THE CRUISE OF THE "SCANDAL"

AND OTHER STORIES

BY

VICTOR BRIDGES

AUTHOR OF "A ROGUE BY COMPULSION," "THE LADY FROM LONG ACRE," ETC.

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS NEW YORK AND LONDON The Knickerbocker Press 1920

Copyright, 1920 by VICTOR BRIDGES

To COUSIN ROSE

I am indebted to the Editors of The Red Magazine, The Bystander, and to Messrs. C. Thomas & Co., for their kind permission to reproduce portions of this work.

V. B.

PREFACE TO THE AMERICAN EDITION

To offer a volume of short stories to the countrymen of Edgar Allan Poe and O. Henry is an operation which requires nerve. According to my publisher it also requires "a foreword" which I find, after consultation with the dictionary, is the same thing as a preface. Now to write a preface to one's own book seems to me about as embarrassing a task as any author can be asked to undertake. It is like standing outside the front door calling the attention of indifferent passers-by to the more attractive features of one's own house. They managed things better in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries when for a comparative trifle some great artist like John Dryden was cheerfully prepared to furnish a flattering introduction to the work of any author on the simple understanding that he was not expected to read the volume in question.

Not possessing the pen of Dryden, and being additionally handicapped by the fact that I have read the accompanying stories, I find myself very much at a loss how to fulfil my publishers' request. Desperate situations demand desperate remedies, and I will, therefore, tell the truth. I wrote these stories in order to satisfy an inward craving—not for artistic expression, but for food and drink. I took a great deal of trouble over them, and if they are not good they are at least as good as I could make them. I should not, however, have had the audacity to offer them to the American public in book form, except for the fact that they have sold well and are continuing to sell well in England. The most curious phenomena occasionally repeat themselves, and it is with a wistful hope that something of the sort may occur in the present case that I venture to launch the Scandal on the time-honoured trail of Columbus.

VICTOR BRIDGES.

CHELSEA; LONDON, January 2, 1920.

CONTENTS

The Cruise of the "Scandal"

The Man with the Chin

Tony and His Conscience

"Squarky-Woo"

With the Conquering Turkey

The Later Edition

The Ordeal by Water

The Strange Adventure of Mr. Bates

A Bit of Old Chelsea

The Microbe

Full-back for England

Elsie and the Rooks

The Bronze-haired Girl

His Reverence

The Nadir Bandar

The Cruise of the "Scandal"

"One must never forget," said George solemnly, "that rank has its duties as well as its privileges." I helped myself to another glass of champagne.

"What is it you want me to do?" I asked.

"I have no wish to dictate to you in any way," he answered. "I am merely offering you my advice. As your elder brother and the head of the family, I naturally take an interest in your career."

"Fire ahead," I replied gratefully. "I'm always ready to listen to wisdom, especially from a Cabinet Minister."

There was a short pause.

"Well, then," said George, taking a thoughtful pull at his cigar, "my advice is that you should accept this invitation from Lady Bulstrode, and make up your mind to settle down."

"To do what?" I asked in dismay.

"To settle down," repeated George, with some firmness. "If you are ever going to do anything with your life, it's quite time you started. You can't go wandering about the world in this aimless fashion for ever."

"But it isn't aimless, George," I protested. "I always have an excellent reason for going anywhere."

"And may I ask what your 'excellent reason' was for spending the whole of last year in the wilds of Kashmir?"

"I wanted to shoot a snow leopard," I said.

George shrugged his shoulders.

"Exactly what I mean. A year of your life thrown away on a frivolous piece of sport."

"Frivolous!" I echoed. "There's devilish little frivolity about shooting a snow leopard. You try it."

"Thank you," said George coldly. "I have something better to do with my time."

It was plain that he was getting a little huffy, and my conscience pricked me. With all his seriousness George is an excellent fellow.

"Look here, old son," I said. "Politics are all very well for you—you've got a turn for that sort of thing—but what on earth use should I be? I can't talk for nuts, and know rather less about the game than this cigar."

George frowned slightly.

"Politics," he observed, "are not a game, and with regard to your knowing nothing about them—I suppose you can learn. You have plenty of ability if you care to use it. Sir Henry Martin was telling me only yesterday that your paper about New Guinea in the Fortnightly was quoted by practically every witness at the Royal Commission.

"Good!" said I. "That must be why the editor wants me to write him something about Kashmir."

George nodded his head approvingly.

"I hope you will do so. Nowadays serious journalism is as good an introduction to a political career as you could possibly have. Besides, one would like to feel that all these years of wandering about have not been entirely wasted."

"Oh, they've not been wasted, George," I said. "I've enjoyed 'em enormously. The only thing is they've rather put me off what people call civilization. I can stand a couple of months of London, but I'm afraid I should get frightfully fed up if I stopped here much longer."

George leaned back in his chair and drummed lightly on the table with his fingers.

"That," he said, "is due to the fact that you have no steadying influence in your life. When you have once settled down to regular work, you will find that this unfortunate restlessness will disappear." Then he paused: "It would be a good thing if you were to get married," he added.

"What, on my income?" I exclaimed; for I knew George had rather spacious notions about the family dignity.

George nodded.

"There is no greater help for a rising politician than the right sort of wife," he remarked oracularly.

