Cynthia Stockley (continued 2)

“Is anything the matter?” she asked in surprise, staring at the silent group of three. “How do you do, Mrs Solano?”

Perhaps it was by accident that she ranged herself at Loree’s side, facing the other two women. In the darkness she felt Loree’s hand clutch her arm as if in fear, but Loree’s voice said very calmly:

“This lady is under sane delusion about the necklace I am wearing.”

“No, I am not under any delusion,” said Mrs Solano and her voice, no longer pleasantly resonant, clanged like iron. “If you will take off that necklace I will prove to you that it is mine.”

Loree’s breath shortened. Mrs Cork laughed.

“But how fantastic, Mrs Solano! You must really realise that this is rather a wild statement to make.”

“It may sound so,” said Mrs Solano doggedly, “but, as I say, I am ready to prove it. My necklace has a blue diamond on each side of the clasp, and one of these diamonds has three dots or defects in it, that held in a certain light, give the impression of a tiny Death’s head grinning at you.”

“More fantastic still!” cried Valeria Cork still laughing. Loree had never known her so hilarious. “Does your necklace possess this sinister distinction also, Mrs Temple?”

“I have never noticed it,” was the stony answer.

“Of course you haven’t.” Valeria became grave. “And of course Mrs Solano is making a mistake—”

“I am not making a mistake. I am certain that the necklace is mine, and I insist upon examining it.” Mrs Solano spoke with the firmness of a woman who is accustomed to know what she means to do, and to do it.

Valeria, speaking very gravely, said:

“I think you are acting in a very strange manner, Mrs Solano, and later you will probably regret it very much.” She was standing in the doorway, and she now turned her head and looked into the ballroom. Immediately she added: “But as you have gone so far, I, as a friend of Mrs Temple’s, must insist that the matter be put right. Some responsible person must be called in to see the necklace with you, and relieve my poor little friend of any further unpleasantness. Mr Quelch is just the man to do this, and I see him over there in the ballroom. Please all remain here while I fetch him.”

She was only two or three seconds away, and during her absence the three women stood still as though turned to stone. Quelch and Mrs Cork made their way across the ballroom, their heads bent in conversation. Presently they emerged through the door by which the three awaited.

“I have explained everything to Mr Quelch,” said Mrs Cork quietly. “Mrs Temple, will you please hand him the necklace and he and Mrs Solano can go and look at it quietly in his sitting-room.”

“This is all very mysterious,” said Quelch in his charming voice. “But I’ve no doubt we can clear it up immediately.”

Valeria Cork had lifted the necklace quietly over Loree’s head.

“It will be perfectly safe with Mr Quelch,” she said in a low voice. A minute after she put her arm through Loree’s. “I hear the ‘cup’ is delicious and I am so thirsty,” she said. “Let’s go and have some.”

She drew Loree away in one direction and Quelch and Mrs Solano went in another. Mrs Solano’s friend, who throughout the proceedings had never spoken a word, remained standing like a pillar of salt, in the verandah.

Loree plunged once more into the gay pool of melody and movement. With a little champagne in her head, and her heels as light as air, she managed to throw off the memory of the disagreeable incident that had ruffled the pleasant surface of the evening... but at the back of her mind fright was lurking still, and every now and then it would clutch at her heart with an icy hand that almost stilled its beating. Then, shivering, she would wonder what was taking place in Quelch’s sitting-room and why he and Mrs Solano did not reappear.

Time went on. It had been somewhere about half past midnight when they went away, and at two o’clock there was still no sign of them. Mrs Temple was thankful for the distraction offered by the company of a delightful man of about forty-five whom young Dalkeith had introduced. He was a late-comer having arrived only in time for the ball, and at once with unerring instinct made a bee line for the prettiest woman in the room. His tongue had a witty twist and his eye under a black-ribboned eye-glass was blue and merry as a boy’s. He seemed not to have a care in the world and kept Loree so amused that she almost forgot all cares of her own. Moreover his step suited hers to perfection and while she was dancing with him she thought of nothing. Her mind was a blank except for the delicious feeling of bliss in rhythmical movement.

She was resting after a dance with this man whose name she did not know when one of the hotel servants came up and addressed him in a low voice.

“Mr Quelch would like to speak to you, Sir, in his private sitting-room.”

A shade of annoyance crossed the face of Mrs Temple’s companion.

“Very well,” he answered brusquely, then turned to her, “I wish people would not want to talk business out of business hours!” he remarked with a tinge of impatience. “However, I shall be back in ten minutes or so, Mrs Temple. You won’t give the ninth waltz to any one else, will you? And please don’t forget that I am to have that ‘third extra,’ if there is one. It’s a promise, isn’t it?”

“Very well, we’ll look upon it as a promise,” she smiled. But when the ninth waltz started he had not returned to claim it, and she did not know with whom to be most vexed—Quelch, or her missing partner. Beautiful Loree was not accustomed to bloom unsought in the rôle of wall-flower, and even though she was soon descried and besieged for the remainder of the waltz her vanity was hurt by the incident. She put a small rod in pickle for the defaulting partner when he should turn up, and the promise of the ‘third extra’ was promptly bestowed elsewhere. But the dance went gaily on and the recalcitrant one did not return to receive his punishment. She thought it very strange of him. Also her vexation with Heseltine Quelch increased. Surely if the latter had finished his interview with Mrs Solano he ought at least to come back to report and return the necklace, instead of sending for a business acquaintance and launching into some other affair... incidentally robbing her of the best dancing partner she had ever had! It really was too tiresome of him. She resolved to treat him pretty coolly for his sins.

But up to the last note of the last “extra” there was no sign of him, and unease began, once more, to creep into her mind. What had happened? She was standing near the verandah door when the final bar of God Save the King crashed out. In the second of silence that followed a sharp report was heard from the garden—a strange, unusual sound that made women jump and men run hurriedly through the doors. The garden was dimly luminant with the promise of was that men discovered out there among dawn, yet not light enough to show what it the roses. One or two women devoured by curiosity began to push forward, but returning men barred the way. There were murmurs of an accident. People with good eyesight imagined they saw a slow procession moving through the grounds. Suddenly Quelch appearing from the gloom of trees and shrubs walked into the brightly-lit verandah. Loree forgot her grievances against him and ran to meet him.

“What has happened? Do tell me, Mr Quelch. I feel so frightened.”

“Nothing,” he murmured reassuringly—“at least nothing you can help. An unfortunate accident. A fellow fooling with a revolver, out there, has wounded himself rather badly.”

“Oh, poor fellow—”

“Who is it?—”

“What a strange thing to be playing with a revolver at this hour!”

“Where is he hurt?—”

The women were all speaking at once, in great excitement and curiosity, but Quelch’s calm manner began to reassure them. Though not able to tell them much, he disclosed the belief that the wound was not fatal, and gently advised every one to go to bed. Loree was one of the first to follow his good counsel. As she moved away he stepped beside her for an instant.

“Oh! Mrs Temple, it was quite all right about the necklace of course. Mrs Solano is immensely sorry to have made such a mistake, and is writing to you in the morning.”

