William Le Queux (continued 4)

Before the private door a couple of over-dressed young men lounged, smoking cheap cigars, and within a watchman sat in a small box, like the stage-door keeper of a theatre.

Muriel and her lean cavalier paused for a moment, then they shook hands, and with a final word parted; he turned back City-wards, and she entered the door, receiving a rough, familiar greeting from the two caddish young assistants, who were not sufficiently polite to raise their hats to her.

I stood watching the man’s disappearing figure, and hesitated. But even as I waited there I saw him emerge into the road and enter a passing tram. The reason I did not follow him was because I was too confounded in my feelings. Muriel was my chief thought. I hated this man, and entertained no desire to seek further who or what he was. I knew him to be an associate of Aline. That was sufficient.

I noted the shop well, and the door at which my love had entered, then seeing that it was already ten o’clock, the hour when female shop-assistants are expected to be in, I turned reluctantly and took a cab back to my chambers.

At six o’clock next evening, I entered the establishment on a small pretext, and ascertained from one of the employés that they closed at seven. Therefore I smoked a cigar in the crowded saloon of the Nag’s Head until that hour, when, together with a number of other loungers, I waited at the door from which the slaves of the counters and the workrooms, male and female, soon began to emerge, eager to breathe the fresh air after the weary hours in the stifling atmosphere, heavy with that peculiar odour of humanity and “goods” that ever pervades the cheap drapers’.

After waiting nearly half an hour Muriel at last came forth, dressed neatly in cotton blouse and dark skirt, with a large black hat. She went to the kerb, glanced up and down the broad thoroughfare, as if looking for an omnibus or tram, then, there being none in sight, she commenced to walk along the Holloway Road in the direction of the City.

For some distance I followed, then with beating heart I overtook her, and, raiding my hat, addressed her.

“You!” she gasped, halting suddenly, and looking into my face with terror.

“Yes, Muriel!” I answered gravely. “At last I have found you, though I have striven in vain all these months.”

An expression of annoyance crossed her features, but next second a forced laugh escaped her.

“Why did you leave Madame’s in the manner you did, without saying anything to me?” I inquired, as I walked on at her side.

“I did not leave of my own accord,” she replied. “I was discharged because you kept me late, and I broke the rules.”

“But you did not send me your address,” I exclaimed reproachfully.

“I had no object in doing so,” she responded, in a wearied voice, as if the effort of speaking were too much for her.

“You acted cruelly—very cruelly,” I said.

“No, I scarcely think that,” she protested. “I told you quite plainly that we could be but mere acquaintances in future.”

“But I cannot understand you,” I cried, dismayed. “What have I done to deserve your contempt, Muriel?”

“Nothing,” she responded coldly. “I do not hold you in contempt.”

“But you love another!” I cried quickly, recollecting her companion of the previous night.

“And if I do,” she answered, “it is only my own concern, I suppose.”

“No!” I cried fiercely. “It is mine, for I alone love you truly and honestly. This man you love is a knave—a scoundrel—a—”

“How do you know him?” she interrupted, regarding me in wonder. “Have you seen us together?”

“Yes,” I replied, bitterly. “Last night I saw you with him. How long will you scorn my affection and trample my love beneath your feet? Think, Muriel!” I implored; “think how dearly I love you. Tell me that this shall not continue always.”

“I am perfectly happy,” she answered, in a mechanical tone, not, however, without noticing my hesitation. “I have no desire to change.”

“Happy!” I repeated blankly. “Are you then happy in that low-class drapery place, where you are compelled to dance attendance on the wives of city clerks, and are treated with contempt by them because they think it a sign of good breeding to show capriciousness, and give you all the unnecessary trouble possible? In their eyes—in the eyes of those around you—you are only a ‘shop-girl,’ but in mine, Muriel,” I added, bending nearer her in deep earnestness, “you are a queen—a woman fitted to be my wife. Can you never love me? Will you never love me?”

“It is impossible!” she answered in faltering tones, walking slower as though she would return to escape me.

“Why impossible?”

“I am entirely happy as I am,” she responded.

“Because this man with whom I saw you last night has declared his love for you,” I cried fiercely. “You believe him, and thus cast me aside.”

She drew a long breath, and her dark eyes were downcast.

“What has caused you to turn from me like this?” I demanded. “Through the years we have been acquainted, Muriel, I have admired you; I have watched your growth from an awkward schoolgirl into a graceful and beautiful woman; I alone know how you have suffered, and how bravely you have borne the buffets of adversity. I have therefore a right to love you, Muriel—a right to regard you as my own.”

“No,” she answered hoarsely, “you have no right. I am alone mistress of my own actions.”

“Then you don’t love me?” I exclaimed despairingly.

She shook her head, and her breast slowly heaved and fell. The foot-passengers hurrying past little dreamed that in that busy road I was making a declaration of my love.

“You have cast me aside merely because of this man!” I went on, a fierce anger of jealousy rising within me. “To love and to cherish you, to make you my wife and give you what comfort in life I can, is my sole object. I think of nothing else, dream of nothing else. You are my very life, Muriel,” I said, bending again until my words fell in a whisper in her ear.

But she started back quickly as if my utterances had stung her, and panting said—

“Why do you still persist in speaking like this when I have already given you my answer? I cannot love you.”

“Cannot!” I echoed blankly, all my hopes in an instant crushed. Then, determinedly, I added: “No, you shall not thrust me aside in this manner. The man who declares his love for you shall not snatch you thus from me!”

“But cannot you see that it is because of our long friendship I am determined not to deceive you. You have asked me a question, and I have given you a plain, straightforward answer.”

“You are enamoured of this cunning, lank-haired individual around whom centres a mystery as great as that which envelops Aline Cloud,” I said.

Her lips compressed, and I saw that mention of Aline’s name caused her uneasiness, as it had before done. There were many people passing and repassing, therefore in that broad artery of London’s ceaseless traffic our conversation was as private as though it had taken place in the silence of my own room.

“Does the mystery surrounding that woman still puzzle you?” she inquired, with a calmness which I knew was feigned. Her fond eyes, which once had shone upon me with their love-light, were cold and contemptuous.

“Puzzle me?” I repeated. “It has almost driven me to distraction. I verily believe she possesses the power of Satan himself.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “If the truth is ever known regarding her I anticipate a strange and startling revelation.”

“Ah!” I exclaimed instantly. “You know more than you will tell. Why do you seek always to conceal the truth?”

“I know nothing,” she protested. “Aline is your friend. Surely you may ascertain the truth from her?”

“But this lover of yours—this man who now occupies the place in your heart which I once hoped to occupy—who is he?”

She hesitated, and I saw that she intended still to fence with me. Of late all her woman’s wit seemed to concentrate in the ingenious evasions of my questions in order to render my cross-examination fruitless.

“He is my lover, that is all.”

“But what is he?” I asked.

“I have never inquired,” she responded with affected carelessness.

“And you have actually accepted a strange man as your lover without first ascertaining who or what he is?” I said in amazement. “This is not like you, Muriel. You used to be so prudent when at Madame’s that some of the girls laughed at you and called you prudish. Yet now you simply fling yourself helplessly in the arms of this rather odd-looking man without seeking to inquire anything about him.”

“I know sufficient to be confident in him,” she responded, with a girlish enthusiasm which at the moment struck me as silly.

“If you are confident in him it is quite plain that he reposes no confidence in you,” I argued.

“Why?”

“Because he has told you nothing of himself.”

“It matters not,” she responded in enraptured voice. “Our love is itself a mutual confidence.”

“And you are perfectly happy in this new situation of yours?”

“No,” she answered, vainly endeavouring to restrain a sigh. “Not perfectly. I’m in the ribbon department, and the work is much harder and the hours longer than at Madame’s. Besides, the rules are terribly strict; there are fines for everything, and scarcely any premiums. The shop-walkers are perfect tyrants over the girls, and the food is always the same—never a change.”

“Yet you told me a short time ago that you were quite contented?” I said reproachfully.

“Well, so I am. There are many worse places in London, where the hours are even longer, and the girls have no place but their bedrooms in which to sit after business hours. The firm provides us with a comfortable room, I must admit, even if they only half feed us.”

Long ago, in the early days of our friendship, when she used to sit and chat with me over tea in my chambers, she had explained how unvaried food was one of the chief causes of complaint among shop-assistants.

“But I can’t bear to think that you are in such a place as that,” I said. “Madame’s was so much more genteel.”

“Oh, don’t think of me!” she responded with a brightness which I knew she did not really feel at heart.

“But I do,” I said earnestly. “I do, Muriel; because I love you. Tell me now,” I added, taking her arm. “Tell me why you have turned from me.”

She was silent a moment, then in a faltering voice, replied—

“Because—because it was imperative. Because I knew that I did not love you.”

“But will you never do so?” I asked in desperation. “Will you never give me hope? I am content to wait, only tell me that you will still remember me, and try to think of me with thoughts of love.”

“To entertain vain hope is altogether useless,” she answered philosophically.

“Then you actually love this man?” I inquired bitterly. “You have allowed him to worm himself into your heart by soft glances and softer speeches; to absorb your thoughts and to kiss your lips, without troubling to inquire if he is worthy of you, or if he is honest, manly, and upright? Why have you thus abandoned prudence?”

“I have not abandoned prudence,” she answered, a trifle indignantly, at the same time extricating her arm from mine. “I should certainly do so were I to consent to become yours.”