"My dear George," I said, "I don't want to grumble about the size of my income—it has always been ample for my simple tastes—but when it comes to marriage and living in London and being in Parliament, what the devil's the good of nine hundred pounds a year? Why, it wouldn't keep some women in frocks!"

"There are some women," replied George, "who can very well afford to pay for their own frocks."

I looked at him with surprise and pain.

"You are not doing anything so immoral as to suggest that I should marry for money?" I asked.

George carefully removed the ash from his cigar.

"To contract an alliance with a wealthy woman," he observed, "is not necessarily the same as what you are pleased to call marrying for money."

"No, George," I said. "I hope I'm sufficiently English to appreciate the difference."

"Besides," he went on, disregarding my interruption, "marriage must always be a matter of give and take. If a woman brings you a reasonable dowry, you, on the other hand, are able to offer her one of the oldest names in the country, an unimpeachable social position, and—er—a certain measure of youth and good looks."

I picked up one of the Savoy tablespoons, and contemplated my reflection in its highly polished surface. I can only conclude that it did not do me justice.

"That's all very well," I said; "but where does one find these gilded and easily pleased females?"

Again George's brow contracted.

"There are plenty of charming girls in society, who at the same time are by no means paupers. You are sure to find one or two at Grendon, for instance."

I put down the spoon slowly.

"Oh, ho!" said I. "Now I begin to understand. We are expected to combine business and pleasure this trip—eh?"

"If you mean to suggest that I have been talking the matter over with Lady Bulstrode," said George coldly, "you are quite mistaken. At the same time, I know she would be only too pleased to see you make a sensible marriage. She has often asked after you when you've been away, and when she heard you were in London she insisted on my sending her your address at once."

"Lady Bulstrode," I said, "is a dear old soul. I've always been in love with her ever since I was a kid at Strathmore and she used to ask me over to Grendon to shoot rabbits. By the way, who's living at Strathmore now?"

George looked at me a little suspiciously. I think he believed me guilty of trying to change the conversation.

"There's no one there at present," he replied, "except old Donald Ross and his wife. I want to sell the place if I can; it's no good to us."

"Oh, don't sell it," I protested. "It's the only one of our numerous family mansions I could ever stand." Then I paused. "I left a boat there last time I was in England," I added. "I wonder what's happened to it?"

"I should imagine it was there still," replied George.

I laughed, and finished my champagne.

"I wasn't suggesting you'd pawned it, George," I said.

A sense of humour not being my brother's strong point, this little pleasantry fell on stony ground.

"Aren't we wandering rather from the point?" he asked.

"Not a bit," I said, with some cheerfulness. "I was just thinking that if I'm booked to go to Grendon in ten days' time it's highly necessary that I should have a short holiday first. A smart country house-party bang on top of two months of London would just about finish me."

"Well?" said George, raising his eyebrows.

"Well, that's why I inquired about the boat," I finished. "I could just put in a week's sailing nicely, and write my paper for the Fortnightly at the same time."

George looked at me with a kind of pitying interest.

"Am I to understand that you intend sailing about the coast of Scotland for a week by yourself?"

I nodded.

"A certain amount of solitude," I observed, "is necessary for the production of great literature."

George shrugged his shoulders.

"I suppose you are serious. Personally I should find it difficult to imagine anything less enjoyable, or anything less conducive to work."

"I shan't be sailing all the time," I explained. "I shall make a snug little base on Kerrin Island, and do my scribbling there."

"Kerrin Island!" repeated George incredulously. "Why, the place is deserted. No one has been there for years."

"Yes, they have, George," I said. "I spent a fortnight there last time I was home, and, what's more, I built myself a most superior hut. Unless some of the fisher-boys have been monkeying around, it ought to be as sound as ever. I took a lot of trouble over that hut."

At this point George, who had been consulting his watch, apparently decided that I had wasted quite enough of his time for the present.

"Well, please yourself," he said, beckoning the waiter with a peremptory wave of his hand. "So long as you go to Grendon I suppose that's all we can expect. I shall hope to hear soon, however, that you are adopting some really serious and permanent interest in life."

"If it should take the form of an heiress, George," I said, "I will wire you at once without fail."

* * * * * * *

Exactly two days after this sporting promise I found myself in the excellent company of the sea and the sky about three miles off the land, near Inverness. I was not alone. Sitting in the bows of the boat, and looking out with interest towards the approaching coast of Kerrin Island, was the most disreputable rough-haired terrier puppy that ever forced his society upon his betters. His name was Rufus, and he had been presented to me by Donald Ross. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say he had presented himself, and that Donald, with the simple philosophy of his race, had merely acquiesced in the arrangement. For from the moment that I had arrived at Strathmore, Rufus had joyously but firmly adopted me as his new owner, and nothing short of prussic acid would, I think have terminated the engagement.

I must admit that I was glad of his society. Not that solitude had any terrors for me, but still a dog undoubtedly lends it a certain harmony that it otherwise lacks. One feels this more especially at meal-times.

Anyhow, there we were, Rufus and I, quite contented with each other's company, and thrusting our way merrily through the small white-capped waves that rose and sank in the brisk off-shore breeze. Although only a four-tonner, my little boat, the Scandal, was a rare sea-going craft, and the faithful Donald had looked after her with such honest care that the sails and rigging were as sound as on the day when I laid her up.