“Oh... thank you,” stammered Loree, turning very pink.

“Mrs Cork has it, and will return it to you,” added Quelch, then turned back to the few still questioning women who lingered, and Loree hastened to her room.

Valeria Cork was not awaiting her as she had hoped. The last seen of that lady—who did not dance—was at a bridge table in the lounge, brooding (to judge by her looks) over a bad hand and a bad partner. Well, no doubt she would arrive presently. In the meantime Loree stood waiting in a state of almost painful relief. It had been a glorious evening. As a woman she had achieved un succès fou by her beauty and her clothes. She had lit many little fires in the eyes of men—hungry little fires of longing and desire and admiration such as most women think it no shame to light and leave burning. But through it all she had felt a consuming fear about the diamonds. That horrible incident had shaken her through and through, and come near to spoiling her pleasure in the rest of life. And now since Quelch had spoken the words that put an end to her suspense she allowed herself for a moment to realise the terror of what might have been if Mrs Solano had been able to make good her claim. What a frightful scandal might have ensued! ... a scandal that would surely have reached Pat’s ears—her Pat so dear and trusting! He seemed to grow suddenly very dear as she sat there waiting and wondering: dear as things departed for ever out of reach are dear: dear as the dead!

A soft tap came on the door and a softer whisper.

“Are you asleep, Mrs Temple?”

She rushed to open it. Mrs Cork stood there.

“I thought you were in bed and asleep!”

“No,” stammered Loree. “I was just going to undress.”

“I only wanted to bring you this,” said Mrs Cork lightly, and handed something to her in a glittering heap. “Of course it was all a mistake of that silly Mrs Solano’s. Mr Quelch was very angry with her, but she is extremely penitent, I believe, and going to write you a letter of abject apology in the morning.”

Loree took the necklace without a word. Mrs Cork gave her a strange look, then she said “Good-night” abruptly and went swiftly down the corridor.

Loree locked the door and returned to her dressing-table. Very slowly she let the necklace ripple out of her hands through her slim fingers on to the white cloth. It lay a heap of glory, winking at her. At first she hated it. It had given her some terrible moments. She had a mind to fling it through the windows into the garden below and let who would find it and keep it. But she looked at it too long, and once more it wove its magic round her heart, round her mind, round her senses and her conscience. At last she took it up and kissed it.

“Oh, my darling!” she cried. “If I had lost you!”

Suddenly it occurred to her to look at the clasp.

Then her face grew very pale, for strange to say there were two blue diamonds on either side of it... two stones of a livid brilliance sending out piercing rays of azure light and seeming to guard that little gate of platinum which held the chain together. It seemed an extraordinary coincidence! What was it that Mrs Solano had said about “defects” and a “Death’s head”? She raised the chain high to the light and gazed intently into the heart of each. And then her own heart gave a beat and seemed to wait a little. For in one of those blue diamonds there were three tiny dots that gave back the curious illusion of a squinting, grinning Death’s head.

Yet, in the morning, even as Valeria had predicted, on her tray lay the letter of apology from Mrs Solano. It was not abject, however. That high-spirited and adventurous Jewess knew not, it seemed, the paths of humility. But she was not without courtesy in her amende honourable.

Dear Mrs Temple:

I am sure that you received your necklace back safely from the trusted hands of our mutual friend, Mr Quelch. I have to tell you how extremely sorry I am for the foolish mistake I made. I am afraid that it caused you much pain and vexation and can only ask you very sincerely to forgive me and forget all about the unfortunate incident.

Very faithfully yours,

Rachel Solano.

Oh, yes, Mrs Temple forgave. She was only too thankful to do so. A great weight seemed lifted off her shoulders. But the shock she had received from the “unfortunate mistake” together with the fatigue of dancing and the excitement generally had left her very weary. She decided to rest for a great part of the day, and lay abed, gently dreaming. With her lunch came copies of the two daily papers. Like all local newspapers they were not very interesting to visitors. But to-day there was, naturally, a long account of the Royal reception and Ball of the night before. Loree glanced down the printed columns to find herself famous as “the lovely Mrs Temple.” Far more room was given to her in the news than to the famous Princess Evelyn. Every item of her toilette was described, every shade of her gown, every leaf almost in the sheaf of roses she had carried. The journalists dwelt upon her glorious hair, its maze of bronze curls above her face of ivory and roses, they spoke of the grace of her walk, her exquisite dancing. It was only natural she should glow a little, lying there reading those panegyrics of praise. She had never before seen herself in print.

She could not, however, help being struck by a fact which seemed very curious. Not a word had been written about her diamond chain. What made the omission conspicuous was that almost every other woman’s jewels were mentioned in detail, their diamonds counted, and catalogued. There were:

“Mrs Ikey Mosenthal’s famous tiara—”

“Mrs Solly Moses’ wreath of Jagersfontein roses—”

“Miss Rebecca Isaac’s magnificent necklace and pendant of water-white stones—”

“Lady von Guggenheim’s priceless plaque of black diamonds—”

Only Mrs Temple’s exquisite chain was unhonoured and unsung. It was passing strange and gave her furiously to think. But at last she hit upon what might be the correct solution of the mystery. The journalists had probably not been able to set about the business of examining and describing clothes and jewels until after the Royal Party’s departure. As it was soon after that time that the Solano incident had occurred, followed by the temporary departure of the diamond chain from Mrs Temple’s neck, she reasoned that the journalists had not described it because they had not seen it. Which was, after all, a great piece of luck for her, for she could not help realising that the newspaper accounts might easily come to her husband’s eyes, and how very difficult it would be for her to explain to him how she came to be wearing a priceless necklace of which he had no knowledge. As it was she could cut out the paragraphs and send them to him.

She gave a deep sigh of relief, then read the description of herself all over again, browing delicately upon the praise of her beauty. Just as she was laying down the papers a name caught her eye—a name she had heard before though she could not remember where. It was heavily leaded at the top of a long column, and composed a startling phrase.

Suicide of Mr Frederick Huffe.

It was the story of sane unfortunate man—a Banker-solicitor—who had betrayed his trusts and blown out his brains. Loree glanced cursorily at it, at first. Her tastes were not morbid and it really gave her pain to read of people in distress. She was not one of those who, as Masefield puts it, find intoxication in another’s suffering, excitement in another’s hell. But the words “in the garden of the Belgrove Hotel” arrested her attention and she read on. When she had finished she knew that the revolver shot they had heard at the end of the ball was the sharp crack of doom that had sent Frederick, Huffe out of the world.

“Many men rushed to the spot at once,” ran the story, “but Frederick Huffe, brilliant man of the world, past-master of every sport and accomplishment to which he turned his hand, was also a sure and certain gun-man, and had made no mistake. Death must have been instantaneous.”