I started at the firmness of this response, looking at her in dismay.

She spoke as though she feared me!

“Then you have no trust in me?” I exclaimed despairingly. “For one simple little piece of negligence you have utterly abandoned me!”

“No!” she replied, in a voice low but firm. “You have spoken the truth. I cannot trust you, neither can I love you. Therefore let us part, and let us in future remain asunder.”

“Ah, no!” I cried, imploringly. “Don’t utter those cruel words, Muriel. You cannot really mean them. You know how fondly I love you.”

We had arrived outside Highbury Station; and as I uttered these words she halted, and without response, held out her hand, saying in a cold tone—

“You must leave me now. I ask this favour of you.”

“I cannot leave you,” I panted in the wild desire which possessed me. “You must be mine, Muriel. Do not let this man draw you beneath his influence by his smooth words and studied politeness, for recollect who he is. You are aware—therefore I need not tell you.”

“Who he is? What do you mean?”

“I mean that he is in no way fit to be your lover,” I responded, my lover’s flame of passion unallayed. “When you meet him, test him and watch if he really loves you. Recollect that your beauty, Muriel, is striking; and that personal beauty is often woman’s deadliest enemy. I have, as you know, always sought to protect you from men who have flattered you merely because you possessed a pretty face. I loved you then, darling—I love you now!”

A sigh escaped her, but without a word she turned and left me ere I could prevent her, and even as I stood I saw her walk straight across to the station entrance, where she joined the lean, shabby man who had been awaiting her to keep an appointment.

Her eyes, quickened by love, had detected him ere he had noticed her, for he gave no glance in my direction, but lifting his shabby silk hat he grasped her hand, then walked on by her side, while I stood lonely and desolate, watching him disappear in the darkness with the woman I so fondly loved.

I, faint soul, had given myself helplessly into the evil hands of Aline for no purpose. All was in vain. I had been brought near to hope’s fruition, but Muriel had forsaken me. She had told me plainly that in her heart no spark of affection remained.

I stood crushed—hopeless—the past an inexplicable mystery, the future a grey, barren sea of despair.

Chapter Eighteen.

The Chalice.

Early in September my chambers were insufferably hot and dusty. In the road below the eternal turmoil was increased every hour, as the presses of the Pall Mall Gazette turned out their various editions, which were loaded into the carts by an army of shouting men and boys. The club was deserted; most men I knew were out of town, and I felt utterly lonely and miserable.

A fortnight before I had received a letter from Jack Yelverton, saying that he had resigned the curacy of Duddington, and was about to return at once to St. Peter’s, Walworth, he having been appointed vicar of the parish. I replied congratulating him, and expressing a hope that he would call as soon as he returned to town. But I had seen nothing of him. Had the offer of a good living proved too tempting to him, I wondered; or had he resolved to abandon the curious theory he held regarding marriage? I was intensely anxious to ascertain the truth.

Since that afternoon when I had met Aline at Ludgate Circus and been induced to relinquish myself into her hands, I had seen nothing of her. She had refused me her address, and had not called. Yet, strange to relate, I had experienced some delusions unaccountable, for once or twice there seemed conjured in my vision vague scenes of terror and hideousness which held me in a kind of indefinite fear which was utterly indescribable. To attribute these experiences to Aline’s influence was, of course, impossible. Yet the strangest fact was that in such moments there invariably arose, side by side with the woman I loved, the countenance of the woman of mystery distorted by hate until its hideousness appalled me.

I attributed these experiences to the disordered state of my mind and the constant tension consequent upon Muriel’s waywardness; nevertheless, so remarkable were the powers possessed by Aline that I admit wondering whether the distressing visions which arose before me so vividly as to become almost hallucinations were actually due to the influence she possessed over me.

I am no believer in the so-called mesmeric power, in hypnotism, or any of the quack influences by which charlatans seek to impose upon the public, therefore I philosophically attributed the visions to severe mental strain; for I had read somewhere that such hallucinations were very often precursory of madness.

Fully a month passed, from the night when I had vainly implored Muriel to give me hope, until late one afternoon Simes ushered in Aline.

So changed was she that I rose and regarded her with speechless astonishment. Her face was thin and drawn, her cheeks hollow, her eyebrows twitching and nervous, while her clear, blue eyes themselves seemed to have lost all the brightness and cheerful light which had given such animation to her face. She was dressed in deep black, and wore no jewellery except a golden bracelet shaped as a snake, the sombreness of her costume heightening the deathlike refinement and pallor of her countenance.

As she stepped across to me quickly, and held out her gloved hand, I exclaimed concernedly—

“Why, what has occurred?”

“I have been ill,” she answered vaguely, and she sank into a chair and placed her hand to her heart, panting for the exertion of walking had been too great for her.

“I’m exceedingly sorry,” I replied. “I’ve been expecting you for several weeks. Why did you not leave your address with me last time?”

“A letter would not have found me,” she answered. “When I pass from sight of my friends I pass beyond reach of their messages.”

I drew forth a footstool for her, and noting how wild and strange was her manner, seated myself near her. The thought that she was insane came upon me, but I set aside such an idea as ridiculous. She was as sane as myself. There was nevertheless in her appearance an indescribable mysteriousness. She bore no resemblance to any other woman, so frail were her limbs, so thin and fine her features, so graceful all her movements. No illness could have imparted to her face that curious Sphinx-like look which it assumed when her countenance was not relaxed in conversing with me.

And her eyes. They were not the eyes of a person suffering from insanity. They possessed a bewitching fascination which was not human. Nay, it was Satanic.

I shuddered, as I always did when she were present. The touch of that slim hand covered by its neat, black glove was fatal. This visitor of mine was the Daughter of Evil; the woman of whom Muriel’s lover had said, that the people of London would, if they knew the mysterious truth, rend her limb from limb!

She put up her flimsy veil and raised a tiny lace handkerchief to her face. From it was diffused a perfume of lilies—those flowers the odour of which is so essentially the scent of the death-chamber.

“Well?” she asked at last, in that curious, far-distant voice, which sounded so musical, yet so unusual. “And your love? Did you discover her, as I had said?”

“I did,” I answered in sorrow. “But it is useless. Another has snatched her from me.”

She knit her brows, regarding me with quick, genuine astonishment.

“Has she forgotten you?”

“Yes,” I answered in despair. “My dream of felicity is over. She has cast me aside in favour of one who cannot love her as I have done.”

“But she loves you!” my monitress exclaimed.

“All that is of the past,” I replied. “She is now infatuated with this man who has recently come into her life. In this world of London she, calm, patient, trusting in the religious truth taught at her mother’s knee, was as my beacon, guiding me upon the upward path which, alas! is so very hard to keep aright. But all is over, and,” I added with a sigh, “the sun of my happiness has gone down ere I have reached the meridian of life.”

“But what have you done to cause her to doubt you?” she asked in a voice more kindly than ever before.

“Nothing! Absolutely nothing!” I declared. “We have been friends through years, and knowing how pure, how honest, how upright she is, I am ready at this moment to make her my wife.”

“Remember,” she said, warningly, “you have position, while she is a mere shop-assistant, to whom your friends would probably take exception.”

“It matters not,” I exclaimed vehemently. “I love her. Is not that quite sufficient?”

“Quite!” she said. Then a silence fell between us.

Suddenly she looked up and inquired whether I knew this man who was now her lover.

“Only by sight,” I answered. “I have no faith in him.”

“Why?” she inquired eagerly.

“Because his face shows him to be cold and crafty, designing and relentless,” I answered, recollecting how this woman now before me had once walked with him in the Park, and the curious influence he had apparently held over her.

She smiled bitterly, and her eyes for a moment flashed. I saw in them a glance of hatred.

“And you still love Muriel?” she inquired quite calmly, repressing in an instant the secret thoughts which were within her, whatever they might have been.

“I still love her,” I admitted. “She is my life, my soul.”

She hesitated, undecided whether to proceed. She was wavering. At length, with sudden resolve, she asked—

“And you still have confidence in me?”

“In what way?” I inquired, rather surprised.

“That I possess a power unknown to others,” she answered, bending to me and speaking in a hoarse half-whisper. “That the power of evil is irresistible!”

“Certainly!” I answered, glaring at her, so strangely transformed her face appeared. That glitter of hate was again in her eyes, which had fixed themselves upon me, causing me to quiver beneath their deadly gaze.

“You believe what I have already confessed to you, here, in this room?” she went on. “You believe that I can work evil at will—an evil which is overwhelming?”

“Already I have had optical illustration of your extraordinary powers,” I answered, dumbfounded, drawing back with a feeling something akin to terror. “No doubt whatever remains now in my mind. I believe, Aline, that within your human shape there dwells the Spirit of Evil, its hideousness hidden from the world beneath the beauty of your form and face.”

“Then if you thus believe in me,” she murmured, in a soft, crooning voice, as one speaking to a wayward child; “if you thus place your trust implicitly in me, I will give you further proof of my power, I will fulfil the compact made between us. Muriel shall love you?”

“And you will use your influence to secure my happiness?” I cried, jumping up enthusiastically.

“I will cause her to return to you,” the strange woman answered. “The affection she entertains for this man shall wane and fade ere another day has passed. At my will she will hate him, and again love you.”

“Truly, I believe your power to be irresistible,” I observed with bowed head.

It was on my tongue to confess how I had watched her walking on that night in Hyde Park with the man whom Muriel loved, but fearing she might be wrathful that I had acted as eavesdropper, I held my secret.