Dressed in an old pair of grey flannel trousers and a still older shirt, I must have cut almost as disreputable a figure as Rufus. George would have had a fit on the spot if he could have seen me, but I can't say that even this sombre reflection depressed me very much. Stowed away in the locker I had a large hamper from Harrods', a change of kit, a "Primus" stove, and a generous supply of baccy and books; and if a man can't be happy for a week on an outfit like that, all I can say is that I'm devilish sorry for him.

There are two places on the island where you can get a safe anchorage, one a small sheltered bay on the further side, and the other a kind of shallow estuary looking out towards Strathmore. I decided on the latter as being the nearer, and steered the Scandal towards the struggling growth of trees that half hid the entrance. I struck the channel all right first shot, and, running up the cove, came round head to wind and let down my anchor.

Rufus watched the proceedings with considerable interest. He evidently realized we were going ashore; for the moment I hauled alongside the tiny collapsible Berthon boat which we had been towing behind us, he jumped in hurriedly with a little yelp of approval, and sat down in the stern-sheets. Then he looked up at me and grinned.

I hesitated for a minute as to whether I should cart any of my stores ashore at once; then I decided that it would be better to land first and make certain that my hut was still in existence. Quite possibly it had been spirited away in the interval by some enterprising fisherman, and in that case I intended to make the tiny cabin of the Scandal my headquarters. I am not lazy, but there is a limit to one's enthusiasm for single-handed house-building.

A very few strokes brought us to the shore, which at this point consisted of a marshy stretch of saltings about twenty yards broad. I tugged the boat up out of the water, and, preceded by Rufus, who kept on looking round to see that there was not some dark plot to maroon him, I picked my way from tuft to tuft towards the edge of the wild, heather-covered down of which Kerrin Island is chiefly composed.

The whole place is only about half a mile wide, but one cannot see the hut until one is almost up to it, as it stands on the further side of the island under the shelter of some rising ground. I had built it there purposely, so that it should be invisible from the mainland.

Rufus reached it before I did. Rounding the base of the little hill, and coming suddenly into full view of it, I found him lying on the grass, contemplating his discovery with every symptom of surprised approval.

"Yes, my son," I said, "you may well look awe-struck. That superb edifice—" Then I stopped.

"Well, I'm hanged!" I added incredulously.

There, just to the right of the hut door, I had suddenly caught sight of a wood fire, crackling and blazing away in the most cheerful and unabashed fashion. I stared at it for a moment in amazement. Yes, it was a wood fire all right. There could be no doubt about that. And furthermore, sitting complacently amongst the flames, I perceived a large black kettle, from the spout of which little jets of steam were shooting up into the air.

"Rufus," I observed, "there is some cursed intruder here!"

Rufus looked thoughtfully at the kettle, and put his tongue out.

"Yes," I said sternly, "I've seen that, but if you imagine I am going to sell my birthright for a mess of pottage you're mistaken. Tea or no tea, out he comes!"

I strode across the intervening grass to the door of the hut, and rapped loudly with my knuckles. The result was unexpected. I heard a slight exclamation, accompanied almost simultaneously by the crash of falling china. Then, very clearly and earnestly, a rather sweet voice remarked "Damn!"

I turned to fly, but it was too late. There was a sound of quick footsteps, the door opened abruptly, and I found myself confronted by the prettiest girl I have ever seen in my life.

She was dressed in a short blue skirt, with a soft cream-coloured shirt, open at the neck. From under a red tam-o'-shanter her dark brown hair hung down her back in two long plaits, reaching just below her waist. As for her face—well, I always think a beautiful face is the most difficult thing to describe in the world, but if you can picture a Madonna turned wood nymph, and delightfully sunburned at that, you'll be somewhere around the mark.

For a moment her grey eyes contemplated me with calm surprise; then her gaze travelled to Rufus, who promptly sat up and wagged his tail.

"That," I explained, "is his manner of apologizing."

She turned back to me, and her lips parted in a frank smile.

"I expect," she said, "that I ought to be apologizing instead. This is not my island, as—as you probably know."

"It certainly isn't mine," I returned, "and you were here first."

"Very well," she said. "I'll accept the apology. After all, you've made me break a plate."

"Your nerves must be splendid," I said. "I should have broken a whole dinner-service."

She laughed cheerfully.

"It was silly of me to be startled, but somehow or other one doesn't expect afternoon visitors here." Then she paused. "I don't know whether you are a friend of the owner of the island," she added. "Indeed, I'm afraid I don't even know who he is."

"His name," I said, "is George. We are slightly acquainted."

"And did he build this hut?"

"No," I said proudly; "I did that."

She looked a little embarrassed.

"I really must apologize then," she said. "I'm afraid I've been making free with your property in the most unpardonable manner. I thought it was a kind of desert island."

"So it was," I said, "before you came—a most hopeless desert." Then I hesitated. "If you won't think me inquisitive," I went on, "may I ask how you managed to get here?"

She smiled.

"The same way that you did, I expect. My boat's round the bend there behind the trees." She pointed away to the left towards the small bay which formed the island's other anchorage. "It's only a three-tonner though," she added regretfully.