So Quelch’s reassuring words were untrue! They were only spoken to get the women away quietly! It was comprehensible of course. One could not blame him for it, thought Loree. In fact she rather admired him for it, reflecting once more upon his worldly wisdom and capability. How cool and gentle and helpful he had shown himself in the matter of the necklace. He had been a real friend. Perhaps if the unfortunate Frederick Huffe had possessed such a friend he would never have come to his desperate end! What a strange thing, though, that he should choose to do it out there in the Belgrove garden, after the ball where he had been dancing and apparently enjoying life to the end! However she would not let her thoughts linger further on the tragedy. Besides, the phrase “Mr Huffe had financial worries” suddenly reminded her of something else, something that in the press of events she had almost forgotten—the financial worries of Mrs Cork. As she dressed for dinner she determined she would go into matters and try and find a way of helping her friend. Never, never would she forget how staunch Valeria had been in the terrifying ordeal with the Solano woman, and she resolved that coûte que coûte she would repay that staunch friendship.

At dinner-time she went boldly to the other woman’s table and asked if she might dine there, as she was tired of her own table. But Valeria Cork had lost her friendly air of the evening before and relapsed into her dry and cynical self. As the table where she sat was invariably laid for four persons she could not very well refuse, but she looked bored by the request, and, if eyes can speak, hers said plainly that she thought Loree a nuisance. Loree, however, had reasons both selfish and altruistic for being thick-skinned, and she meant to cleave closer than a brother to Valeria. She observed that again the Brazilian diamond was again absent from the widow’s throat, and she felt certain now, that accident could no longer be accountable for this. The conviction grew in her that the diamond had been left in the horrible little pawnshop. No wonder Mrs Cork’s eyes were arid and her tongue bitter! A few minutes later Quelch came in. Instantly his eyes found the two women, and he came over.

“Why should I be left out in the cold?” he plaintively demanded.

Mrs Cork assumed an even more bored air.

“Oh, you can come. If I have one, I may as well have half a dozen.”

He took no notice of her disagreeables, sitting down and making himself pleasant to them both, though both knew full well for whom were his gentle words and bold, enfolding gaze. Sometimes Loree had the sensation that they were scorching through her gown and searing her very flesh. More than ever she resolved to cling to the society of Valeria Cork. The latter remained distrait and contemptuous, and when Quelch asked them to go to the theatre after dinner, curtly replied that she had a bridge engagement. Loree also refused, but in more dulcet fashion. She said she feared the night air. No one mentioned the affair of the diamond necklace, nor was the subject of the suicide referred to. Loree was grateful for both of these things.

After coffee and idle gossip in the lounge, Mrs Cork rose to join the two dominant-nosed ladies and a nosier man. Loree also rose. She had suddenly developed a migraine. This was indicated by the use of a minute gold bottle of smelling-salts and a delicate gesture of her hand across her forehead and hair, as if brushing away pain. Quelch looked on with troubled eyes, but it was vain for him to plead that five minutes in the garden would do her all the good in the world.

“Not when I have a migraine like this,” she dolefully replied, and repeated the lovely gesture, pushing pain back into her emotional hair, which bronzed and winged above her brows like fine threads of metal.

“When I have a headache like this, nothing cures it but bed,” she averred, and cast her priez-pour-moi look at him. With a barricade of protecting people about, she was enjoying herself immensely. It was a pity to go away from anything so rousing and exciting as his sultry glances. But it was safer than to stay. You never knew what a lawless man like that might do. She offered her hand in good night, and he was obliged to take it with the best grace he could muster. But he held it very closely, and did not release it until the red colour in her face responded to his pressure. Then, careless of what any one thought, he stood perfectly still, watching her out of sight. She tripped up the stairs, not at all like a woman suffering from migraine. Her sprightly movements brought a cold, resolute look into his dark face.

Her mind was full of both business and pleasure. First, and always, there were the diamonds wherewith to console solitude. Secondly, she had come by an inspiration during dinner, and was anxious to carry it into effect. It was an inspiration to repay “whatever gods may be” for the felicity of her diamonds by doing a good action which would also bring pleasure to another. She had determined to solace the financial troubles of Valeria Cork by secretly presenting her with Pat’s fifty-pound note. Such noble and pleasant intentions lend wings to the feet. She flew to her room and obtained the note. But a black boy was tidying out a bathroom next door to Mrs Cork’s bedroom, and she could not enter without being seen by him. Trying the balcony, she found a maid flirting there with some one’s valet.

Obliged to possess her soul in patience till the coast was clear, she returned to the contemplation of her diamonds. It was nearly an hour before absolute solitude prevailed and she was able to steal to Mrs Cork’s door—only to find it locked! The door leading from the balcony proved to be in like case. This was a contingency that had not occurred to her. She constantly left her own door unlocked, and supposed that other people did the same. However, her mind was nimble, and never left her long without an idea. She went to her room and placed the banknote flat, in a large white envelope. For a moment, she toyed with the temptation to write, “From a friend,” upon the covering, but decided not to. Mrs Cork might know her writing, and that would never do. She wished the gift to be as anonymous as her own gift from the gods. Returning to the locked door, she knelt down, and, with great difficulty, worked the envelope underneath, computing that, as soon as the door opened, there it would lie, obvious and inviting. When, at last, she rose from her knees flushed and hot, but rather pleased with herself, it was to find Valeria Cork had come soft-footed down the corridor and was leaning against the opposite wall watching the proceedings. She had an unlighted cigarette between her lips and something very like a sneer in her sardonic eyes.

“If you’ve quite finished operations,” she said, “I’ll go in and make the discovery.”

Loree, caught red-handed at her good works, confused and agacée, stood like a convicted thief. For a moment, she thought of explaining. It seemed the only thing to do. But the other woman’s manner was so extraordinarily hostile that she was both alarmed and resentful. In silence and with great dignity, she walked away. But behind her own closed door she stood palpitating with apprehension for what would happen next. She had not long to wait. A sharp knock came on the door, and, without waiting for it to be opened, Valeria Cork marched in, holding the note and envelope as if they were something infectious.

“What is the meaning of this? How dare you?”

Loree, scarlet, stood clinging to the brass, rail of her bed. There did not seem to be any words adequate to the occasion. Impossible to inform this coldly furious woman that she had appeared to an onlooker as a fit recipient for charity. There was a brief silence, Mrs Cork obviously trying to control her temper.

“I should like an explanation of this—this kindness.” She bit off the last word with the utmost irony.

“There is no explanation,” said Loree lamely.

“But this is your banknote?” Silence.

“I saw you pushing it under my door.” Silence.

“I insist upon an explanation.”

Still Loree kept silence. There was absolutely nothing to say. “I can only suppose,” said Valeria Cork, at last, “that it is some kind of conscience-money you were trying to foist off on me.”

“No, no!” murmured Mrs Temple, her colour growing brighter.

“Then,” said the other slowly, “you were trying to buy me. For some reason or other, you think I am to be bought.” For a moment, she looked at Loree piercingly. “That is my answer.” She flung the note in its owner’s face and swept from the room.

A sad ending to a noble deed! Loree collapsed on to her bed and wept miserably. For a time, at least, even diamonds were powerless to assuage her humiliation.

Chapter Three.