She smiled with an air of gratification at my words.

“Keep faith with me,” she answered, “and you shall ere long be afforded illustration of a volition which will amaze you. The Empire of Evil is great, and its ruler is absolute.”

If she could direct the destinies of Muriel at will, compel her to abandon this man with whom she was infatuated, and cause her to return to me repentant, then that, indeed, would be proof conclusive that she were something more than human. I had implored of Muriel to give me hope, and had used upon her all the persuasive power at my command to induce her to think more kindly of me, yet without avail. An influence which would cause her to return to my side must be irresistible, and therefore an exercise of the all-ruling power of evil.

“And when may I expect her to relinquish this man?” I inquired eagerly.

She rose slowly, a strange, rather tragic-looking figure, so slim, pale-faced and fragile that she seemed almost as one from whom the flush of life had faded. Her brows contracted, her thin lips twitched, and the magnificent marquise ring of turquoises and diamonds upon her ungloved hand seemed to glitter with an iridescence that was dazzling.

She raised her hand with an imperious gesture, describing a semicircle, while I stood aghast watching her.

“I have commanded!” she said a moment later, in that curious far-off tone. “At this instant the change is effected. She no longer loves that man who came between you!”

“And she loves me?” I cried, incredible that she could at will effect such changes in the affections of any person. Truly her power was demoniacal.

“Yes,” she answered. “She will be penitent.”

“And she will come to me?”

“Wait in patience,” the mysterious woman answered. “You must allow time for the thoughts of regret now arising within her to mature. When they have done so, then will she seek your forgiveness.”

“Why have you done me this service, Aline?” I asked, utterly mystified. “It is a service which I can never repay.”

“We are friends,” she responded simply. “Not enemies.”

Then for the first time the terrible thought flashed upon me that by making the agreement I had made with her I might be aiding the murderer of poor Roddy to escape. She had set a seal upon my lips.

Next day was Sunday, and as Jack Yelverton had not called upon me, and I did not know his address, I suddenly, early in the evening, resolved to go down to Walworth and see whether I could find him.

Having no idea where the church of St. Peter was situated, I took a cab through Newington to a point halfway along the Walworth Road, that great artery of Transpontine London, and there alighted. Some of those who read these lines may know that road, one of the busiest in the whole metropolis. Even on a Sunday evening, when the shops are closed, the traffic in that broad thoroughfare never ceases. From the overcrowded districts of Peckham and Camberwell, districts which within my own memory were semi-rural, this road is the main highway to the City, and while on week-days it is crowded with those hurrying thousands of daily workers who earn their bread beyond the river, on Sunday evenings those same workers take out their wives and families for a breath of air on Camberwell Green, Peckham Eye, or some other of those open spaces which have aptly been termed “the lungs of London.” Only the worker knows the felicity of the Sunday rest. People of means and leisure may talk of the pleasure and brightness of the Continental Sunday, but for the worker in the great city it would be a sad day indeed if the present custom were altered. It is now a day of rest; and assuredly rest and relaxation are required in the ceaseless, frantic hurry of the life of London’s toilers. The opening of places of amusement would be but the thin end of the wedge. It would be followed, as in France and Italy, by the opening of shops until noon, and later, most probably, by the half-day working of factories.

The leisure of the English Sunday was well illustrated in the Walworth Road, that centre of lower and middle-class life, on that evening, as I walked alone until, by direction, I entered a narrow, rather uninviting-looking turning, and proceeding some distance came to a large, old-fashioned church with pointed spire, surrounded by a spacious, disused burying-ground, where the gravestones were blackening. The bell, of peculiarly doleful tone, was quite in keeping with the character of the neighbourhood, for the houses in the vicinity were mostly one-storied, dingy abodes, little more than cottages, let out in floors, many of their inhabitants being costermongers and factory hands. The old church, cracked and smoke-blackened, was a substantial and imposing relic of bygone times. Once, as was shown by the blackened, rain-stained tombstones in God’s-acre, the residents in that parish were well-to-do citizens, who had their rural residences in that quarter; but during the past half-century or so a poor, squalid parish had sprung up in the market gardens which surrounded it, one of those gloomy, miserable, mean, and dreary districts wherein life seems so full of sadness, and disease stalks hand-in-hand with direst poverty.

I was shown by the verger to a pew well in front, and found that the congregation was by no means a small one, comprising many who appeared to be tradespeople from the Walworth Road. Yet there was about the place a damp, mouldy smell, which rendered it a very depressing place of worship.

As I had hoped, my friend, Yelverton, conducted the service, and afterwards preached a striking sermon upon “Brotherliness,” a discourse so brilliant that he held his not too educated congregation breathless in attention.

At length, when the Benediction had been pronounced, and the congregation rose to leave, I made my way into the vestry, where I found him taking off his surplice.

“Hulloa, Clifton!” he cried, welcoming me warmly, “so you’ve found me out, eh?”

“Yes,” I answered. “Why haven’t you called, as you promised?”

I simply uttered the first words that arose to my lips, for truth to tell, I had a moment before made a surprising and unexpected discovery. As I had risen from my seat I saw behind me a tall, thin lady in deep mourning, wearing a veil.

I could not see the face, but by her figure and her gait as she turned to make her way out I recognised her.

It was Aline Cloud. She had come there to listen to the preaching of the man she loved. Once again, then, had she come into the life of this man who had fled from her as from a temptress.

The verger went back into the church, and my friend pushed to the door in order that whoever remained should not witness us, then answered—

“I’ve been busy—terribly busy, my dear fellow. Forgive me.”

“Of course,” I answered. “But it was a surprise to me to hear that you had left Duddington, although, of course, we couldn’t expect you to bury yourself down there altogether.”

“Well, I had this offer,” he answered, hanging up his surplice in the cupboard, “and being so much interested in the work here, I couldn’t refuse.”

“It seems a dismal place,” I observed, “a terribly dismal place.”

“Yes,” he sighed. “There’s more misery and poverty here than even in the East End. Here we have the deserving poor—the people who are too proud to throw themselves on the parish, yet they haven’t a few coppers to get the bare necessaries of life with. If you came one round with me, Clifton, you’d witness scenes which would cause your heart to bleed. And this in London—the richest city in the world! While at the Café Royal or Jimmy’s you will cheerfully give a couple or three pounds for a dinner with a friend, here, within fifty yards of this place, are people actually starving because they can’t get a herring and a pennyworth of bread. Ah! you who have had no experience in the homes of these people can’t know how despairing, how cheerless, is the life of the deserving poor.”

“And you live here?” I asked. “You prefer this cramped, gloomy place to the fresh air and free life of the country? You would rather visit these overcrowded slums than the homely cottages of the agricultural labourer?”

“Certainly,” he responded simply. “I entered the Church with the object of serving the Master, and I intend to do so.”

“And the lady who was once a parish-worker here,” I said, with some hesitancy. “Have you seen her?”

“Ah!” he sighed, as a dark shadow crossed his thoughtful brow, and his lips compressed. “You alone know my secret, old fellow, you alone are aware of the torment I am suffering.”

“What torment?” I inquired, surprised.

At that instant, however, the old verger, a man who spoke with a pronounced South London drawl, interrupted by dashing in alarmed and pale-faced, saying—

“There’s been a robbery, sir—an awful sacrilege!”

“Sacrilege!” echoed Yelverton, starting up.

“Yes, sir. The chalice you used this morning at Communion I put in the niche beside the organ, meaning to clean it to-night. I’ve always put it there these twelve years. But it’s gone.”

My friend went forth into the church, and I followed until we came to the niche which the old verger indicated.

There was no chalice there, but in its place only white ashes and a few pieces of metal melted out of all recognition.

All three of us stood gazing at the fused fragments of the sacramental cup, astonished and amazed.

Chapter Nineteen.

The Result of the Compact.

“There’s some Devil’s work been performed here!” gasped the newly-appointed vicar, turning over the ashes with trembling hands, while at the same time I, too, bent and examined the fused fragments of the Communion cup.

The recollection of the miraculous changes effected in my own room was fresh within my memory, and I stood amazed. The agency to which was due the melting of the chalice was still a mystery, but had I not seen Aline, the Woman of Evil, leave the church?

It was apparent that Yelverton had not detected her presence, or he would most probably have referred to it. He loved her with an all-absorbing love, yet, like myself, he seemed to hold her in some mysterious dread, the reason of which I always failed to discover. His theory that the clergy should not marry was, I believe, a mere cloak to hide his terror of her. This incident showed me that now he had come back to his old parish she haunted him as she had done in the past, sometimes unseen, and at others boldly greeting him. That night she had sat a few pews behind me listening to his brilliant discourse, veiled and unrecognised in the half-lighted church, and had escaped quickly, in order that none should be aware of her presence.

But I had caught a glimpse of her, and knowledge of her visit had been immediately followed by this astounding discovery. Her evil influence had once more asserted itself upon a sacred object and destroyed it.

Truly her power was Satanic. Yet she was so calm, so sweet, so eminently beautiful, that I did not wonder that he loved her. Indeed, I recollected how enthusiastically I once had fallen down and worshipped her.

And now had I not a compact with her? Had I not given myself over to her, body and soul, to become her puppet and her slave?

I shuddered when I recollected that hour of my foolishness. This Woman of Evil held me irrevocably in her power.

