic,” said Tom, sharply.

“Have you secured rooms for us?”

“Of course not. Only just knew you were coming.”

“Then ring for the landlord; I shall now continue the search myself. I have been much to blame in leaving it in other hands so long. But a weak woman—”

“Who is?” said Tom, innocently.

“I am, sir,” replied her ladyship. “I was not aware, when I entrusted the search to my husband and son, that it was to be made an excuse for a pleasant and expensive continental tour, with no results whatever but the shrinking of a good balance at the bank, and a fit of gout?”

“Oh, bosh!” ejaculated Tom.

“No more gadding about; no more Burgundy and strong drinks. I mean to find that wretched girl myself; the authorities shall intervene, and I will do my duty as a mother.”

“What shall you do?”

“Place her in a madhouse as sure as I stand here.”

“Then you will not,” said Tom, “for you’re sitting.”

“Reserve your ribald jestings, sir, till we return to town.”

“All right,” cried Tom; “then let me speak in a downright manner, my dear mother. You can do just as you please, but I am now on the scent, which I shall keep to myself; and I tell you this, old lady, I will not have Maude—whatever her faults—ill-used.”

“Hear, hear!” cried Lord Barmouth; but then he had had four glasses of wine.

“Barmouth!”

“Yes—yes, my dear.”

“Oh, what language, and to a mother!”

“There, there, stop that,” cried Tom. “We are not at home, but at an hotel, and the people won’t understand tragic amateur acting.”

“Tryphie, my child,” cried her ladyship, after giving her son an annihilating look, “come with me to our own apartments. Lord Barmouth, summon the waiter, or no, come with me. Tryphie, you can ring and order déjeuner, I wish to speak to these people in the hotel. I think I can obtain some information here.”

Lord Barmouth cast a despairing look at his son, and followed her ladyship into the hall, while Tom had just seized the opportunity, and Tryphie at the same moment, to embrace her in spite of a certain amount of resistance, when there was a loud “Oh!” and he turned to find that Charley Melton had entered the room.

“You here, Charley! Why, my dear old chap!”

They shook hands warmly, Tryphie following suit, and the pretty little face flushed with pleasure and confusion.

“Why, Charley, you here!” cried Tom. “Stop, I know; you need not say a word.”

“You know?”

“Yes. How long have you been on the continent? Stop, you need not answer. Ever since my sister eloped.”

The young man bowed his head.

“And you’ve been after her all the time.”

Melton bowed again.

“Then it was doosed good of you, Charley; but I don’t see what we are to do, old man. It’s very horrible for all of us, but I can’t see what is to be done. I came out with the intention of dragging her home, but if the poor girl is infatuated with the fellow our cause is lost.”

“What do you propose doing then?” said Melton, hoarsely.

“Seeing her, and letting her know that when she likes to return home there is a place for her, either there or with me. That’s all.”

“And you mean to let her stay with this—this scoundrel.”

“Yes, Charley; I suppose he is her husband. We can do nothing.”

“Have you any suspicion of where she is?”

“Yes, old man. In this town, and I have set a waiter to work to bring me news. They’re ten times better than detectives. But it’s very good of you, Charley, and I’m sorry I abused you so.”

“You have been abusing me, then?” said Melton with an amused look.

“Yes, for giving up so easily,” said Tom. “Oh, here’s my man. I suppose,” he added hastily, as the hotel waiter entered, “some one for me.”

“Yes, milor, the head waiter from the Vesuvio.”

“Show him in. Now, Charley, there’ll be news.”

“All right, get it then,” said Melton, and he walked to the window, while Tom turned to face a little dark Italian, with a face suggestive of his being developed from a shaven rat.

The interview was short and decisive, and accompanied by much gesticulation, terminating in a chinking of coin as the man left.

“There, old fellow,” cried Tom, excitedly, “I’ve done more than you have. I’ve run them to earth.”

“You have? They are in Naples?”

“They are here!” cried Tom, excitedly. “In this very hotel, where I’ve been drawn by a sort of filial—no, that’s not it—fraternal magnetic attraction, and now.”

“Stop,” cried Melton. “I thought you were not going to interfere.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Tom, “a little while ago; but hang it all, now I am under the same roof with the scoundrel who deluded my poor sister away, curse his Italian blood, I’ll strangle him.”

“But you must be wrong, Tom; such a man as you suspect would not stay in an hotel like this. What do you say, Miss Wilder?”

“I say,” cried Tryphie, with a malicious look, “that there seems to be some mistake.”

“Tryphie—Tryphie, my child!” came from without.

“Coming, aunt,” said the girl, rising.

“Not a word to the old girl, Tryphie,” cried Tom.