Mrs Cork would not even look at her the next day. She was thrown abruptly upon her own society, for Quelch, too, without hail or farewell, disappeared from the horizon. This was a relief in a way, though it could not be denied that she missed him as one misses the glow of a fire from a Town. But something had gone wrong with life altogether, somehow, and the flavour of it was dry on her tongue. She began to weary of Kimberley and the monotonous existence in the luxurious hotel. More than ever she was obsessed by the diamonds. Yet the pink god often seemed to mock her when she took it from its shrine, and she began to realise that though it is sweet to look upon the image of yourself suitably decked with jewels, it is sweeter still to let the world look upon you and admire. In fact, there did not seem to be much object in jewels that you had to wear hidden. Something, too, was missing from the diamonds—some quality or spirit that Pat’s pearls possessed, sad as they were compared with the stones. She could not think what it was, and did not try very hard to discover, for the pearls had a reproach for her. Time was when she could linger over them daily, looking into their little lustrous faces, almost knowing each one of the three hundred and sixty-five singly. Now she locked them away, and with them the beautiful pearl rings Pat had given her. She longed to have the rose-pink diamond set in a ring and to wear it blazing alone on her hand. But greatly daring as she was, she did not dare that, in this hotel and town which belonged to De Beers, to whom the stone also belonged, though they did not know it was in her possession.

At about eleven o’clock that morning she was in the lounge taking tea after the pleasant and refreshing custom of the country. Mrs Cork and some gambling cronies were bridging as usual at another table, and there were various people scattered about, reading and gossiping. Only Loree Temple was alone and a little lonely. It was with pleasure that she saw young Dalkeith walk in. He had brought her a book they had been discussing at the ball, but to her disappointment could not stay, as he had a business engagement. She poured him out a cup of tea and he lingered a few moments, gossiping. Then, for the first time since the ball, she heard spoken reference to the tragedy of Frederick Huffe.

“I have just come from the inquest,” said Dalkeith. “Awful, wasn’t it?”

“Terrible.” Loree closed her eyes and shivered a little. She did not like sad things.

“And I don’t care what any one says,” went on the boy. “He was one of the best. Even if his finances did go a bit astray in the stress of life he was one of the best. Didn’t you think so, Mrs Temple?”

“I?” said Loree opening her eyes in surprise. “I did not know him.”

“No, of course you didn’t know him well, but you were dancing with him a lot after I introduced him to you, and I thought you seemed to like him. Everyone liked old Freddy and found him charming.”

Loree, who had turned very white, sat staring at him, her lips slightly apart.

“Was that Frederick Huffe?” she whispered at last. “That nice man who went away and never came back for the dance I had promised him?”

“My God! didn’t you know?” exclaimed Dalkeith. “I am sorry.”

After he had gone she sat there a long time, very white and still. She was remembering acutely the lines of that pleasant, charming face, the satirical yet boyish blue eye behind the eye-glass, his gay and witty remarks, his zest for dancing. Yet all the while he was weary of life! Death was at his elbow!

While she sat there meditating on the strangeness of men, and on the masks they year, concealing their true selves from the world, she saw an attendant approach the table where Mrs Cork was playing cards and hand her a telegram.

On reading it, Mrs Cork put down her cards and asked to be excused from the game. The words: “Bad News” were spoken in a calm voice, but as she passed, Loree saw that her face was of a deadly pallor, haggard and wintry, with sombre eyes. No more was seen of her that day or the next. The maids reported that her news seemed bad indeed and that she was prostrate, but no details transpired.

Loree longed miserably to go and condole, but dared not intrude upon one so bitterly offended with her. The next best thing seemed to be to try and explain and to ask for forgiveness. She spent the whole of an afternoon composing a penitent letter.

Dear Mrs Cork:—

I am so deeply sorry that you are offended with me. Please do not be. It was an impertinence on my part to put that note in your room, and I beg your pardon. But I did not do it out of any feeling except of pure friendliness and liking for you. Also, I had a reason for supposing that you were in need of money, and I thought it would be a nice way of spending the fifty pounds my husband had sent me for a birthday present by giving another woman a helping hand, just as I hope a woman would help me if ever I were in trouble.

Yours sincerely, Loraine Loree Temple.

She gave it to the maid for delivery and went down to dinner, though without the light heart a decent action should have ensured.

The fact that she had known the man who shot himself—danced, laughed, talked with him within half an hour of his desperate exit from the world obsessed her poignantly. She longed for something or some one to distract her from the sad memory, and with what relief did she find that Heseltine Quelch had returned, reappearing from nowhere as suddenly as he had gone. As she came down the stairs he, too, faultlessly groomed and debonair, crossed the hall. He was taking a pile of letters and telegrams from the hands of his man, but at sight of Loree he handed them back with the brief comment: “Put them in my room. I’ll go through them later,” and came straight to her, as the bee to the honey-flower. As for her, after two dull, lonely days, the fire was lit once more, and the warmed herself and smiled in the glow of it. A certain recklessness entered into her, and she let his eyes enfold and caress her without the rebuke a woman knows so well how to introduce into her manner. After all, she said to herself, if he was so determined to hurt himself, why should she worry for him? People who go looking for scalps must expect scars. If she felt herself in danger, she could draw back and escape, as she had done that other night. What could he do but acquiesce? She was not in his power in any way. She had never given him encouragement to make a fool of himself. If he now mistook her very natural pleasure at having boredom relieved for any warmer feeling on her part, well—tant pis for him! His blood was on his own head, and hers not the fault.

Thus she reasoned, justifying herself for once more plunging into the fascinating game, walking on the wild precipice, fluttering near the live wire on which some women might meet disaster but to which she intended to remain invulnerable. The cruelty which so often comes with consciousness of power stirred her. She knew now that, though she felt the charm of Quelch, it would give her pleasure to punish him through his passion for her. If she had seen that cold and resolute look on his face two evenings before, when he watched her tripping upstairs, she might not have been so sure of her power to punish.

They dined together. A gay and light-hearted pair of friends, so far as the world could see. Only they knew what secret currents were flashing and sparkling between them, fed by her alluring smiles and graces. After coffee, he suggested the garden. It was very lovely out there amid the trees and wet roses. Loree resisted a little, yet it seemed safe enough within sound, almost within sight of the verandah, where several people loitered, smoking and gossiping.

But she kept to the clear, open paths, and it seemed politic now to infuse into her manner a tinge of coldness. Instantly, that grim resolute expression passed over his face, but he said nothing, only bided his time, and when presently they came near a vine-laden pergola, he thrust an arm through hers and, with a suddenness that took her unawares, guided her into obscurity. Haughtily she disengaged herself, but, he remained facing her, standing between her and the hotel, and his words were arresting.

“You must stop fooling me, Loree. My love is too great to be blown hot upon one minute and cold the next.”

“I don’t think I understand—”

“Oh, beloved, you do! You know that I love you.” His voice was of a tenderness indescribable. It played across her taut nerves like the bow on a violin.

“You must—be mad!” she faltered.

He smiled.

“Yes; a divine madness. You are touched with it, too.”