“How strange!” I exclaimed at last, when I had thoroughly examined the ashes. I would have told him of Aline’s presence, but, with my lips sealed by my promise, I feared to utter a word, lest I might be stricken by her deadly hate, for she certainly was something more than human.

“Strange!” he cried. “It’s marvellous. Feel! The ashes are quite warm! The heat required to melt and fuse a heavy vessel like that would be enormous. It couldn’t have been done by any natural means.”

“How, then, do you account for it?” I inquired quickly.

“I can’t account for it,” he answered in a hoarse voice, gazing about the darkened church, for the lights had been nearly all extinguished, and the place was weird and eerie. Then, with his lips compressed for a moment, he looked straight at me, saying in a strange, hard voice: “Clifton, such a change as this could not be effected by any human means. If this had happened in a Roman Catholic church, it would have been declared to be a miracle.”

“A miracle wrought by the Evil One!” I said.

And he bowed his head, his face ashen, his hands still trembling.

“I cannot help thinking,” he said after a pause, “that this is a bad augury for my ministry here. It is the first time I have, as vicar, administered the Sacrament, and the after result is in plain evidence before us—a result which absolutely staggers belief.”

“Yes,” I said pensively. “It is more than extraordinary. It is an enigma beyond solution; an actual problem of the supernatural.”

“That the chalice should be thus profaned and desecrated by an invisible agency is a startling revelation indeed,” he said. “A hellish influence must be at work somewhere, unless,” and he paused, “unless we have been tricked by a mere magician’s feat.”

“But are not the ashes still hot?” I suggested. “See here!” and I took up some of the fused metal. “Is not this silver? There seems no doubt that the cup was actually consumed here in the spot where the verger placed it, and that it was consumed by an uncommonly fierce fire.”

Without responding, he stood gazing blankly upon the ashes. I saw that his heart was torn by a thousand doubts and fears, and fell to wondering whether he had ever had any cause to suspect the woman he feared of possessing the power of destruction.

Again he glanced round the cavernous darkness of the silent church, and a shudder went through him.

“Let’s go, my dear fellow,” he said, endeavouring to steady himself. “I’m utterly unnerved to-night. Perhaps the efforts of my sermon have been a little too much for me. The doctor told me to avoid all undue excitement.”

“Keep yourself quiet,” I urged. “No doubt some explanation will be forthcoming very soon,” I added, endeavouring to reassure him.

But he shook his head gloomily, answering—

“The Prince of this World is all-powerful. The maleficent spirit is with us always, and evil has fallen upon me, and upon my work.”

“No, no!” I cried quickly. “You talk too hopelessly, my dear old chap. You’re upset to-night. To-morrow, after a rest, you’ll be quite fit again. You’ve excited yourself in your sermon, and this is the reaction.”

He shrugged his shoulders, and together we left the church. I walked with him across to his lodgings in a poorish-looking house in Liverpool Street, facing the disused burial-ground. He had not entered upon residence at the vicarage, for, as he explained to me, his wants were few, and he preferred furnished apartments to the worries of an establishment of his own. As I entered the small, rather close-smelling house, I could not help contrasting it with Mrs Walker’s clean, homely cottage in Duddington, where the ivy covered the porch, and the hollyhocks grew so tall in the little front garden. He took me into his shabby little sitting-room, the window of which overlooked the churchyard, and I saw how terribly dreary was his abode.

I remarked that the place was scarcely so open and healthy as at Duddington, but as he sank into his chair exhausted, he answered simply—

“My work lies here among the poor, and it is my duty to live among them. Many men in London live away from their parishes because the locality happens to be a working-class one, but such men can never carry on their work well. To know the people, to obtain their confidence, and to be able to assist them, one must live among them, however dismal is the life, however dreary the constant outlook of bricks and mortar.”

With this theory I was compelled to agree. Surely this man must be devout and God-fearing if he could give up the world, as he had done, to devote himself to the poor in such a locality, and live the dismal life of the people among whom his work lay.

Yet in his acquaintanceship with Aline there was some strange mystery. His hiding from her, and her clandestine visit to Duddington, were sufficient in themselves to show that their friendship had been strained, and his words, whenever he had spoken of her, were as though he held her in fear. Mystery surrounded her on every side.

I sat with my friend for a long time smoking with him in that dingy, cheerless room. Once only he referred to the curious phenomenon which had occurred in the church, and noticing that I had no desire to discuss it, he dropped the subject. He was enthusiastic over his work, telling me sad stories of the poverty existing there on every side, and lamenting that while London gave liberally to Mansion House Funds for the relief of foreigners, it gave so little to the deserving poor at home.

Suddenly, glancing at the clock, he rose, saying that he had a visit to make.

“It’s late,” I exclaimed, seeing that it was after ten o’clock.

“Not too late to do my duty,” he answered.

Then we passed out, and in silence threaded our way back through the narrow alleys until we gained the Walworth Road, where we parted, after I had promised to call soon and see him again.

When he had left me, I turned once to look after him. His tall, athletic figure was disappearing in the darkness of the slums. Truly this man, who had been my old college chum, was a devoted servant of the Master.

Several days went by, during which I reflected a good deal upon the strange occurrence at St. Peter’s, and the promise made me by Aline. Would Muriel return to me? Was the influence possessed by the Woman of Evil sufficient to cause her to abandon her newly-found lover and crave my forgiveness?

She had told me to possess myself in patience, and I, in obedience to her command, neither sought Muriel or wrote to her.

A week passed. It was Saturday evening. I had been dining early over at the club, and on entering my chambers with my latch-key about eight o’clock, having returned there before dropping in at the Alhambra, I perceived through the crack of the half-open door that some one was in my sitting-room.

I held my breath, scarcely believing my eyes. It was Muriel.

Slowly she rose to meet me with a majestic but rather tragic air, and without a word stretched forth her hand.

“Why, Muriel!” I cried gladly. “You’re the very last person I expected!”

“I suppose so,” she said, adding in a low, strained voice, “Close the door. I have come to speak with you.”

I obeyed her; then, returning to her side, stood eager for her words. The enigmatical influence of Aline was upon her, for I saw that to her dark, brilliant eyes there had already returned that love-light which once had shone upon me, and noticed how her sweet, well-remembered voice trembled with an excitement which she strove vainly to conceal. Her dress was of grey stuff, plainly made as always, but her black hat with a touch of blue in it suited her well, and as she sat before me in the chair wherein the mysterious Temptress had sat, she seemed extremely graceful and more handsome than ever.

“You have, I suppose, almost forgotten me during this long separation, haven’t you?” she faltered with abruptness, after some hesitation. Apparently she had carefully prepared some little diplomatic speech, but in the excitement of the moment all recollection of it had passed from her mind.

“Forgotten you, Muriel!” I echoed, gazing earnestly into her soft, beautiful eyes. “When we last met, did I not tell you that I should never forget?”

Her breast heaved and fell; her countenance grew troubled.

“Surely it is you who have forgotten me?” I said, with a touch of bitter reproach. “You have cast me aside in preference for another. Tell me what I have done that you should treat me thus?”

“Nothing!” she responded nervously, her grave eyes downcast.

“Then, why cannot you love me, Muriel?” I demanded, bending towards her in desperation.

“I—I’m foolish to have come here,” she said, in sudden desperation, rising from her chair.

“Why foolish?” I asked. “Even though you may love another you are always welcome to my rooms as of old. I bear you no ill-will, Muriel,” I said, not, however, without bitterness.

A silence fell. Again she sighed deeply, and then at last raising her fair face to mine, she exclaimed in an eager, trembling tone—

“Forgive me, Clifton! Forgive me! I have come here to-night to ask you to have pity upon me. I know how I have wronged you, but I have come to tell you that I still love you—to ask whether you consider me still worthy of your love?”

“Of course, darling!” I cried, springing forward, instantly placing my arm about her neck and imprinting a fond kiss upon her white brow. “Of course I love you,” I repeated, enthusiastic in my newly-found contentment. “Since you have gone out of my life I have been sad and lonely indeed; and when I knew that you loved another all desire for life left me. I—”

“But I love you, Clifton,” she cried, interrupting. “It was but a foolish passing fancy on my part to prefer that man to you who have always been my friend, who have always been so kind and so thoughtful on my behalf. I wronged you deeply, and have since repented it.”

“The knowledge that you still love me, dearest, is sufficient. It gives me the completest satisfaction; it renders me the most happy man in all the world,” and still retaining her hand I pressed it warmly to my lips.

“Then you forgive me?” she asked, with a seriousness that at such a moment struck me as curious.

“Forgive you? Certainly!” I answered. “This estrangement has tested the affection of both of us. We now know that it is impossible for us to live apart.”

“Ah, yes!” she answered. “You are quite right. I cannot live without you. It is impossible. I have tried and have failed.”

“Then in future you are mine, darling,” I cried, in joyous ecstasy. “Let the past remain as a warning to us both. Not only were you inconstant, but I was also; therefore on my part there is nothing to forgive. Let happiness now be ours because we have both discovered that only in each other can we find that perfect love which to the pure and upright is as life itself.”

For me the face of the world had changed in those moments. A new and brighter life had come to me.

“Yes,” she answered in a low tone, which showed plainly how affected she was. And raising her full, ready lips to mine, she kissed me passionately, adding: “You are generous, indeed, Clifton. I feared and dreaded always that you had cast me aside as fickle and unworthy a thought.”