“Not tell her?”

“Not a word. There, I beg of you.”

“Very well,” she said with another peculiar look and tripped out of the room.

“That’s better,” cried Tom. “Now come along.”

“Where are you going?”

“To dieci otto. That’s where the man said they were—not they, he said she was alone now. Come on: I’ll get her away, and if he comes to claim her, why then, damn him!”

“No violence, Tom, for your sister’s sake. He may be there. Let me go and see her.”

“You? Not me, my boy. Why, I might mark the scoundrel, but you would kill him.”

“No,” said Melton, thoughtfully, “I don’t think I should do that to the man she loved.”

“You’re a good fellow, Charley. There, I’ll go. I haven’t hunted them all this time to give up at the last. Don’t hinder me, old chap.”

“But look here, there has been exposé enough. Had it not all better be settled quietly?”

“But you can’t settle matters quietly with an organ-grinder, Charley. Look here, my plan is simple. I’ll get Maude away, then it’s a question of pounds, shillings, and pence.”

“In any case then, from respect to your sister, let the affair be arranged quietly.”

“Very well,” said Tom, sulkily.

“You will let me go first—say, to prepare her for your coming?”

“No. I’ll go.”

“You do not wish to inflict pain upon the poor girl?”

“No. I want her home again, and free from this degrading tie.”

“But suppose—”

“No, no—don’t say that, Charley, old fellow. You couldn’t look over it. Impossible now, old chap. Poor Maudey, she’ll have to be like a widow to her very end. There: we shall have the old woman here directly.”

“Then you’ll let me go and prepare your sister?”

“No; it’s my business, sir. I’ll do it myself.”

“But you’ll forgive her, Tom?”

“Perhaps. Now leave me alone. Stop, where’s dieci otto?”

“Ask the waiter,” said Melton, coldly, and he left the room.

“He needn’t have turned rusty,” grumbled Tom, crossing to reach the bell: but at that moment her ladyship came in, hurriedly followed by Tryphie and Lord Barmouth.

“No, no, my dear,” said Lord Barmouth, who seemed to have been strung up to resistance by some stirring news, and at a glance Tom saw that her ladyship knew as much as he.

“Silence, Barmouth. Tryphie, ring the bell. I suppose there are police of some kind in a benighted place like this. What number did he say, Tryphie, dieci otto?”

“Yes, aunt dear, eighteen,” said Tryphie, whose face was working and eyes twinkling in a peculiarly malicious manner.

“Eighteen! That will do,” cried Tom. “Here, governor, come with me.”

“Tom! stop! Barmouth, I forbid—”

Her ladyship did not finish her speech, but hurried to the door, followed by her niece—the door through which her husband had passed, followed by her son.

Chapter Thirty.

Light on the Scene.

First floor only. Dieci otto—a door in a corridor whose rooms looked out upon the tranquil sea.

A lady and gentleman started from their seats as the couple rushed in; and in a moment Viscount Diphoos had seen that they were right—that he was in the presence of his sister and the man with whom she had eloped. He saw too in the same rapid glance why they had been so long off the scent. For there was no black curly hair, no long black beard, but all was brown, and flashed as it were with gold.

This was all seen as the young man literally hurled himself upon the tall, sturdy man, who rose to meet him, and in a twinkling they had one another by the throat.

“Take her away, father, quick, quick,” cried Tom; and the next moment, in choking tones—“No, stop!” as he loosed his hold, staggered back to a chair, and uttered a shriek.

Wounded? Stabbed by the treacherous Italian?

Oh, no; it was a shriek of the laughter with which his frame was convulsed, as he rolled from side to side, while Lord Barmouth stared from one to the other.

“Tom, my son—are you hurt?”

“Hurt!” shrieked Tom, in inarticulate tones. “Sold—sold—sold!”

“But what does it mean?” stammered Lord Barmouth.

“Mean!” shrieked Tom—“why, that that confounded old humbug Charley has stolen a march on us.—Charley, old fellow, God bless you—I never felt so happy in my life. Here, Maudey, give us a kiss.”

Before the young man had commenced hugging his sister, Charley Melton had moved to the door, closed and locked it against the inquiring looks of waiters, and taking Maude’s hand in his he then asked Lord Barmouth in a few manly words to forgive him and his wife their clandestine proceedings.

“Forgive you, Charley,” cried the viscount, “of course he will—won’t you, dad?”

“Well—well—yes, my boy, I think so,” said his lordship feebly, as he shook his new son-in-law’s hand. “I think I’m very glad, for I never liked that Sir Reginald.”

“Grantley, father—Grantley Wilters,” cried Tom.