“No! No!” she protested. He gave a short laugh and caught her in his arms, holding her close and kissing her rapidly and fiercely. She resisted, but he held her closer; she protested, but he drank the words off her lips. He swept her from her feet, holding her to his heart and taking his fill of her mouth, her eyes, her throat, her hair. It was as though a great wave of the sea had broken over her. She lost her voice, almost her senses, in the madness of the moment, but her heart knew fear and an agony of shame. At last he released her, and she leaned, like a flower broken in a storm, against the side of the pergola.

“How dare you! How dare you!” she breathed, white with anger.

“How dare I?” he said gently. “Oh, beloved one—lovely one—surely you have given the right!”

“Never! Never!” she denied passionately.

He made a gesture to her breast, where something sparkled and shone. In her struggle to loose herself from his arms, the chain of diamonds had torn its way through the filmy tissue of her gown.

“Why, then, do you wear my jewels, Loree?”

There was a long silence after that. He stood looking at her with pleading eyes. She was like something carved and riven out of pallid marble.

“Your jewels?” she whispered at last. “Your jewels?”

He shrugged a little. His eyes did not lose their tenderness, but his smile was a little disdainful of the flashing chain.

“They are unworthy of your beauty, but you have done me the great honour to wear them.”

Slowly her fingers felt for the stones and clasped them, her glance still in his.

“They are yours?” she murmured, still dazed and bewildered under the shock.

“No; yours, Loree, as all I have is yours. Only an earnest of things to come. You shall wreathe yourself in diamonds, the most beautiful the world has ever seen—as you yourself are and shall be the fairest jewel the world has ever seen, and mine.”

“Your words are madness!” she stammered. “How can I be yours? I am a married woman.”

“Oh, that!”—with a gesture and a scornful smile he brushed away marriage and every obstacle that stood between them.

“You are insane!” she insisted. “I never dreamed of such a thing. And how could I know that these were yours?” With a spurt of anger she added, “How dared you put them in my room?”

He only smiled tolerantly.

“You accepted them—and wore them.”

“But—I did not know they were yours.”

“Who then, loved one, did you think was showering almost priceless stones upon you?” he inquired with gentle irony.

“I—I don’t know. I never thought about it at all. I just found them there—and though—” She broke down. It was true, but it sounded too puerile and childish.

“You thought that findings were keepings?” He laughed. “So they are, darling, as far as you are concerned. And for me, too, I have found you, and,”—his voice changed from laughter and became strong and soft and fierce—“by God, I mean to keep you!” As suddenly as before, he caught her to his breast. “You are mine, Loree, and I will hold you against the world. You are something I have been looking for all my life. Your beauty makes me—your eyes—your hair—it is wound round my heart. Ah—you don’t know—women don’t know—”

He was incoherent in his fierce passion, and all the time he tore kisses from her lips, her hair. The fires she had played with and carelessly fed were loosed indeed, and raging to consume. Loraine Loree was getting all the thrills she had asked from life—and more! Powerless in his strong arms, hypnotised by the force of one who had always had his will of life, gone where he listed, taken what he wished, she knew now she could never save herself. There was no answering power in her to resist his. She was a frail branch in a whirlpool of strong currents, and the strength to survive was not in herself. She must be rescued. But who would rescue her? She was alone, alone—and lost! At last, the white, forlorn stillness of her quieted his fierce heart and he loosed her gently.

“Forgive me, darling! Forgive me! Your loveliness, the sweetness of you drives me beyond myself. When will you come to me?”

“Come to you?” She looked dazed and strange, clinging to the pergola, staring at him.

“Come with me. We will go away from here at once—to Europe—all over the world.”

“But I—” she began. He interrupted her gently.

“There is a mail for the Cape to-morrow night. I cannot wait a moment longer, Loree.”

“I will not come!” She drew herself up in a last effort at resistance.

“There must be no ‘will not.’” His eyes grew colder, his jaw resolute. He put out a light finger and touched the diamonds. “Don’t you understand that, by this chain, you have bound yourself to me? And do you think I will ever let you go? Never! I will pull down the temple of your reputation into the dust first, and perish myself in the ruins. Oh, darling, do not force me to say such things!”

“You could not touch my reputation,” she said, but her heart trembled.

“Would you wish it to be thought that you could be bought with diamonds, Loree? I understand; but would the world understand the love of beauty in you that made you take that rose diamond from the De Beers office?”

She gave a wild cry.

“I did not! I did not! Oh, you know I did not!”

He shrugged carelessly.

“At any rate, you acquired it, and kept it, and the De Beers people—well, they are not very understanding, either; but I have power—I explained, defended you, paid for the diamond and for silence.”

“My God! You think I stole it? They think so?” She swayed as if she had been struck, almost fainting from this worst blow of all.

“What does it matter what they think?” he said soothingly. “They will be silent because I will it. As for me, I love you, and nothing you do could make any difference.”

The girl stared before her, distraught, frantic.

“And the necklace?” she stammered.

“The necklace was different. That was my gift to you, and you have graced it by wearing it. I have traced its outline often round your lovely shoulders—and longed for the day when I could kiss it there.”

His eyes grew dark again with the great passion he felt for her. He put out his arms entreatingly. But she drew back, shuddering. Her lips were dumb; her hair was in turmoil; her heart seemed turned to ice, but her feet still knew their uses. She dashed past him and ran.

Even in her room, with the door locked and barricaded, she did not feel safe. Panting, she threw herself down and sobbed—dry sobs of fear and anger and despair. What had she done? Where would it end?

“Am I mad?” she whispered. “Have I been walking in madness all these days, believing myself happy with these accursed stones, betraying my husband’s love for me—his honour and upright name?”

She wept, she trembled; she cursed the day she had ever seen diamonds, and cast them from her on the floor. At last, she flung herself on her knees with the broken and bitter cry of a contrite heart.

“O God, help me!”

To her door came a soft knock. She raised her dreary, emotion-racked face and listened, trembling, for a while before she dared respond with an inquiry.

“Who is there?”

It was Valeria Cork’s voice that answered.

“May I come in for a moment?”

Loree’s first impulse was to deny her. All her inclinations were opposed to being seen in such a state of misery and disarray. Yet—had she not called on God for help? And was not here one stronger and abler than herself? Of instinct, she knew that Valeria Cork, for good or evil, had more force of will than she herself possessed. She opened the door.

Mrs Cork, with her ravaged face and burnt-out eyes, came in, carrying the note Loree had written that afternoon. “Will you tell me,” she said, in a cold, far-off voice in which there was no life, “what your reason was for supposing I stood in need of money?”

The whole thing seemed of small consequence to Loree now. Graver issues than another woman’s displeasure faced her.

“I saw you in the pawnshop, and I noticed afterwards that your pendant was gone,” she answered drearily. That was conclusive enough, and so was the flush that stained the older woman’s cheek.

“Oh!” she jerked out, and for a moment stood staring at the distraught face of the girl. “Then I have to thank you, Mrs Temple, and take back my words. I see now that it was not impertinence on your part, but a rare generosity. I am ashamed.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Loree. “Nothing matters.”

“What is wrong?” asked Valeria Cork dully, and sat down. She seemed unprepared for Loree’s action in flinging her arms round her and bursting into tears, but she remained stonily calm.