“No, no!” I said, my arm around her protectingly. “Think no more of that. Don’t let us remember the past, dearest, but look to a brighter future—a future when you will always be with me, my companion, my helpmate, my wife!”

There were tears in her dark eyes, tears of boundless joy and abundant happiness. She had come there half expecting a rebuff, yet had found me ready and eager to forgive; therefore, in a few moments her emotion overcame her, and she hid her tear-stained face in her hands.

The prophecy of the Woman of Evil had been fulfilled. Yet at what cost had I gained this felicity? At the cost of a guilty silence—a silence that shielded her from the exposure of some mysterious, unknown guilt.

Such thoughts I endeavoured to cast from me in the dreamy happiness of those felicitous moments. Yet as I held Muriel in my arms and kissed her pale, tear-stained cheeks, I could not help reflecting upon the veil of mystery which surrounded the woman whose inexplicable influence had caused my love to return to me. In my sudden happiness there still remained the dregs of bitterness—the strange death of the man who had been my most intimate friend, and the demoniacal power possessed by the woman to whom I had unconditionally bound myself in return for Muriel’s love.

The words I uttered caused her to hesitate, to hold her breath, and look up at me with those dark, brilliant eyes which had so long ago held me beneath their spell. Again her hand trembled, again tears rose in her eyes, but at last, when I had repeated my sentence, she faltered a response.

It was but a single word, but it caused my heart to bound for joy, and in an instant raised me to the seventh heaven of delight. Her response from that moment bound us in closer relationship than before.

She had given me her promise to become my wife.

Chapter Twenty.

One Man’s Hand.

In the hour that followed many were our mutual declarations, many were the kisses I imprinted upon those lips, with their true Cupid’s bow, without which no woman’s beauty is entirely perfect.

From her conversation I gathered that the assistants at the great shop in the Holloway Road were treated, as they often are, as mere machines, the employers having no more regard for their health or mental recreation than for the cash balls which roll along the inclined planes to the cash-desk. Life within that great series of shops was mere drudgery and slavery, the galling bonds of which only those who have had experience of it can fully appreciate.

“From the time we open till closing time we haven’t a single moment’s rest,” she said, in reply to my question, “and with nearly eighty fines for breaking various rules, and a staff of tyrannical shop-walkers who are always either fining us or abusing us before the customers, things are utterly unbearable.”

“Yes,” I said, indignantly, “the tyrannies of shop life ought to be exposed.”

“Indeed they ought,” she agreed. “One of our rules fines us a shilling if after serving a customer we don’t introduce at least two articles to her.”

“People don’t like things they don’t want pushed under their noses,” I said. “It always annoys me.”

“Of course they don’t,” she agreed. “Again, if we’re late, only five minutes, in the morning when we go in to dust, we’re fined sixpence; if one of the shop-walkers owes any girl a grudge he will fine her a shilling for talking during business, and if she allows a customer to go out without buying anything and without calling his attention to it, she has to pay half-a-crown. People don’t think when they enter a shop and are met by a suave man in frock-coat who hands them a chair and calls an assistant, that this very man is watching whether the unfortunate counter-slave will break any of the code of rules, so that the instant the customer has gone she may be fined, with an added warning that if a similar thing again occurs she will be dismissed.”

“In no other trade would men and women conform to such rules,” I exclaimed, for she had often told me of these things before. “Who takes the fines?”

“The firm, of course,” she answered. “They’re supposed to go towards the library; but the latter consists of only about fifty worn-out, tattered books which haven’t been added to for the past three years.”

“I don’t wonder that such an existence should crush all life from you. It’s enough to render any one old before their time, slaving away in that place from morning till night, without even sufficient time for your meals. But why are you a favourite?” I asked.

She looked at me for an instant, then dropped her eyes and remained silent.

“I scarcely know,” she faltered at last, and I scented in her indecision an element of mystery.

“But you must be aware of the reason that you are not treated quite as harshly as the others.”

“Well,” she laughed, a slight flush mounting to her cheek, “it may be because of my friendliness towards the shop-walker.”

“The shop-walker!” I exclaimed in surprise, not without some jealous resentment rising within me. “Why are you friendly towards him?”

“Because it is judicious not to offend him,” she said. “One girl did, and within a week she was discharged.”

“But such truckling to a greasy, oily-mouthed tailor’s dummy is simply nauseating,” I cried fiercely. “Do you mean to say that you actually have to smile and be amiable to this man—perhaps even to flirt with him—in order to save yourself from being driven to death?”

“Certainly!” she answered, quite frankly.

“And who is this man?” I inquired, perhaps a trifle harshly.

“The man with whom you saw me on that night when you followed me from Aldersgate Street,” she responded.

“That tall, thin man!” I cried, amazed. “The man who was your lover!”

She nodded, and her eyes were again downcast.

I sat staring at her in amazement. I had never thought of that.

“What’s his name?” I asked quickly.

“Henry Hibbert.”

“And he is shop-walker at your place?”

“Certainly.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before, when I asked you?” I inquired.

“Because I had no desire that you should sneer at me for walking out with a man of that kind,” she responded. “But now that it is all past, I can fearlessly tell you the truth.”

“But what made you take up with him?” I asked, eager now to at least penetrate some portion of the mystery, for I recollected that night in the Park, when I had overheard this man Hibbert’s strange conversation with Aline.

“I really don’t know what caused me to entertain any regard for him,” she answered.

“How did it come about?”

“We were introduced one night in the Monico. I somehow thought him pleasant and well-mannered, and, I don’t know how it was, but I found myself thinking always of him. We met several times, but then I did not know what he was. I had no idea that he was a shop-walker. It was because of my foolish infatuation, I suppose, that I cast aside your love. But from that moment my regret increased, until I could bear the separation no longer, and I came to-night to seek your forgiveness.”

“But what knowledge of this man had you before that night in the café?” I inquired. “Who introduced you?”

“A girl friend. I knew nothing of him before, and have since come to the conclusion that she knew him but slightly.”

“Then was he, at this time, engaged in the shop in the Holloway Road?” I asked, feeling that this fact should be at once cleared up.

“I think so.”

“Are you absolutely certain?”

“No, I’m not. Why do you ask?”

“Because,” I answered reflectively, “because it is strange that you should have taken an engagement at the very shop where he was employed.”

“It was he who gave me the introduction there,” she said. “Only when I got there and commenced work did I find to my surprise that the man who had interested himself on my behalf was actually the shop-walker. He saw the look of surprise upon my face, and laughed heartily over it.”

“Did you never seek to inquire how long previously he had been employed there?”

“No. It never occurred to me to do so,” she answered.

“But you can discover now easily enough, I suppose?”

“Of course I can,” she replied. “But why are you so anxious to know?”

“I have a reason for desiring to know the exact date on which he entered the firm’s employ,” I said. “You will find it out for me at once, won’t you?”

“If you wish.”

“Then let me know by letter as soon as you possibly can,” I urged quickly.

“But you need not be jealous of him, Clifton,” she said, seeking to reassure me. With her woman’s quick instinct she saw that my anger had been raised against him.

“How can I help being annoyed?” I said. “The facts seem quite plain that he first took service with this firm, and then most probably obtained the dismissal of one of the girls in order to make a vacancy for you. He was in love with you, I suppose,” I added, rather harshly.

“Love was never mentioned between us,” she declared. “We merely went out and about together, and in business he used to chat and joke with me. But as for love—”

And she laughed scornfully, without concluding her sentence.

“And the other girls were jealous of you—eh?”

She laughed.

“I suppose they were,” she answered.

“Was this man—Hibbert was his name?—an experienced shop-walker?”

“I think so,” she replied. “But he was disliked on account of his harshness and his constant fining of everybody.”

“Except you.”

“Yes,” she laughed. “I generally managed to escape.”

She noticed the hard look in my face, as I pondered over the strange fact. That this man who was such an intimate acquaintance of Aline’s was actually shop-walker where Muriel was employed added to the mystery considerably, rather than decreasing it.

“Why need we discuss him now?” she asked. “It is all over.”

“But your acquaintance with this man who has evidently striven to win your love must still continue if you remain where you are,” I said in a tone of annoyance.

“No,” she replied. “It is already at an end.”

“But he’s your shop-walker. If you have refused to go out with him, in future he’ll undoubtedly vent his spiteful wrath upon you.”

“Oh no, he won’t,” she laughed.

“Why?”

“Because he has left.”

“Left!” I echoed. “Of course you know where he is?”

“No, I don’t,” she replied. “He annoyed me in business by speaking harshly to me before a customer, and I told him plainly that I would never again go out in his company. He apologised, but I was obdurate, and I have never seen him since. He went away that night, and has not returned. His place was filled up to-day. At first it was thought that he might have stolen something; but nothing has been missed, and now his sudden departure is believed to be due to his natural impetuousness and eccentricity.”

“Then it would seem that owing to a disagreement with you he left his employment. That’s really very remarkable!” I said.

“Yes. Everybody thinks it strange, but, of course, they don’t know that we quarrelled.”

“And you swear to me that you have never loved him, Muriel?” I asked, looking straight into her upturned face.

“I swear to you, Clifton,” she answered. “I swear that he has never once kissed me, nor has he uttered a word of affection. We were merely friends.”

“Then that makes the aspect of affairs even more puzzling,” I observed. “That he had some motive for leaving secretly there is no doubt. What, I wonder, could it have been?”

“I don’t know, and it really doesn’t trouble me,” she replied. “I was exceedingly glad when he went, and now am doubly glad that I came and sought your forgiveness.”