“To be sure, my boy; yes, of course, Sir Grantley.”

“But why the dickens didn’t you write to us, and let us know?”

“Well, we were going to write every day,” said Charley, with a peculiar look at Maude; “but we could never agree as to whose duty it was. We should have written though.”

“But—but—I think you ought to have written, Charley Melton. You see I’ve been very anxious about my darling Maude.”

“It was very cruel, papa dear; but really I did mean to write, soon.”

“I’m very glad of that,” said Lord Barmouth; “for really, Maude, my darling, you have frightened me so. I shall have a horrible fit of the gout after this.”

“Never mind, dad; stop and have it here, and Maudey and I will nurse you—won’t we, old girl?” cried Tom. “For gout at home just now would be awful. Oh!” he shrieked, once more going off into convulsions, “won’t the old girl be mad!”

“Yes, my dears,” said Lord Barmouth, shaking away very heartily at Charley Melton’s hands, “I’m afraid she’ll be very cross. But do you know, I fancy I’ve caught a bit o’ cold.”

“Never mind, father, we’re going to catch it hot,” said Tom.

“Yes, my boy; but—but I feel a little deaf, and my head is rather thick.”

“Never mind, old fellow, we’ve found her.”

“Yes, my boy, yes, we’ve found her; but do you know I feel rather confused and puzzled. I—I thought our Maude had gone off with that handsome looking scoundrel who played the organ outside our house.”

“Well, so she did,” cried Tom; “I see it all now. Here he is, dad.”

“No, no, my boy; don’t be so foolish. I want to know why it’s Charley Melton, and not that Italian fellow?”

“Why, governor, can’t you see through it?”

“No, my boy. It’s all a puzzle to me.”

“Nonsense, dad, Charley made a postman of that organ-grinder. Now do you twig?”

“And—and a post-office of the organ? I think I am beginning to see.”

“What was I to do?” said the young husband, appealingly. “I had been abroad, and tried to forget her, but it was of no use. I was forbidden the house, and at last I learned that this marriage was to come off. I dared not trust the servants, so I practised this ruse. But there, it’s all over now. You forgive me, sir, do you not?”

“Well, yes, my boy,” said Lord Barmouth, who was sitting fondling his daughter’s hand. “I think you are quite right. I should have done the same, for I was a devil of a—Don’t fidget, Maude, my darling. I’ll talk her ladyship round.”

“She’d rather it had been the organ-grinder,” choked and coughed Viscount Diphoos, while his sister, blushing and happy, kept shaking her finger at his mirthful face.

“But I will talk her round,” said Lord Barmouth, rather pompously, to the infinite risk of sending his son once more off into convulsions.

“But I say, Charley,” cried Tom, who kept showing his delight by slapping his brother-in-law on the back; “I want to know one thing though; did the signore come that night to fetch Maude, and leave his organ in the area?”

“No, of course not,” cried Charley, eagerly; “I bought the organ, and came myself.”

“With the organ?”

“For this time only on any stage.”

“As they say in the play-bills,” cried Tom. “Hooray!”

At that moment the door was tried, and then shaken by her ladyship, who had been waiting till the first part of the storm was over, after which she ascended with Tryphie, whose face wore a peculiarly mocking look as she stood behind her aunt.

“Open this door,” cried Lady Barmouth.

A dead silence fell upon the group.

“Oh, papa!” cried Maude.

“Yes, my dear,” said his lordship, looking round for a way of escape. “I—I—I think it is her ladyship.”

“Not much doubt about it,” said Tom. “Now, Charley, old chap, take your header and get out of your misery.”

“Yes,” said Charley, “I suppose I must get it over.”

“Open this door!” cried Lady Barmouth, shaking it furiously.

“It isn’t a hanging matter,” said Tom, laughing.

“No,” said Charley, rather uneasily, “it isn’t a hanging matter.”

“And her ladyship can’t undo it.”

“No,” said Charley firmly, as he crossed the room to where the door was being shaken violently, “her ladyship cannot undo it.”

“Would—would you like to take hold of my hand, Maudey, my dear?” said Lord Barmouth in a faltering voice.

“Yes, papa, dear; and you will intercede for my dear husband,” said the young wife, clinging to him affectionately.

“I will, my dear, I will. I feel as brave as a lion now. I—I—oh, here she is.”

“What is the meaning of all this?” cried her ladyship, staring round at the scene, as Tryphie rushed at Maude, kissed her, and then at Charley Melton, and jumped up and kissed him.

“I always fancied that’s how it was,” she whispered.

“What’s the meaning of it?” cried Tom. “Why, we’ve found them. Here, allow me to take round the hat for the coppers; or will you do it now, Maude?”