I looked at her with some interest.

"Are you accustomed to roam about the high sea single-handed in a three-ton boat?" I inquired.

"Oh, yes," she said. "Why not? After all, they are the easiest to handle."

"They are certainly the easiest to get drowned in," I replied.

She shrugged her shoulders. "One must take what one can get in this world. It's not my boat, you see. I only——"

She was interrupted by a violent hissing from the fire, which temporarily disappeared in a cloud of steam.

"Oh, dear!" she cried, in dismay. "There's the kettle boiled over. You'll excuse me a minute while I make tea, won't you?"

She dived into the hut, reappearing almost immediately with a brown earthenware teapot in her hand.

"You'll have a cup?" she asked, pausing for a moment on her way to the fire. "There ought to be enough for two, unless it's all boiled away."

"You're very forgiving," I said. "It's more than I deserve after making you break a plate."

"It's the least I can do," she retorted, "after jumping your hut like this."

She filled up the pot, and, coming back, placed it carefully on the stump of one of the trees which I had cut down when I built the place.

"This is the table," she said. "If you'll sit down on the grass and wait one minute, I'll bring the tea out."

The suggestion seemed a sound one, so I accepted it without protest. Whoever my hostess might be, she was certainly not lacking in self-possession, and I felt sure that if she had wanted any help she would have asked for it.

Selecting a comfortable place, I spread myself out on the grass, and Rufus, who had apparently been on a short tour of inspection, came up sideways and licked my boot.

"Rufus," I said, "we have struck a remarkable adventure."

He lay down and looked at me out of the corner of his eye.

"We have discovered a mermaid, a sea-dryad, an island goddess," I went on. "In fact, I'm not at all sure that we haven't found Astarte herself."

He rolled slowly over on his back and pointed all four feet towards the sky.

"I'm glad to see," said I, "that you have a sense of reverence."

It was at this point that, heavily burdened with accessories, the goddess emerged from her retreat.

"I'm afraid it's a poor sort of tea," she said, as I jumped up to help her unload. "Do you mind a mug and condensed milk? They're all I've got to offer you."

"On a desert island," I said, "both a cup and a cow would be painfully out of place."

"Still," she laughed, "I think if I were going to be here long I'd give them a trial. They might get acclimatized."

"It's an interesting question," I said, "as to which of them would be broken first."

Taking her various burdens from her, I began to set them out in a half-circle round the teapot.

"If I'd known I was going to have a visitor," she said, "I'd have made some hot cakes. As it is, you'll have to be content with gingerbread and biscuits."

Then she sat down opposite me, and began to pour out tea. I watched her with a most pleasant curiosity. I have been in a good many parts of the world, and met some distinctly quaint people, but this beautiful girl, with her perfect self-possession and astounding absence of convention, baffled me completely. Who on earth could she be, and what was she doing on the island—my island—or, to be strictly accurate, George's island? That she was well educated—what I believe is known in refined circles as "a lady"—was of course obvious, but this only made the situation more puzzling than ever. I simply gave it up, and, accepting the cup of tea which she handed across, waited calmly for any further enlightenment that Fate might vouchsafe.

"You shall have your hut by six o'clock," she said, breaking a biscuit and offering half of it to Rufus. "I'll get my belongings on board directly after tea."

"I hope you won't do anything of the kind," I answered promptly. Then, feeling that my remark, though true and distinctly well intended, was perhaps a trifle obscure, I hastened to add: "I never use the hut when I come here. I always sleep on the Scandal."

"On the what?" she asked, opening her nice grey eyes.

"On my boat," I explained. "I call her the Scandal because she travels faster than anything else in Scotland."

Her eyes sparkled. "I wonder if she could beat the Penguin? That's my boat. I've only hired her, but she goes like a bird."

"Well, if you'll stay till tomorrow, we'll have a race," I said.

She clasped her hands. "It would be fun, wouldn't it?" Then she paused. "But I don't think I ought to," she added regretfully.

"Why not?" I asked. "Are you too proud to share an island?"

She shrugged her shoulders, smiling. "No, I'm not proud; but it would put me in rather an awkward position if somebody found out."

"Nobody will find out," I said reassuringly. "The only person who will ever know anything about it is Rufus, and he's a tactful dog—aren't you, my son?"

Rufus, who was sitting up in expectation of some more biscuits, gave a corroborative wag of his tail.

"Besides," I went on, "you ought to give me a chance of returning your hospitality. I was hoping you'd come and have breakfast with me on the Scandal to-morrow."

"Oh!" she said frankly, "I'd love to. Please don't think I'm being silly about it, but I really have to be careful what I'm doing. You see, I'm not supposed to be here at all."

"Of course not," I said. "In fact, I don't believe you are here. Things like this don't happen in real life. I shall wake up in a minute and find you were just a delightful dream."

She laughed merrily. "Well, have some more tea first," she suggested, holding out the pot.

I waited until she had filled the cup, and then I asked her a question.

"Now, I want you to tell me the truth," I said. "If I hadn't come blundering in here, how long were you going to stay on the island?"

She hesitated for a moment.

"The truth!" I repeated firmly.

"Another three days," she admitted. "I have to be back on Friday."