“And I too, dearest,” I said, holding her hand tenderly in mine. “But, truth to tell, I have no confidence in that man. There was something about him that I didn’t like, and this latest move has increased my suspicion.”

“What suspicion?”

“That his intentions were not honest ones!” I answered.

“Why, Clifton,” she cried, “what an absurd fancy! Do you think that because I broke off his acquaintance, he intends to murder me?”

“I have no definite views on the subject,” I answered, “except that he intended to do you some evil, and has up to the present been thwarted.”

“You’ll make me quite nervous if you talk like that,” she responded, laughing. “Let us forget him. You once admired that woman, Aline Cloud, but that circumstance has passed out of my mind.”

“You must leave that place and go down to Stamford,” I said decisively. “A rest in the country will do you good, and in a few months we will marry.”

“I’ll have to give a month’s notice before I leave,” she answered.

“No. Leave to-morrow,” I said. “For I cannot bear to think, dearest, that now you are to be my wife you should still bear that terrible drudgery.”

She sighed, and her countenance grew troubled, as if something oppressed her. This caused me some apprehension, for it seemed as though, even now, she was not perfectly happy.

I gave tongue to this thought, but with a light laugh she assured me of her perfect contentment, and that her regret was only of the past.

Then we sat together, chatting in ecstatic enthusiasm, as I suppose all lovers do, planning a future, wherein our bliss was to be unalloyed and our love undying. And as we talked I saw how at last she became composed in that haven of contentment which is so perfect after the troubled sea of regret and despair, while I, too, felt that at last I wanted nothing, for the great desire of my life had been fulfilled.

Suddenly, however, thoughts of Aline, the mysterious woman who had come between us so strangely, the friend of this man Hibbert and the secret acquaintance of poor Roddy, crossed my mind, and I resolved to gain from her what knowledge she possessed. Therefore, with care and skill I led our conversation up to her, and then point-blank asked her what she knew regarding this woman whose face was that of an angel, and whose heart was that of Satan.

I saw how she started at mention of Aline’s name; how the colour fled from her cheeks, and how sudden was her resolve to fence with me; for at once she asserted her ignorance, and suggested that we might mutually agree to bury the past.

“But she is a mystery, Muriel,” I said; “a mystery which I have been trying in vain to solve through all these months. Tell me all you know of her, dearest.”

“I know nothing,” she declared, in a nervous tone. “Absolutely nothing.”

“But are you aware that this man, Hibbert, the man with whom you associated, was her friend—her lover?”

“What!” she cried, her face in an instant undergoing a strange transformation. “He—her lover?”

“Yes,” I answered. “Did you not know they were friends?”

“I can’t believe it,” she answered, pale-faced and bewildered. Whatever was the revelation I had made to her it had evidently caused within her a strong revulsion of feeling. I had, indeed, strong suspicion that these words of mine had supplied some missing link in a chain of facts which had long perplexed and puzzled her.

“What causes you to allege this?” she asked quickly, looking sharply into my eyes.

“Because I have seen them together,” I answered. “I have overheard their conversation.”

“It can’t be true that they are close acquaintances,” she said in a low, mechanical voice, as though speaking to herself. “It’s impossible.”

“Why impossible?” I inquired.

“Because there are facts which have conclusively shown that there could have been no love between them.”

“Are those facts so remarkable, Muriel, that you are compelled to conceal them from me?” I asked seriously in earnest.

“At present they are,” she faltered. “What you have told me has increased the mystery tenfold. I had never expected that they were friends.”

“And if they were, what then?” I inquired in eagerness.

“Then the truth must be stranger than I had ever dreamed,” she answered in a voice which betrayed her blank bewilderment.

The striking of the clock warned her that it was time she was going, and caused me to recollect that a man would call in a few minutes to repay a loan I had given him. He was an officer—a very decent fellow whom I had known for years, and who for a few weeks had been in rather low water. But he was again in funds, and having met me at the club that afternoon he promised to run over at ten o’clock, smoke a cigar, and repay me.

I regretted this engagement, because it prevented me seeing Muriel home; but when I referred to it she declared that she would take a cab from the rank outside, as she had done so many times in the old days of our friendship, and she would get back quite comfortably.

She buttoned her gloves, and after kissing me fondly re-adjusted her veil. Then, when we had repeated our vows of undying affection and she had promised me to return and lunch with me next morning, as it was Sunday, she went out and down the stairs.

I was a trifle annoyed that, at the club earlier in the day, I had made the appointment with Bryant, but the sum I had lent was sixty pounds, and, knowing what a careless fellow he was, I felt that it was best to obtain repayment now, when he offered it; hence I was prevented from accompanying Muriel. But as it could not be avoided, and as she had expressed herself perfectly content to return alone, I cast myself again in my chair, mixed a whiskey and soda, lit a cigarette, and gave myself up to reflection.

Muriel loved me. I cared for nought else in all the world. She would be my wife, and after travelling on the Continent for a while we would live somewhere in the country quietly, where we could enjoy ourselves amid that rural peace which to the London-worn is so restful, so refreshing, and so soothing.

After perhaps a quarter of an hour I heard Simes go to the door, and Bryant’s voice exclaim hurriedly—“Is your master in?”

“Come in, my dear fellow! Come in!” I shouted, without rising from my chair.

Next instant he dashed into the room, his face white and scared, exclaiming—

“There’s something wrong down at the bottom of your stairs! Come with me and see, old chap. There’s a girl lying there—a pretty girl dressed in grey—and I believe she’s dead.”

“Dead!” I gasped, petrified, for the description he had given was that of Muriel.

“Yes,” he cried, excitedly. “I believe she’s been murdered!”

Chapter Twenty One.

Silence.

“Murdered!” I gasped, springing to my feet. “Impossible!”

“I’ve just discovered her lying on the stairs, and rushed up to you. I didn’t stop to make an examination.”

Without further word we dashed down the three flights of stone steps which led to the great entrance-hall of the mansions, but I noticed to my dismay that although the electric lamps on all the landings were alight those on the ground floor had been extinguished, and there, in the semi-darkness lay Muriel, huddled up in a heap on a small landing approached from the entrance-hall by half a dozen steps. The hall of Charing Cross Mansions is a kind of long arcade, having an entrance at one end in Charing Cross Road, and at the other in St. Martin’s Lane; while to it descend the flights of steps leading to the various wings of the colossal building. At the further end from the stairs by which my chambers could be reached was the porter’s box, but placed in such a position that it was impossible for him to see any person upon the stairs.

I sprang down to the side of my helpless love, and tried to lift her, but her weight was so great that I failed. Next instant, however, a cry of horror escaped me, for on my hand I felt something warm and sticky. It was blood. We shouted for the hall-porter, but he was not in his box, and there was no response. He was, as was his habit each evening, across the way gossiping with the fireman who lounged outside the stage-door of the Alhambra.

“Blood!” I cried, when the terrible truth became plain, and I saw that it had issued from a wound beneath her arm, and that her injury had not been caused by a fall.

“Yes,” exclaimed Bryant, “she’s evidently been stabbed. Do you know her?”

“Know her!” I cried. “She’s my intended wife!”

“Your betrothed!” he gasped. “My dear fellow, this is terrible. What a frightful shock for you!” And he dropped upon his knees, and tenderly raised her head. Both of us felt her heart, but could discern no movement. In the mean time, however, Simes, more practical than either of us, had sped away to call a doctor who had a dispensary for the poor at the top of St. Martin’s Lane.

Both of us agreed that her heart had ceased its beating, yet, a moment later, we rejoiced to see, as she lay with her head resting upon Bryant’s arm, a slight rising and falling of the breast.

Respiration had returned.

I bent, fondly kissing her chilly lips, and striving vainly to staunch the ugly wound, until suddenly it struck me that the best course to pursue would be to at once remove her to my room; therefore we carefully raised her, and with difficulty succeeded in carrying her upstairs, and laying her upon my bed.

My feeling in these moments I cannot analyse. For months, weary months, during which all desire for life had passed from me, I had sought her to gain her love, and now, just as I had done so, she was to be snatched from me by the foul, dastardly deed of some unknown assassin. The fact that while the electric lights were shedding their glow in every part of the building they were extinguished upon that small landing was in itself suspicious. Bryant referred to it, and I expressed a belief that the glass of the two little Swan lamps had been purposely broken by the assassin.

At last after a long time the doctor came, a grey-haired old gentleman who bent across the bed, first looking into her face and then pushing back her hair, placed his hand upon her brow, and then upon her breast.

Without replying to our eager questions, he calmly took out his pocket knife, and turning her upon her side, cut the cord of her corsets, and slit her bodice so that the tightness at the throat was relieved.

Then, calling for a lamp and some water, he made a long and very careful examination of the wound.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, apparently satisfied at last. “The attempt was a desperate one. The knife was aimed for her heart.”

“But will she die, doctor?” I cried. “Is the wound likely to be fatal?”

“I really can’t tell,” he answered gravely. “It is a very serious injury—very. No ordinary knife could inflict such a wound. From the appearance of it I should be inclined to think that a long surgeon’s knife was used.”

“But is there no hope?” I demanded. “Tell me the truth.”

“It is impossible at present to tell what complications may ensue,” he responded. “The best course is to inform the police of the affair, and let them make inquiries. No doubt there has been a most deliberate attempt at murder. Your servant tells me,” he added, “that the lady is a friend of yours.”