“I repeat,” cried Lady Barmouth, “what is the meaning of this? Mr Melton, what are you doing here?”

“Asking your ladyship’s pardon for myself and my dear wife,” said Charley, taking Maude’s hand.

“Wife? Then! You! Oh, Maude, you wicked, wicked girl!”

“But, my dear,” said Lord Barmouth.

“Silence!” cried her ladyship, “Maude, you have utterly broken my heart, and—”

“Don’t you believe it, Maudey,” said Tom, grinning. “She’s only saying that to keep up appearances.”

“Tom!”

“All right! but you know you are. There, Charley, old boy, kiss your dear mother. Come, gov’nor, say Bless you, my children!”

“Certainly, my dear boy,” said the old man, earnestly. “Bless you indeed, my dear children. Charley Melton, you can’t tell how glad I am, my boy.”

“Barmouth!”

“Yes, my love, but I can’t help it. I do feel very glad; but oh, you young dog, to come playing us a trick like that!”

“Barmouth!”

“There, hang it all, mother,” cried Tom, “what’s the good of holding out. You’ve behaved very nicely, but, as we say in refined circles—I mean rings—it’s quite time you threw up the sponge.”

“Mamma, dear, I would sooner have died than marry Sir Grantley.”

“Such a cruel ruse,” sobbed her ladyship, in hystero-tragic tones. “Maude! Maude!”

“Don’t blame her, dearest mother,” said Tom, in mock-heroic style, “it was the troubadour. Il trovatore! and his playing was magnificent. It would have won the heart of a female saint, or charmed a nun from her cell, let alone our Maude.”

“Justine, my drops, my drops.”

“She caves in! Charley, old chap, you may kiss her now,” cried Tom, “she won’t bite. There, take him to your heart, old lady; and I say, mamma, some day if you do faint, Charley could carry you to a sofa: Grantley Wilters would have doubled up like a two-foot rule.”

“I can never show my face in society again,” said her ladyship, “never, Mr Melton.”

“What!” cried Tom, who grinned with delight as he saw his mother seated upon a couch between Charley and Maude. “What? why, it’ll be no end of a game. It’s all right, Maudey; you’ve won.”

“Ah,” sighed her ladyship, “let Justine bring my drops.”

“Drops be hanged! Champagne,” cried Tom. “Here, ring the bell, gov’nor; no table-d’hôte to-day, mamma’s going to order a wedding dinner—a screamer.”

“No, no, Tom!”

“Yes, yes, my dear mother.”

Her ladyship sighed, smiled, ordered the dinner, and Lord Barmouth rubbed his leg.

“Tom, my boy,” he whispered, “you really are a wonder.”

“Am I, gov’nor? Then you tell Tryphie so, and back me up, for I mean, as the old song says, ‘to marry she.’”

“Do you, my boy?”

“Yes, gov’nor. Do you consent?”

“Certainly, my dear boy, certainly. When is it to be?”

“Barmouth,” said her ladyship in her deep contralto, “would you be kind enough to ring for Justine?”

Chapter Thirty One.

Tom picks a Bone.

“Stop a moment,” said Tom, who had slipped out and intercepted the French maid in the corridor. “Here, I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”

“No, no, Milor Thomas, nevaire now,” cried Justine, “pas de petites soupers. I am engage.”

“Engaged, are you? What, to be married?”

“Yes, milor, to be married.”

“Then good luck to you, ma’amselle. But I say, you are a nice one, you are.”

“I do you not understand, sir.”

“Not understand?” cried Tom, catching her by the wrist. “None of your nonsense. Come now, you were in the secret.”

“Sir, I will never divulge the secret of her ladyship; no, not even to milor.”

“Get out!”

“You loose my arm, milor. Her ladyship wait for me.”

“So do I,” said Tom. “Hang her ladyship’s hair-dye and all her other secrets; I mean about the organ—Mr Melton. Ah, you’re a nice one, Justine.”

“Milor, you think I know about that tair-rible affaire?” cried Justine very Frenchly.

“Yes, and so you did.”

“Faith of a woman, sir; it is not ter-r-rue,” cried Justine, excitedly.

“Gammon! Come, Justine, the game’s up, and I know you were at the bottom of it all.”

“Non—non—non—non—non—non,” cried Justine, shaking her head quite dangerously.

“Oui—oui—oui—oui—oui,” said Tom. “Now come, confess.”

“And you go tell her ladyship, you bad, weeked lil man.”

“Not I. I’m only too glad things have turned out so right.”

“You deed not like Sir Viltaire?”

“Like him!”