"Well," I said, "if you don't stay those three days, I shall never forgive myself. I really don't want to use either the hut or the island, on my honour. I've got my anchorage, and we shan't be in each other's way. In fact, you needn't see me at all if you don't want to."

"But you've just asked me to breakfast," she objected. "You're not trying to back out of it now, are you?"

"Then you'll stay!" I cried joyfully.

Her eyes twinkled.

"I might," she said, "if you can really guarantee the discretion of Rufus."

I drank up three-quarters of my tea, and poured out the rest as a libation.

"It just occurs to me," I said, "that I haven't introduced myself."

She made a quick, protesting gesture with her hand.

"Don't then," she said, smiling. "Let's stop just as we are. It will be much jollier if we know nothing about each other, and Rufus can't betray us then, even if he wants to."

"But we've christened you already," I objected. "We've decided that you must be Astarte. I think she was the lady who came out of the sea foam, wasn't she?"

Astarte made me a little mocking bow.

"You pay compliments very prettily," she said. "I shall call you Stephen."

"Why Stephen?" I inquired.

She jumped up smiling, and brushed some crumbs from her skirt.

"You're shockingly ignorant of English history. Don't you remember that Stephen followed Rufus?"

I shook my head.

"Your wisdom leaves me breathless," I said. "I can't go further back than Victoria myself."

She laughed.

"Well, if I didn't know that, I shouldn't be much——" Then she suddenly stopped.

"You wouldn't be much what?" I asked.

"Never mind," she said. "Let's put these things away, and then I'll take you down and show you the Penguin. I'd like to know what you think of her."

* * * * * * *

To describe the next few days would be rather like trying to recapture some strange, delightful dream after one has woken up. I only know that the time hurried away at that absurd and unnecessary pace which Providence seems to reserve for the more charming moments of life. Of course, our surroundings were not unfavourable to romance; but, apart from that, Astarte was one of those fragrant people who have the power of throwing a kind of happy glamour over everything. Underneath all her self-possession and efficiency she had the heart of a frank and joyous child.

I shall never forget her delight when she helped me unpack Harrods' hamper on the first morning, and dragged out the various delicacies those thoughtful gentlemen had provided me with.

"Well, you're the sort of person I like to be asked to breakfast by," she laughed, dumping them down one after another. "A tongue, cold chicken, paté de foie gras, champagne, cigars. Oh, Stephen, you are greedy! Do you always look after yourself like this when you go exploring?"

"I lived for a month once on dried apricots and snow," I returned; "but I don't do that sort of thing from choice. Besides," I added recklessly, "I had a sort of feeling I was going to meet you."

She held up a reproving finger.

"You're not ashore now," she said, smiling; "and no sailor should tell fibs at sea."

"Have you been reading Kipling's Brass-bound Man?" I asked.

"No," she said simply. "My father told me that."

And this, I think, was the only occasion in all the three days in which she volunteered any information about herself or her life apart from Kerrin Island.

It must be admitted that we had plenty of time for exchanging confidences had we wished to, Our day started at about 9 A.M., when, after an early morning dip, Rufus and I would pull off to the shore in the dinghy and meet Astarte, who had walked over from the hut.

Breakfast followed, a merry, easy meal, lasting about an hour and a half, after which I would sail the Scandal round to the farther anchorage; while my guest, in the teeth of all polite convention, cheerfully washed up the cups and plates.

Then came the great event of the day, our race round the island for the Kerrin Cup.

This trophy had been presented by Astarte herself on the morning after my arrival. She had brought it over to breakfast with her—a painful atrocity in green and white and gold, bearing a purple label announcing that it was "A present from Strathpeffer."

"We must have a prize, you see," she had explained; "and I've been wanting to get rid of this ever since I stole it."

"It's hardly an inducement to pulling out one's best sailing," I objected, eyeing it with a slight shudder.

All the same, we most decidedly did pull out our best sailing; and the Kerrin Cup changed hands with spirited frequency. Astarte won it the first day, I wrested it from her on the second, only, however, to lose it finally and for good on the last morning. She sailed her little three-tonner with wonderful skill and daring; and, seasoned as I am at handling small boats, I found I was up against an opponent whose education was every bit as complete as my own.

It was all very jolly, but I think the evenings were the best part. We always had supper outside the hut, to which I had transferred about half the contents of my hamper. With the aid of these and Astarte's dazzling skill with the "Primus," we used to fare as sumptuously as Dives, and I warrant with much better appetite than that hardly treated capitalist.

And when supper was over, and the things washed up, we would lie round the wood fire that we always made and discuss the morning's race, and sailing generally, and any other pleasing topic that happened to roll up.

And later on, when we had exchanged enough wisdom, we used to sing songs to each other, accompanying ourselves on the banjo which a thoughtful Providence had inspired me to ship on board the Scandal. My own repertoire is confined to strenuous efforts such as Rolling Down to Rio and Drake's Drum. But Astarte had a charming voice—a deep, sorrowful contralto—and she used to sing sad little songs about love and death, which always seem to me the two best things to make music out of. Besides, they were in such delightful contrast to her own splendid joy in life.

It was only on the night before she went away that I found out how fond I was of her. She was lying on the grass, her chin in her hand, and her grey eyes staring thoughtfully into the fire, as she listened to my description of some impossible place in the ends of the earth which I had once visited. Anything about the ends of the earth seemed to appeal to her with peculiar force.