“Yes,” I said; “I intend making her my wife; therefore you may imagine my intense anxiety in these terrible circumstances.”

“Of course,” he replied, sympathetically. “But have you any suspicion of who perpetrated this villainous crime?”

I thought of that thin, crafty, bony-faced scoundrel Hibbert, and then responded in the affirmative.

“Well, you’d better inform the police of your suspicions, and let them act as they think proper. I’ve seen the spot where your friend discovered her, and certainly it is just the spot where an assassin might lie in wait, commit a crime, and then escape into the street unseen. My advice is that you should inform the police, and let them make inquiries. I only make one stipulation, and that is that no question must be asked of her at present—either by you, or by any one else. If you’ll allow me I’ll send down a qualified nurse, whom I can trust to carry out my instructions—for I presume you intend that she should remain here in your chambers until she is fit to be removed?”

“Certainly,” I answered eagerly. “I leave all to you, doctor; only bring her back to me.”

“I will do my utmost,” he assured me. “It is a grave case, a very grave one indeed,” he added, with his eyes fixed upon the inanimate form; “but I have every hope that we shall save her by care and attention. I’ll go back to the surgery, get some dressing for the wound, and send at once for the nurse. No time must be lost.”

“And you think I ought to inform the police?” I asked.

“As you think fit,” the doctor responded. “You say you have a suspicion of the identity of the would-be assassin. Surely you will not let him go unpunished?”

“No!” I cried in fierce resolution. “He shall not go unpunished.” But on reflection an instant later it occurred to me that Muriel herself could tell us who had attacked her, therefore it would be best to await in patience her return to health.

The doctor left to obtain his instruments and bandages, while Bryant, Simes, and myself watched almost in silence at her bedside. The kind-hearted old doctor before he went, however, asked us to leave the room for a few minutes, and when we returned we found he had taken off her outer clothing, improvised a temporary bandage, and placed her comfortably in bed, where she now lay quite still, and to all appearances asleep. From time to time in my anxiety I bent with my hand glass placed close to her mouth to reassure myself that she was still breathing. It became slightly clouded each time, and that gave me the utmost satisfaction and confidence.

After a quarter of an hour the old man returned, while a little later the nurse, in her neat grey uniform, was in the room, attending to her patient, quickly and silently, and assisting the doctor to cleanse and bandage the wound with a dexterity which had been acquired by long acquaintance with surgical cases.

With Bryant I retired into the sitting-room while these operations were in progress, and when I again entered my bedroom I found the lights lowered and the nurse calmly sitting by Muriel’s side. Then the doctor assured me that she would be quite right for three hours, and that during the night he would look in again; and with this parting re-assurance he left, accompanied out by Bryant.

Through that night I had but little repose, as may be imagined. The long hours I spent in trying to read or otherwise occupy myself, but such was the intensity of my anxiety that times without number I went and peeped in at the half-open door of my bedroom, wherein lay my beloved, motionless, still as one dead.

A whole week went by. Two or three times daily the doctor called, but by his orders I was not allowed in the room, and it was not until nearly a fortnight had gone by that I entered and stood by her bedside. Even then I was forbidden to mention the circumstances of that night when such a desperate attempt had been made upon her life. Therefore I stood by her with words of love only upon my lips.

Ours was a joyful meeting. For days my love had hovered between life and death. The doctor had gone into that room and come out again grave and silent several times each day, until at last he had told me that she had taken a turn for the better, and would recover. The delirium had left her, and she had recovered consciousness. Then there came to me a boundless joy when at last I was told that I might again see her.

Not until ten more long and anxious days had passed was I allowed to speak to her regarding the mystery which was driving me to desperation, and then one afternoon, as the sunset, yellow as it always is in London, struggled into the room, I found myself alone with her. She was sitting up in my armchair, enveloped in a pretty blue dressing-gown which the nurse had bought for her, and her hair tied coquettishly with a blue ribbon.

She could not rise, but as I entered her bright eyes sparkled with sudden unbounded delight, and speechless in emotion she beckoned me forward to a seat beside her.

“And you are much better, dearest?” I asked, when we had exchanged kisses full of a profound and passionate love.

“Yes,” she answered, in a voice which showed how weak she still was. “The doctor says I shall get on quite well now. In a week or so I hope to be about again. Do they know of my illness at the shop?”

“Don’t trouble about the shop, darling,” I answered. “You will never go back there again, to slave and wear out your life. Remain here content, and when you are well enough you can go down to Stamford and stay there in the country air until we can marry.”

“Then you still love me, Clifton?” she faltered.

“Love you!” I cried. “Of course I do, dearest. What causes you to doubt me?”

She hesitated. Her eyes met mine, and I saw they were wavering.

“Because—because I am unworthy,” she faltered.

“Why unworthy?” I asked, quickly.

“I have deceived you,” she replied. “You are so good to me, Clifton, yet I have concealed from you the truth.”

“The truth of what?”

“Of the strange events which have led up to this desperate attempt to take my life.”

“But who attacked you?” I demanded. “Tell me, and assuredly he shall not escape punishment.”

She paused. Her eyes met mine firmly.

“No,” she answered. “It is impossible to tell you. To attempt a retaliation would only prove fatal.”

“Fatal!” I echoed. “Why?”

“All that has been attempted is of the past,” she responded. “It is best that it should remain as it is. If you seek out that man, there will be brought upon us a vengeance more terrible than it is possible to contemplate. Do not ask me to divulge the identity of this man, for I cannot.”

“You will not, you mean,” I said in a hard voice.

“No,” she answered hoarsely. “No, I dare not.”

“Then you fear this man who has attempted to kill you—this man who sought to take you from me!” I cried fiercely. “Surely I, the man you are to marry, have a right to demand this assassin’s name.”

“You have a right, Clifton, the greatest of all rights, but I beg of you to remain patient,” she answered calmly. “There are reasons why I must still preserve a silence on this matter—reasons which some day you will know.”

“Does this man love you?”

She shrugged her shoulders and extended her thin, white hands vaguely.

“And he is jealous of me!” I cried. “He attempted to kill you because you came here to me.”

“Remain in patience, I beg of you,” she said imploringly. “Make no surmises, for you cannot guess the truth. It is an enigma to which I myself have no key.”

“The name of the man who has attempted to murder you is Hibbert,” I observed, annoyed at her persistent concealment of the truth. “He is the man who was your lover. You can’t deny it.”

She raised her beautiful eyes for a moment to mine, then said simply—

“Surely you trust me, Clifton?”

Her question drove home to me the fact that my suspicion was ill-founded, and that jealousy in this affair was untimely and unnecessary. I, however, could not rid myself of the thought that Hibbert, this lover she had discarded, had attempted to wreak a deadly revenge. All the circumstances pointed to it, for he would know the whereabouts of my chambers, if not from Muriel previously, then from Aline, that woman whom once in my hearing he had urged to the commission of a crime.

“I trust you implicitly, Muriel,” I answered. “But in this matter I am determined that the man whose hand struck you down shall answer for his crime to me.”

“No, no!” she cried in alarm. “Don’t act rashly, for your own sake, and for mine. Wait, and I will ere long give you an explanation which I know will astound you. To-day I cannot move in the matter because I am not allowed out. When I can go out I will find a means of giving you some explanation.” Then, lifting her dark, trustful eyes to mine she asked again, “Clifton, cannot you trust me? Will you not obey me in this?”

“Certainly,” I answered at last, with considerable reluctance I admit. “If you promise me to explain, then I will wait.”

“I promise,” she answered, and her thin, white hand again clasped mine, and our lips met to seal our compact.

Chapter Twenty Two.

To Seek the Truth.

The days of my love’s convalescence were happy indeed. Most of the time we spent together, planning the future and gossiping about the past. Those were halcyon hours when we reckoned time only by the meals served to us by Simes, and we both looked forward to a visit to the old Lincolnshire town that was so very lethargic, so redolent of the “good old days” of our grandfathers.

Once she received a letter left by a man, and marked “private.” In this I scented mystery; for she never referred to it, and when I inquired who was the sender she merely replied that a friend had written to her. This was strange, for none knew that she remained with me. We had thought it best not to tell any one until all could be explained, for a lady who lives in a bachelor’s chambers is looked upon with some suspicion if no very valid excuse can be given for such a flagrant breach of the convenances.

The letter without doubt caused her much thought and considerable anxiety. By her face I detected that she was dreading some dire result, the nature of which she dared not tell me; and it was on that very afternoon that Jack Yelverton called to inquire after me, for I had neither written nor seen him since that night when the chalice at St. Peter’s had disappeared into ashes.

He was stretched out in a chair smoking furiously, laughing more merrily than usual, and talking with that genuine bonhomie which was one of his most engaging characteristics, when suddenly Muriel entered.

They met face to face, and in an instant she drew back, pale as death.

“I—I didn’t know you had a visitor,” she exclaimed half-apologetically, her cheeks crimsoning in her confusion.

“Come in,” I exclaimed, rising. “Allow me to introduce you,” and I went through the conventional formality.

Upon Yelverton’s face I detected an expression of absolute wonder and bewilderment; but seeing that she treated him with calm indifference, he at once reseated himself, and the pair recovered their self-possession almost instantly.

Puzzled at this strange complication, I spoke mechanically, explaining that Muriel was engaged to marry me, and that she had been ill, although I did not tell him the cause.