“Oh, I am in such trouble!” sobbed Loree. “Such terrible trouble!”

“Tell me about it.”

She did not comfortingly pat the girl in her arms, or kiss her, as most women would have done, either sincerely or insincerely. She simply sat there, holding her quietly, staring before her. On a table, the photograph of Pat Temple stared back with his large, frank gaze.

Loree did not tell the full tale, but only what seemed essential to make the other woman understand her distress and peril. She recounted her finding of the necklace and Quelch’s threats and bold wooing in the garden. But she did not begin at the beginning of the trouble, which was when the little pink god cast its spell over her. There seemed no sense in dragging forth that pagan idol from its grove wherein she had so abandonedly worshipped. In the end, she sat wiping her tear-distorted face and gazing hopelessly at the other’s grave eyes. Said Valeria Cork, at last:

“He has us both in his power.”

“You? What can he do to hurt you?”

“Much. I stole a rough diamond that day we went to the De Beers office. It was only by grace of him that I was not arrested.”

Loree shrank back, horrified.

“O God—how dreadful!”

“Dreadful, yes,” agreed Valeria tonelessly. “But you? Did you not steal, too?”

“I?”

Mrs Cork’s speech assumed its usual biting flavour.

“Did you know that the rose diamond you found on your table was not yours? Or did you suppose that an angel had come down from heaven to present you with it?”

“The rose diamond?” faltered Loree.

“Yes—your ‘pink topaz.’”

“How did you know?” whispered the girl, deeply shamed.

“I put it there, of course. It was the price Quelch demanded for saving me from arrest. You remember the incident at Alexandersfontein when he trod on your frock and you were obliged to go and mend it, leaving us together? That was the time he chose to blackmail me into being his tool. Both the rose diamond and the necklace were placed in your room by me.”

“Then it has all been a plan from the beginning!” cried Loree, in bitter indignation. “A plan to corrupt and ensnare me!”

“But you were so very willing to be corrupted and ensnared,” retorted Valeria Cork. “If you had been honest and come to me that night, as was evidently your first intention, we might have stood together and fought him. But you did not. And in the morning, when I came round, still wretchedly hoping for some way out for us both—you were there, happy and smiling, making a silk bag for your pink topaz!” The red blood of shame rushed through Loree Temple’s face, but the elder woman spared her nothing. “You lied to me and told me how old and ugly I looked. I must say your attitude did not invite sacrifice, and the burning of my own hands. I read you—empty, vain, faithless, utterly despicable.”

Loree was now white as death, but the other woman’s scorn brought a blaze to her eyes.

“It does not come too well from you—that indictment,” she retorted bitterly.

“Perhaps not. I am a thief, too. But I stole for a keener need, and a greater cause, if that can be any excuse for crime. I wanted money, not for myself but to ensure the continuation of my boy’s education. In a moment of terrible temptation to steal a stone and realise a few hundred pounds, I succumbed. Within a few moments I repented and would have put it back, but it was too late to do so without being observed, and my next idea, to return it anonymously, was thwarted by the fact that Quelch and the detectives had all seen. You, on the other hand, had time to think temptation over and reason with your own soul. And what was your pressing need that made you ready and willing to barter away the honour of a man like that,”—she pointed to the photograph on the table—“for—diamonds?”

That blanched Loraine Loree, and withered and crushed her.

“Oh, no—no!” she moaned brokenly. “Not Pat’s honour! Don’t think that! I love my husband with all my heart and soul. But I never gave a thought to what I was doing. From the moment I saw diamonds, they seemed to put a spell on me, something that blotted out my mind and conscience. I can’t explain to you—but now I see what I have done—destroyed his happiness, his pride in life—everything! O God, what shall I do?”

It was clear that at last she was at grips with something greater than self love and vanity, had forgotten, in the suffering she must inflict on her husband, the danger that menaced herself. Even Valeria Cork’s tormented soul, wrung dry by its own sorrow, felt compassion for the weeping, desolate girl, so young and so foolish.

“You must pick up the pieces and begin again,” she said sombrely, “and consider yourself lucky if you are able to. A second chance does not come to us all.”

“What second chance am I likely to have?” said Loree tragically. “None. He has me in a trap that I cannot escape from without shame.”

“I could help you if you were worth it,” said Mrs Cork cryptically.

The girl could only look at her with agonised eyes. She knew she had proved herself unworthy of help on this woman’s part, but she thought of Pat, and her glance was entreating.

“No woman has ever helped me,” stated Valeria Cork. “A woman stole my husband and destroyed my happiness. In all my goings up and down, and struggles to live uprightly, women have kicked me and wiped their boots on me.” What gleam of hope she had felt left Loree’s heart, but came back at Valeria’s next words: “That is no reason why I should be as base as they. And, at the last, you have shown me that a woman can be kind to another. I will tell you truthfully that your action in bringing that fifty pound note is the first disinterestedly generous thing a woman has ever done for me.”

Poor Loree’s face drooped in shame.

“It was not altogether disinterested,” she confessed. “I—I did think, as you divined, that it might also be a way of getting even with my conscience for keeping the diamonds—”

“Ah!”

“Still, I did want to give you a helping hand if you would let me. I liked you awfully, and was so dreadfully sorry—”

“So you said in your letter.”

“You can believe or not—I don’t care. What does anything matter if he does what he swears—that rather than let me go, he will bring my reputation to the dust? That means publishing to the world that I—Pat Temple’s wife—took the De Beers diamond!”

“But you did not.”

“Well, I kept it when I found it. That is as bad—and worse—as you have shown me.”

“Only that it didn’t happen to belong to De Beers,” said Valeria Cork. She picked it up from where it lay in its silk bag, discarded in company with the now despised and rejected necklace. “This diamond is an almost exact facsimile of the rose diamond you so much admired at De Beers’, but it happens to have come, years ago, from the Tintara mine and to be Heseltine Quelch’s own property. He took advantage of the likeness to make you believe that it was the De Beers stone you had, when it was simply his own that he wished you to keep.”

“Then—then,” cried Loree, “I am not a public criminal? De Beers cannot arrest me? No one but Heseltine Quelch can threaten me with disgrace?”

“No,” answered Valeria calmly; “it is rally I who can be arrested and disgraced, and I don’t suppose he will spare me when he finds you have slipped his clutches.”

Loree gave a long sigh.

“I cannot slip his clutches—at your expense,” she said at last.

“You have your husband to think of.”

The girl shook her head.

“You don’t know Pat. He would never let himself be saved anything at the expense of another, especially a woman.”

“He must never know that part of the story,” said Valeria firmly.

“But, Mrs Cork, I cannot! I feel it in my bones that Quelch will wreak vengeance on some one, and I cannot let you be sacrificed. You have got to think of yourself. Your boy, too—for whom—”

“For whom I stole,” supplemented Valeria. “Ah, my dear, you tell me to think of him! For the last two days I have thought of nothing else. He has lain in my arms, a little chubby baby once more, with his curly head against my breast.”