In the middle of my story it suddenly struck me with an abrupt and painful sense of desolation that on the following evening she would not be there. I went on talking, but somehow or other all the interest and colour had died out of my yarn, and I finished as lamely as George making one of his official excuses for the Government.

For a moment or two she looked at me without speaking. Then she sat up.

"What's the matter, Stephen?" she asked, pushing her hair back from her eyes.

"Nothing just now," I said. "I was wondering what Rufus and I were going to do to-morrow."

"You must do that mysterious work you were talking about. You haven't begun it yet; and it's all my fault."

"But I can't work when I feel lonely," I objected.

"Two days ago," she said, "you told me a desert island was the only place you could write in."

"Yes," I said; "but I was younger then, and not so experienced."

She laughed—that low, sweet laugh of hers that always reminded me of deep water. Then she leaned forward again, and a sudden flicker of the fire fit up her eyes and hair, and showed me the soft curve of her lips. She looked so utterly adorable that for a moment I as nearly as possible forgot the rules. It was only with a big effort that I crushed back a sudden wild impulse to take her in my arms.

As it was I jumped up, just a little abruptly.

"Astarte," I said, "it's time you went to bed. All good sailors turn in early the night before a voyage."

She looked up at me for a second with a grave, almost a wistful expression. Then she held out her hand.

"You're right, Stephen," she said. "Good-night."

I bent down, and very lightly I kissed the tips of her fingers.

* * * * * * *

Midday the next morning found me, with Rufus by my side, standing in sombre isolation on the extremest promontory of the island. Three miles away the Penguin, now merely a white speck on the water was just rounding the big bluff of Strathmore Head.

"She's gone, my dog," I said, "she's gone!" Rufus looked out to sea and whined dismally.

"Yes," I said; "that's exactly how I feel. But it won't bring her back."

He threw up his head and howled.

"That's no use, either!" I added bitterly. "If it was I should do it myself."

Then, with a last glance seawards, I turned round, and, followed by a very depressed puppy, I made my way slowly across the saltings to where the Scandal was at anchor.

I forget who first launched the theory that work was a successful anodyne for baffled love. Anyway, I can bear personal witness that he was mistaken. No one has ever worked much harder than I did during my remaining three days on the island, and no one has ever been more persistently haunted by the vision of an absent face. I wrote the whole of my article for the Fortnightly—thirteen solid, chunky pages all about Kashmir—and at the end of it I found that I was even fonder of Astarte than when she had left the island.

"This is the mischief," I observed to Rufus. "What are we going to do about it, my dog?"

Rufus wagged his tail and looked immensely sympathetic, but beyond that he made no attempt to help.

"We must find her, Rufus," I went on. "We must find her, even if we have to spend the rest of our lives wandering about Scotland."

There was a short pause while we both contemplated this appalling possibility. Then, with a deep sigh, Rufus twisted himself round and began to scratch his ear.

I watched him gloomily, wondering what was the best way of setting to work. If I had only had some due, however vague, I could at least have followed it up; but Astarte had gone away from me leaving herself as much a mystery as ever.

Apart from sheer luck, my only chance of finding her seemed to lie in tracing the Penguin. She had told me she had hired the latter, but when and from whom were matters of which I knew nothing. Still, a boat is a boat, and any yachtsman or yacht-hand about the coast would probably be acquainted with the little three-tonner, at all events by reputation. Of course, even then it by no means followed that I should be very much forrader, for, granted that the owner knew all about Astarte, he might quite conceivably see no reason for confiding in me.

It was a pretty little problem, and after pondering over it all ends up I eventually decided that the best thing to do at the moment was to go on to Grendon, as I had originally arranged. In the first place, I couldn't get out of the visit now without appearing rather rude; and, secondly, I was just as likely to pick up some information about the Penguin there as I was anywhere else. Besides I very much wanted to see old Lady Bulstrode. She had always been nice to me when I was a boy, and she was almost the only one of our family friends who was not a confounded prig.

So on the Saturday morning, after fastening up the hut, I came back on board the Scandal and pulled up my anchor for the last time. I couldn't help feeling rather sad as we sailed down the little estuary and turned our backs on the island, but Rufus, with the callousness of extreme youth, appeared to be in the best of spirits. Anyhow—he stood up in the bows and barked at the seagulls with a vigour that suggested an entire lack of any decent sentiment.

His only excuse for such disgraceful cheerfulness was the weather. It was an ideal September morning, all blue and gold, with a nice breeze off the sea, and that faint delicious crispness in the air that almost reconciles one to the death of summer.

The Scandal, with every bit of sail she could carry, leaped merrily through the water, revelling in her job like the gallant little boat she was. Even my own depression was not quite proof against such joyous influences, and by the time we ran alongside the Strathmore landing-stage I had as nearly as possible recovered my usual serenity. As medicine for a disordered heart, I'll back the sea against literature any day in the week.

Grendon, Lady Bulstrode's place, is only about twenty miles from Strathmore as the crow flies, but when one is hampered with a fortnight's luggage and a dog, a crow is devilish little use as a means of conveyance. A motor would have been by far my easiest method of getting there, but George had not suggested lending me his, and it was impossible to hire one nearer than Rothnairn.