Yet all Jack Yelverton’s levity had in that brief moment of unexpected meeting departed. He had become brooding and thoughtful.

I confess that I entertained doubts. So many things had recently occurred which she refused to explain, that day by day I was haunted by a horrible consuming suspicion that, after all, she did not love me—that for some purpose of her own she was merely making shallow pretence. I fear that the remainder of Yelverton’s visit was a dismal affair. Certainly our conversation was irresponsible and disjointed, for neither of us thought of what we said. Our reflections were far from the subject under discussion.

At last the Vicar of St. Peter’s made his adieux, and when he had gone I awaited in vain her explanation.

She said nothing, yet her efforts at concealment were so apparent that they nauseated me. I was annoyed that she should thus believe me to be one so blinded by love as to be unable to observe signs so palpable as those in her countenance. The more I thought it over, the more apparent it became that as Yelverton and Aline were lovers, Muriel, knowing Aline, would certainly be acquainted with him. If so, and all their dealings had been straightforward, why had not she at once welcomed him as a friend, and not as a stranger?

I saw that he was plainly annoyed at meeting her, and detected astonishment in his face when I announced my intention of marrying her.

I wondered why he looked at me so strangely. His expression was as though he pitied my ignorance. Thoughts such as these held me in doubt and suspicion.

With a self-control amazing in such circumstances, she reseated herself and took up some needlework, which she had that morning commenced—a cushion-cover intended for our home—and when at last I grew calm again and sat with her she commenced to chat as though our happiness had in no way been disturbed.

As the days went on and she rapidly grew stronger her attitude became more and more puzzling. That she loved me passionately with a fierce, all-consuming affection, I could not doubt. Not that she uttered many words of re-assurance. On the contrary, she heard most of my declarations in silence. Yet the heaving of her breast, and that bright, truthful look in her eyes, were signs of love which I could not fail to recognise.

During those nine weeks of Muriel’s illness I heard nothing of Aline, and was wondering if she knew of my beloved’s presence, or if she would again visit me. To her I had bound myself by an oath of secrecy, in return for a gift to me more precious than any on earth, yet the many strange occurrences which had happened since that first night at the theatre formed a puzzle so intricate that the more I tried to discover the solution the more bewildering it became.

Soon the dark-haired fragile girl who was to be my wife had so improved in health that the doctor allowed her to go for a drive, and in the days following we went out together each afternoon perfectly happy and content in each other’s love. Those who have loved truly know well the ecstasy of the first hours in public with one’s betrothed, therefore it is unnecessary for me to describe my feeling of perfect bliss and thankfulness that she was well at last, and that ere long we should become man and wife.

It had been arranged that Muriel should leave for Stamford in two or three days, when one morning, she having gone out with the nurse, and I remaining alone in my room, Jack Yelverton was admitted. In an instant I saw from his countenance that something unusual had occurred. His pale, unshaven face was haggard and worn, his clerical collar was soiled, his coat unbrushed, his hair unkempt, and as he seated himself and put out his hand I felt it quiver in my grasp.

“Why, what’s the matter, old chap?” I inquired in surprise. “What’s happened?”

“I’m upset, Clifton,” he answered hoarsely.

“What’s upset you? This isn’t like your usual self,” I said.

“No,” he responded, rising and pacing the room with his hand to his white brow, “it isn’t like me.” Then, turning quickly to me, he added with gravity which startled me, “Clifton, I think I’m mad!”

“Mad! Nonsense! my dear fellow!” I protested, placing my hand upon his shoulder. “Tell me what all this is about.”

“I’ve failed!” he cried in a voice of utter despair. “I’ve striven, and striven in my work, but all to no purpose. I’ve sown the wind, and the Devil has placed a bar between myself and the Master.”

“How?” I asked, failing to grasp his meaning.

“I have made a discovery,” he answered in a dry, harsh tone.

“A discovery!” I echoed.

“Yes, one so appalling, so terrible, so absolutely horrible, that I am crushed, hopeless, paralysed.”

“What is it?” I demanded quickly, excited by his strange wildness of manner.

“No,” he answered. “It is useless to explain. You could never believe that what I told you was the truth.”

“I know that you would not willingly tell a lie to your oldest friend, Jack,” I answered, with grave earnestness.

“But you could never fully realise the truth,” he declared. “A sorrow has fallen upon me greater and more terrible than ever man has encountered; for at the instant of my recovery I knew that I was shut out from the grace of God, that all my work had been a mere mockery of the Master.”

“Why do you speak like this?” I argued, knowing him to be a devout man, and having seen with my own eyes how self-denying he was, and how untiring he had worked among the poor.

“I speak the truth, Clifton,” he said, a strange look in his eyes. “I shall never enter my church again.”

“Never enter your church!” I cried. “Are you really mad?”

“The wiles of Satan have encompassed me,” he responded hoarsely, in the tone of a man utterly broken.

“How? Explain!” I said.

“A woman’s eyes fascinated me. I fell beneath her spell, only to find that her heart was the blackest in all the world.”

“Well?”

“My love for her is an absorbing one. She is my idol, and I have cast aside my God for her.”

“Why do you talk like this?” I asked reproachfully. “Has it not been proved to you already that you can marry and yet live a godly life?”

“Yes, yes! I know,” he responded with impatience. “But to love Aline Cloud is to abandon the Master.”

“Why?” I inquired, all eagerness to learn what he knew of her strange power of evil.

“I cannot explain, because there is a mystery which is impenetrable,” he answered. “I shall resign the living and go abroad. I can no longer remain here.”

“You will again fly from her, as you did when you went and hid yourself in Duddington?” I asked. “I can’t understand the reason of your actions. Why not give me a little more explanation?”

“But I can’t explain, because I have not yet fathomed the truth.”

“Then you only entertain certain suspicions, and will act upon them without obtaining clear grounds. That’s illogical, Jack—very illogical.”

He pondered for a few moments, tugging at his moustache.

“Well, I hadn’t looked at it in that light before, I must confess,” he answered at last. “You think I ought to be entirely satisfied before I act.”

“Yes, rashness should not be one of the characteristics of a man who ministers God’s Word,” I said.

“But the deadly trail of the Serpent is upon everything,” he declared. “I can hope for nothing more. I cannot be hypocritical, neither can I serve two masters. Is it not better for me to resign from the Church at once than to offend before God?”

“For whatever sin you have committed there is the Great Forgiveness,” I said calmly. “You are a believer, or you could not preach those enthralling sermons, which have already made you noted in ecclesiastical London. You are known as a brilliant, powerful preacher who can make the tears well in the eyes of strong men by your fervent appeal to them to turn from their wickedness and live. Think!” I said. “Recollect the men steeped in sin whom you have induced to come forth and bow before their God in penitence. Think of those men who have been saved by your ministrations, and then ask yourself whether there is no salvation for you?”

“Yes!” he sighed. “What you say is quite true, Clifton—quite true.”

“Then if you abandon the Church you abandon faith in the generous forgiveness which you have preached, and exhibit to those who have believed in you a doubt in the grace of God. Surely you, Jack, will not do this?”

He was silent, with bent head, as he stood before me reflecting.

“Your argument is a strong one, certainly,” he said at last. “But can I actually stand in my pulpit and preach the Gospel after the knowledge that has come to me?”

“Knowledge!” I repeated. “We found that knowledge to be a mere suspicion only a moment ago!”

“Yes,” he admitted; “suspicion if you like. Well, that amounts to the same thing.”

“Why don’t you tell me all about it?” I urged. “What are these suspicions regarding Aline?”

I recollected my bond of secrecy, and it drove me to madness. If I could tell him all I knew, I felt that together we might combine to probe the mystery. As it was, my silence was imperative.

“It’s my misfortune that I have not sufficient grounds for making any direct allegation. I love her still; I adore her; I worship her; but—”

At that instant, without warning, the door opened, and Muriel, bright and happy, burst into the room, bearing an armful of flowers. Next second, on recognising my visitor, her countenance changed, and she bowed stiffly to him, without offering her hand. Quick to notice this, I at once demanded an explanation, for the mystery had now driven me to desperation.

“There is some secret in your previous acquaintance with Muriel,” I said, addressing Yelverton boldly. “Tell me what it is.”

“Our acquaintance!” he faltered, while she drew back open-mouthed in alarm. The pair exchanged glances, and I saw that between them was some understanding. “What makes you suggest that?” he asked, with a forced laugh.

“You were acquainted before I introduced you the other day!” I cried, fiercely. “You can’t deny that!”

“I have not denied it,” he responded calmly. “It is quite true that I knew Miss Moore before our formal introduction.”

“Then why did you not admit it?” I demanded, a feeling of jealousy rising within me.

“Simply because I had no desire to excite any suspicion in your mind, Clifton. That’s all.”

“Rubbish!” I ejaculated. “There’s some mystery behind all this. Why may I not know?”

The Vicar of St. Peter’s glanced inquiringly at Muriel, but finding no look of permission in her countenance, preserved a silence, which in a moment grew irksome.

Suddenly, however, Muriel, who stood near me, pale and excited, turned, and facing me, said—

“There appears to be a misunderstanding between you. It is quite true that I am acquainted with Mr Yelverton, and there is absolutely no necessity to deny the fact. We have known each other for a long time—ever since I was at Madame Gabrielle’s. He was curate at St. Michael’s, Rathbone Place, where I attended, and we were very good friends until—until—” and she did not finish the sentence.