“He shall never be sacrificed!” cried Loree.

“He is sacrificed already,” said Valeria Cork softly, “by a more just fate than you or I control. He was drowned two days ago while trying to save the life of a friend.”

“O dear God!” whispered Loree pitifully. Now she knew the reason of the other’s sombre, tearless gaze. Nothing could ever hurt more deeply or comfort again that soul bereft.

“So you see,” said Valeria, voicing her thought, “nothing matters.”

She talked down Loree’s protests. She was bent on sacrifice as her just punishment. Almost it seemed as if she craved some other pain as anodyne for that which already ate like a rat at her heart. They talked into the small hours of the morning, formulating plans by which to defeat Quelch, who, they knew, would stick at nothing.

“He told me frankly,” said Valeria, “that there were only two things in the world he cared about—the future of his son and the possession of you. That was in the small hours after the ball when he had just paid down 50,000 pounds to keep scandal from touching you.”

“50,000 pounds! What can you mean?”

“Ah yes, I had forgotten for the moment. That was the price he paid Mrs Solano for the necklace. It was hers as she rightly claimed. As soon as she got it into her hands in Quelch’s sitting-room she was able to prove that to him.”

“Hers? But how then had he got it to give to me?”

“It is a complicated story, and full of dark by-ways. God knows what evil magic lies in diamonds that they can make people do such terrible things! It appears that Mrs Solano had given the chain into the care of her banker. She wanted him to sell it, but she set a very high price on it and he had never been able to find a purchaser. However, one day recently when Quelch was with him at the bank he produced it, and Quelch, with you in his mind, and recognising it as a most exquisite collection of stones, offered twenty-five thousand pounds for it. The Banker closed at once without disclosing to Quelch the name of the client for whom he was selling. And in fact he never disclosed the transaction to Mrs Solano herself. His bank was in deep waters and he used the money to tide over his own financial difficulties, no doubt intending and hoping to repay the money before she should find out about the sale of the chain. Unfortunately you wore it that night. She saw it and the moment she and Quelch were alone and compared notes they realised what had happened.”

At the words “financial difficulties” a dreadful suspicion that had been lurking in Loree Temple’s brain, found words.

“What was the Banker’s name?” she asked hoarsely, and even as she feared the answer was:

“Frederick Huffe.”

“O God!” with a moan the girl covered her eyes. “I felt sure it was. I had a horrible feeling that there was some connection between the diamonds and his death, for I remember that it was to speak to Mr Quelch that he was called away from dancing with me.”

“Yes, Quelch sent for him, and there in the sitting-room they questioned him point blank, and he calmly admitted what he had done and that he had used the money. Nothing more was said. Quelch had told me since that neither he nor Mrs Solano would have dreamed of prosecuting. They both liked the man too much and appreciated that his difficulties had not been his own but of the bank’s making. Probably Quelch would have helped him out. But poor Freddy Huffe’s pride was broken. He went straight from them into the garden and shot himself with a revolver he always carried.”

Loree shuddered.

“It was my fault,” she muttered. “His blood is on my head!”

“That is a morbid thought,” pronounced Valeria firmly, “and one you must not allow to stay in your mind. The fate of every man is bound about his neck. Frederick Huffe was fated to die by his own hand, and no action of yours could have prevented it.”

But Loree shook her head, and tears streamed down her face.

“How little I dreamed that it had anything to do with me when I read it in the papers next day!—and how heartlessly I passed it over. All that moved me was thankfulness that no journalist had mentioned anything about my diamonds. I thought at the time that it was accident, but now I suppose that too can be traced back to Heseltine Quelch’s power?”

“Yes. He has power in this place. I think there can be no doubt that he used it to prevent the journalists from saying anything about the chain you were wearing.”

“And what about Mrs Solano? How did he account to her for giving me the jewels? Oh! what can she think of me?”

“You need not worry about that. Mrs Solano is under many obligations to Heseltine Quelch, I believe, but he did not follow that line. He told her the whole story and threw himself on her mercy. She is a strange woman and in some ways a very fine one. She understood both Quelch’s passion for you, and your passion for the gems, and she consented to sell the chain to him and to keep her lips sealed forever. He at once wrote her out a cheque for 50,000 pounds—double what she had asked. They can do big things these Jews, as well as small ones.”

“But she makes another who knows!”

“I tell you Rachel Solano is a great woman, for all her sins. You need never fear her.”

“I fear him,” cried the desolate, shivering girl. “I shall never be able to escape him. Every one in this hotel is his tool.”

“They must be deceived as well as he. Listen: start packing in the morning, saying to the servants that you are leaving for England. The news will soon reach him.”

“But he expects me to go with him to-morrow night.”

“You must delay that. Write him a note saying that you are ill and can’t be ready until the night after.”

“And then.”

“In reality, you will slip away to-morrow night by the mail-train for Rhodesia.”

“Rhodesia?” said Loree faintly.

“Yes—to your husband. And never leave him again. Women like you are not safe away from their rightful owners. Beauty is not such a boon as plain women suppose.”

There was pity as well as a certain amount of scorn in Valeria Cork’s voice, but Loree was in no mood to resent either.

“How can I ever explain to him—turning up suddenly like that?” she murmured.

“That is your affair,” said Valeria. “Mine is to get you away. So to bed now, and rest as much as you can. You will need all your wits and nerves. Good-night.”

She rose, and they stood looking at each other for an instant.

“I don’t suppose you would care to shake hands with a woman like me,” said Mrs Cork slowly. Her mournful eyes had something shamed and beaten in their depths, something of the longing of a punished child for a kind word. Loree suddenly flung her arms about her and held her close, and then, at last, the other woman’s agonised heart found relief in the tears that had been denied her since she received the news of her loss. Amidst her bitter weeping, broken incoherent phrases came gasping from her lips.

“He was so beautiful, so gay! I wanted only to be good for his dear sake. It was enough—just to be his mother. But when I suddenly lost all my little fortune in a mining smash, there seemed no way to get money to keep him among the right people. He was so brilliant—I dreamed of his being one of the great men of England, some day. I thought, ‘What does my poor soul matter so long as he rises from the ruins of it?’ I would have lied, stolen, murdered, done anything, so that all might have been well with him—and see how the God of Equity intervenes! He knew that no man could ever be great who had a shameful mother—and He had pity on my son. Oh, Loree, Loree—if ever you have a son, starve with him in a garret, scratch with him in the gutter, but never imperil for him your immortal soul. ‘What you give of gold and silver stands nothing; only as much as you have of soul avails.’ Some great man said that, and it is true. Only what you give of the soul avails.”

In the morning, to a wretched Loree, weary-eyed from haunted dreams, came a letter from Quelch. It was restrained and tender, almost gentle, but it sounded the note of one who held the winning cards. Below the bold signature was appended the hour of the mail-train’s departure, and an added word like a cry:

“I have received a blow that only you can comfort me for, my beautiful Loraine Loree.”