So after changing into the garments of civilization and collecting my traps, which I had left with Donald Ross, I was driven to jogging eight miles in the latter's open trap, and picking up the local Highland railway at Craigmuir. This abandoned me late in the afternoon at a little wayside station some six miles from Grendon, where I had wired to be met.

The Bulstrode family turn-out, with its magnificent red wheels, black horses, and orange livery, was waiting there in answer to my summons. Rufus and I got in amid a general touching of hats, and, reclining comfortably on the cushions, rolled noiselessly off through the magnificent Highland scenery. For the first time I began to fear that Rufus was a bit of a snob. The languid hauteur with which he acknowledged the subservience of the staff was worthy of a newly ennobled lawyer.

It was just six o'clock when we turned in at the lodge gates of Grendon and drove up the long avenue of fir trees. I was received at the hall door by the butler—a delightful old man whom I remembered perfectly well from the days of my boyish visits.

With the charming candour of an ancient retainer, he at once began to comment on my appearance.

"Eh, Master Guy, but you've grown, sir!" he remarked in an approving voice.

"It's quite possible, Parkes," I said cheerfully; "especially as I was only fourteen when I was here last."

"Fair grown out of all knowledge," he repeated, looking at me with his head on one side. "And brown, too, though you were always a one for getting sunburnt, Master Guy."

"I've not lost any of my bad habits, Parkes," I replied. "Where's Lady Bulstrode?"

"Her leddyship's upstairs in her own room. I'm to bring you straight up to her, sir."

"Lead on, then, Macduff!" I said, smiling, and, tossing my cap on to the table, I followed the old man through the big hall with its innumerable weapons and stags' heads and up the broad stone staircase that led to the gallery above.

He stopped outside the door and tapped gently:

"Come in," called out a decisive voice, and, turning the handle, Parkes stepped forward.

"Master Guy, milady," said he, as though I were about fourteen, and just come home for the holidays.

Lady Bulstrode, who had been writing letters, jumped up with surprising alacrity.

"My dear boy!" she said, taking my hand in both of hers. "My dear boy! I am so pleased to see you!"

She looked just as she did when I had seen her last in London, five years before—old, shrewd, and kindly, with the same twinkling black eyes, and, unless I am much mistaken, precisely the same wig.

"It's charming of you to remember me at all," I said. "Parkes tells me I've grown so big and black that no one would know me."

Parkes, who was still standing by the door, made a kind of expostulating murmur, and Lady Bulstrode, with a laugh, pushed me gently backwards into a chair.

"Sit down!" she said. "Sit down and let me have a good look at you." Then, turning to Parkes, she added: "Bring the whisky and soda up here, Parkes. I am sure Mr. Guy would like a drink after his travels."

As the old man went out, Rufus, who up till then had been keeping modestly in the background, apparently decided that it was time he introduced himself. Anyhow, he came squirming out from under the sofa and sat down with much tail-wagging, in the middle of the room.

"I couldn't help bringing him," I explained apologetically. "He adopted me at Strathmore last week, and his motto seems to be the same as Ruth's, 'Where thou goest I will go.' Do you mind dogs in the house?"

"I mind nothing," said Lady Bulstrode, "except rheumatism and travelling third-class. Come here, boy!"

She held out a hand to Rufus, who crawled up and seated himself carefully with his back against her skirt.

"George told me you were in these parts," she went on; "or, as he put it, 'pigging it upon some absurd island off Strathmore.'"

"Dear George!" I said. "He has all the simple candour of a British statesman."

"He has quite a high opinion of you," returned Lady Bulstrode, "though he thinks you're a little mad."

"He's probably right. Anyhow, I'm very thirsty," I replied, as the door opened and Parkes came in with the whisky.

I mixed myself a long drink and, at Lady Bulstrode's command, lighted a cigarette.

"I had a talk with George the other day," I said, when the door closed behind us again. "He thinks it's quite time I settled down."

"What do you think about it?" asked Lady Bulstrode.

"That doesn't matter," I said—"at least, not to George."

My hostess smiled.

"Still, even unimportant things are sometimes interesting."

"I think," said I, "that one Cabinet Minister in the family is quite enough."

"Ample," agreed Lady Bulstrode hastily; "but, after all, there are plenty of other openings in life for an energetic and honest young man."

"Yes," I said, "and I've found mine. So long as my nine hundred pounds a year lasts, and I can live on the workers, I'm quite content to go on tramping round the world—especially if editors will pay me for scribbling about it. I'm a born loafer, and I suppose when the world is properly organized I shall be locked up in a labour colony."

"At least you'll be in good company," said Lady Bulstrode, "though I think you make yourself out worse than you are," she added.

"No," I said. "Mine is a useless life. I've never had any illusions on the point. If I had, George would have shattered them long ago."

"George," she returned, "is too serious to live. I tried to get him up here for a few days, and he said things were so bad at Westminster that he couldn't be spared. Those were his actual words."

I nodded.

"They would be. There's no bally mock modesty about George! Who is here, by the way?"

"Well, there's no one at the present moment except Alan's two children and old Mrs. Fawcett. I have got a regular smart house-party coming for you to-morrow, though."