“You will not tell her ladyship, I confess,” said Justine in a mysterious, whisper. “You will not what you English call ze peach.”

“Peach? not I, old girl. Come, you did know?”

Justine screwed up her eyes, and made her mouth a tight line as she laughed silently.

“Then you put Mr Melton up to the dodge?”

“Parole d’honneur, no, Milor Tom. Ze plot was hatch by Monsieur Shairlie himself. I say noding about ze hair come out,” she added to herself.

“Well, all I can say is, that Charley Melton was a plucky one. And you knew this all the time?”

“Yes, milor.”

“You’re a deep one, Justine.”

“I love ze secret, monsieur, and I cannot bear to see Miladi Maude soffaire.”

“So you helped, eh?”

“Faith of a woman, no, sare; I only look on, and see and say noding at all.”

“By George, Justine, you’ve been a trump! and I’ll give you a ring for this.”

“Then give me dat one now, sare,” said Justine, sharply, as she pointed to the signet on Tom’s finger.

“But that’s too big and ugly for you, my girl. It is a gentleman’s ring.”

“Ma foi, Milor Thomas, do I not tell you I have a gentleman?”

“Then you’re going to marry old waxworks.”

“No, no, sare, I go to be Madame Launay when we return; and if Milor Tom do require my help—a thank you, ze ring is charmant—you shall say to me, ‘Justine, her ladyship go to marry la belle Ma’amselle Tryphie to Sir Viltaire,’ I am at your sairvice, for I am the guardian of her ladyship’s secret, but vive l’amour.”

“Vive l’amour, Justine,” cried Tom, giving her a kiss.

“Bad, weeked lil mans. But I forgive you. I go to her ladyship. Au revoir.”

“Charley, old fellow,” said Viscount Diphoos before they parted for the night, “hang me if I don’t stick to that organ, and have it on a stand in my room; and so long as I am at home, every time the old girl gets in one of her tantrums, I’ll go and turn the handle till she comes and makes a truce.”

Viscount Diphoos did not kep his word about that organ, being at the time in profound ignorance of the fact, that two days after he left town, and while the house was still in a state of turmoil, an Italian gentleman with very dark eyes, very black beard, and a smile that reached from one ear-ring to the other, called for the organ that had been left in the area; slinking down to the kitchen door, and wheedling the page a little. That young gentleman thought it rather fun to put the strap over his shoulder, and carry the instrument to the door, when it was borne off, and, in truth, entirely forgotten by all concerned.

But on the return to town her ladyship seemed to recover her elasticity somewhat, and Tom began to find that he was to have a fight yet to win his game.

“Seems precious hard,” he said, “and perhaps I shall have to make my plans, but no organ, thank you—the accordion, white mice, or guinea pigs would be more in my line.”

Just in the worst time of his trouble he called upon Monsieur Hector one morning, to have his weary brain relieved by a course of hair-cutting, and the refreshing shampoo.

Monsieur Hector was delicacy itself in his manipulations, and as delicate in his diplomacy.

“Ah bah!” he said, “what is cutting and shaving and dressing the hair? It is not by them that I must live and save for ma chère Justine. Why was I not in the bureau of the police? I am a great student of life—a very receptacle for the secrets of the aristocracy.”

“Monsieur suffers,” he said, softly, as he held Tom’s head, lathered all over with soap; “I am troubled to see monsieur look in such bad health.”

“Bother!” said Tom.

Monsieur Hector waited a few moments until the shampooing should begin to soften down some of the hard crystals of brain trouble from which Tom was suffering, and then he tried again.

“I trust milady recovers herself from the dreadful shock.”

Tom screwed his soapy head round, to stare in the bland, unruffled countenance of Monsieur Hector, who bowed, and gently returned his client’s head to its proper position.

“What the deuce do you know about my lady’s shock?” growled Tom.

“Monsieur forgets that I am the confidential attendant of the family,” said Monsieur Hector with dignity.

“So I did, and of Mademoiselle Justine too. But I smell a rat. You hatch plots here.”

“Aha, monsieur knows?”

“Yes,” said Tom, “I know. Could you manage me an organ if I wanted to go to play to a lady—say in Portland Place?”

Monsieur Hector smiled and tripped to a drawer, out of which he took a black wig and full beard to match.

“If monsieur will entrust himself to my care, I will in ten minutes change his complexion and his appearance so that her ladyship should not know him.”

“And find me an organ?”

“A thousand, if monsieur wishes,” said the Frenchman. “I am at his service when he say.”

“Then give me a clean towel;” said Tom, “my left ear is bunged up with soap.

“I’ll come if ever I want your help,” he added as he ran a covered finger through the intricate mazes of his ear.