She shivered, then burned. The thought that she must carry the memory of his illicit caresses all her life made her sick. Frantically she began to pack, then, remembering Valeria’s instructions, went to bed again. It was a dreadful day of pretence and subterfuge and lying. It seemed to her that she could never again erase from her soul the black marks of all the lies she told that day, that they would tarnish for ever all her future life with Pat. But then, had she not tarnished it already by her own wicked folly?

Under the counsels of Valeria Cork, a subtly evasive answer was written to Quelch’s letter. It told that she was too ill to leave her room that day, and gave no bond to be at the station on the next; it sent no word of love, and was a document that all the world might have read, yet a premise, elusive and fragile as the scent of spring, haunted the simple lines. Valeria’s lips were grim as she invented each delicate phrase.

“Skilled weapons against an unscrupulous fighter,” she contended. “When you are safely gone, he shall know who composed the letter. It is one of his punishments for what he has done to you—and me.”

She moved sombrely about the room, like one walking behind the bier of her dead. Nothing seemed alive in her except her smouldering eyes. At lunch-time, she went down stairs and sat before food she could not eat for the sake of spying out the land of the enemy. But he did not appear. There was nothing to report to Loree except that it was known in the hotel that his going to the Cape had been postponed until the following evening. Afterwards, she wrote a note to him and left it at the office. The office-girl mentioned to her that Mr Quelch was looking terribly ill, and she wondered what the bad news could be he had mentioned to Loree; but she was not a woman to waste time on idle curiosity. Having gone through Loree Temple’s trunks that morning, she had selected therefrom a pair of tan-cloth riding-breeches, a long habit-coat, and top-boots. All the rest of the lovely Viola clothes were stored away in the trunks labelled loudly for Cape Town—except one simple frock and such feminine necessities as would fill a small suitcase. Now she sallied forth to do some shopping, taking the suitcase with her.

“To get it mended,” she told the hall porter, and placed it herself in the taxi. But its true destination was the station cloakroom.

Returning at tea-time, she brought with her a first-class ticket to Mafeking, and another from Mafeking to Buluwayo, a strong rope, a second-hand tweed ulster suitable for a slender youth of medium height, and a slouch hat. These last, with the breeches and top-boots, were to constitute Loree’s travelling-kit.

They “dressed the part” and gravely rehearsed it. Mrs Temple’s mirror, that had once given back lovely visions in diaphanous draperies and sparkling jewels, now reflected something uncommonly like a seedy youth of the type that relations get rid of to South Africa and hope they’ll never see again. What could be seen of the face beneath the slouch hat was not prepossessing when Valeria had finished with it. The complexion was sallow and distinctly spotty, the eyes slightly inflamed. A darkness on the upper lip might have been the promise of a moustache or merely dirt. What the hand of Mrs Cork found to do, she did well.

Loree gazed with disgust at the odious person in the glass. It seemed impossible she could ever be herself again. But Valeria coached her in the art of getting rid of facial disguise in ten minutes. That was the secret contained in the two railway tickets. The lightning change had to occur in a lavatory dressing-room sometime in the early morning before the train reached Mafeking. During the short wait at the famous little Bechuanaland town, no one was likely to note the disappearance of a bleary-eyed youth or connect it with the advent of a veiled lady who would continue the journey to Buluwayo as Mrs Temple.

Getting away from the hotel without being seen and reported to Quelch was a more difficult matter, but Valeria had laid careful plans. It would be dusk—the hour when people were dressing for dinner. No one would be likely to be near the corner of the balcony opposite Valeria’s room or in the obscure fernery on the stoop below. The corner had a strong post to the ground, against which Loree could support herself when being let down. That was what the rope was for.

“And if you meet any one who wants to know your business, give them this note for me, and then make tracks,” said Valeria. “You will easily get a cab to the station.”

She had thought of everything. Her only regret was that she could not be at the station, too. But it had seemed wiser to make an appointment with Quelch for that hour. To that end, she had written the note at midday, underlining the words: “particularly personal matter.” She desired that he would realise the matter to be connected with Loree Temple, and, even as she anticipated, a prompt reply came, and hoped she would “honour him by an interview in his private sitting-room” at the hour she mentioned, if such an arrangement suited her. She grimaced at the courteous words which seemed to her unnecessary irony, but the plan indeed suited her—perfectly.

At the hour in which she knocked upon Heseltine Quelch’s door the work was done. She had kissed Loraine Loree upon her darkened lips and bade her Godspeed, had launched her from the balcony, and seen the boyish silhouette disappear through the garden. Even as she listened for an answer from the room within, she heard the harsh scream and “chug-chug” of a departing train, and knew that, if all was well, Mrs Temple was passing out of Kimberley and out of her life for ever.

Quelch was sitting at a table, holding his hands before him as though clutching something. But the moment she entered, he rose abruptly and came towards her with a sort of violence. She saw that his hands were empty, and thought, by his strange face, that he meant to kill her. Brave as she was, she recoiled from him. That pulled him up sharp. He stood stammering, almost gibbering incoherent words at her. She was certain now that he knew. There was something horribly moving in the desolation of his eyes. It was the expression of a fierce creature of the wilds wounded to the death. She noticed suddenly that he was no longer young. His shoulders stooped; there was silver in his hair.

“Did he care so much?” she thought amazed, and almost her heart felt pity for him. She knew what it was to love and be robbed. In a moment, he succeeded in getting control of himself and spoke clearly. Then she realised that though he was no longer incoherent, she did not understand him. What he said was:

“It is no wonder you recoil from me—hate me. I can only say to you that I grieve for you with all that is left of my heart—and—I thank you.”

She stared at him. They stood looking at each other—two people scarred and marred by the passionate lawlessness of their own natures—in her eyes amazement, in his that devastating mournfulness. What was he speaking of? He seemed to know of her sorrow, to share it.

“A son,” he said softly, “to lose one’s son! The being one wound one’s dreams about—who was to be so infinitely greater than oneself—to compensate with the shining splendour of his soul for all the darkness of one’s own.” Valeria gloomed at him with bitter eyes. How did he know so well wherewith to mock her, this strange Eastern man with his gentle, un-English voice? “You should not hate me. It is unworthy of the mother of a son who gave his life for a friend.”

While she stood considering him—how un-English he was to have tears running down his cheeks like that; that he must be a Jew (as she had often supposed) to be so emotional, so unreserved, so piercingly sapient—the truth came to her like an arrow. It was his son that hers had died to save and died for in vain! They were both sonless!

Nothing but the bare news of her loss had come to her, no names but that of her son. Quelch with his wealth had commanded every detail of the tragedy, and been receiving news down to that very hour. The table was littered with cablegrams.

She stood very still and white and weary until he had finished telling her all, thanking her for the nobleness of her son’s effort, assuring her that if in all the wide world there was anything that could represent his gratitude, any act of his that would help to ease her wound, she had only to speak. Then from her pocket she produced a little parcel of sparkling stones wrapped in a silken handkerchief and laid it on the table.

“A little foolish girl returns you these,” she said, and her voice, too, had grown very gentle. “She left to-night to join her husband. This you can do for me: Forget her, and let her forget you.”

The End.

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Chapter 1

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Chapter 2

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Chapter 3

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