She looked at me mischievously.

"Go on," I said; "I can bear it."

"There's Miss Faversham and her mother"—she began to tick them off on her fingers—"a good-looking girl, lots of money; her father is the big contractor, Faversham and Kent, you know. Then there are the Gordons—the K.C. and his wife; and the McCullochs from Innestair—another pretty girl there; and Raymond Sturgis—he's a sort of cousin of yours; and old Lord Pembery and——"

"Great Scott!" I interrupted. "Do you mean they're all coming in a bunch?"

"More or less. They will be here to dinner, anyhow. I shall want you to play host, Guy."

I groaned.

"Oh, it will do you good," she went on ruthlessly. "You shall have Miss Faversham on one side and the McCulloch girl on the other."

"If you're going to use threats—" I began with some dignity.

A sudden tap at the door interrupted me.

"Come in!" called out Lady Bulstrode.

I looked up, casually expecting Parkes, and for one radiant, blinding moment I thought I'd gone mad.

Standing in the doorway was Astarte. She was dressed in a plain black evening frock, and the plaits of brown hair no longer hung down her back. But I knew her—knew her as instantly and surely as I should know the sun or the stars.

So did Rufus. With one loud yell of joy he leapt to his feet and hurled himself upon her in wild and vociferous delight.

"Bless my soul!" remarked Lady Bulstrode.

"Rufus!" I said, with a tremendous effort, "control yourself!"

Astarte picked him up in her arms, and with a couple of pats soothed him into something like sanity. She was plainly as amazed as I was, and I could see her breast rising and falling rapidly as she looked first at me and then at Lady Bulstrode. When she spoke, however, it was in her usual delightfully calm manner.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "I thought you were alone."

"My dear Grace," said Lady Bulstrode, fanning herself gently, "do all dogs take to you like that?"

Astarte put Rufus down with a little laugh.

"Only well-bred ones," she said.

"Well, let me introduce you both. This is Guy Heathcote, Grace; I've often talked to you about him. Guy, this is my friend, Miss Grace Conway."

I bowed.

"I don't know how to apologize for Rufus," I said. "I can only think you must be like someone he knows."

"I expect I am," she answered with delightful frankness. Then, turning to Lady Bulstrode, she added, "I came to bring you your change. Here it is—four pound ten." And she put down a little pile of gold on the desk.

"Did the mare go all right?"

She nodded.

"Oh, yes, we went in and out in great style, and the children enjoyed themselves enormously. I mustn't stop to talk now, though. I've promised to tell them a story before dinner, and they won't go to sleep if I disappoint them. You shall hear all about our adventures later."

She smiled—that dear, merry smile I knew so well—and the next moment she had gone.

There was a short pause. Then I took a deep steadying breath.

"Who is that beautiful thing?" I asked.

"That," said Lady Bulstrode with some pride, "is my governess."

"Your governess!" I repeated. "What does she teach you?"

Lady Bulstrode chuckled.

"Well, when I say my governess, I am speaking as a grandmother. She is supposed to be looking after Alan's children, though as a matter of fact she looks after me just as much. I don't know what I should do without Grace."

I glanced at her with some sympathy.

"And how did you find Grace?" I asked.

Lady Bulstrode shivered slightly.

"Don't, Guy," she said; "it reminds me of our local 'minister'—a dreadful person. Grace is the daughter of the only man I ever loved—poor Jack Conway."

"What, the explorer?" I said.

She nodded.

"When he fell down that stupid cliff and killed himself, he left Grace absolutely unprovided for. It was just like poor Jack—a dear, delightful man, but quite hopeless about anything to do with money. I don't suppose he'd ever thought what would happen to Grace if he died. He took her away from school when she was about sixteen, and for the last three years before he was killed they'd been wandering about the world together in that absurd little ship of his, just as if she'd been a boy."

"Ah!" I said thoughtfully, for I was beginning to "smell land," as sailors put it.

"You see," went on Lady Bulstrode, "all Jack's income, such as it was, died with him, and there was nothing left for Grace except the copyright of his books. Well, goodness knows Grace isn't a girl who wants luxuries, but, all the same, you can't live on three volumes of travels, even if they have been praised by the Royal Geographical Society."

"It sounds rather indigestible," I admitted.

"And so," finished Lady Bulstrode triumphantly, "I persuaded her to come to me and help me look after Alan's children. Of course, she's much too good to be a governess all her life, but I mean to marry her to the first nice rich man who's got the sense to appreciate her. I've got one in my mind's eye now."

I suddenly conceived a violent dislike for this promisingly placed gentleman.

"I shouldn't think it would be difficult to fall in love with her," I remarked casually, "unless one has a rooted objection to girls being sunburned."

Lady Bulstrode laughed.

"Oh, most of that will wear off—she has just been for her holiday, staying with some old school friends, and sailing about the coast, and living in the open air. I told her she'd ruined her complexion, but I don't think she worries her head about that kind of thing. She's a born gipsy, just like her father."

The booming sound of a gong from the hall interrupted our conversation. Glancing at the clock, Lady Bulstrode got up from her chair.

"Come along, Guy," she said; "that's the dressing-bell. I will take you up to your room, and then you can tell me if there's anything you want."

Closely followed by Rufus, who was obviously determined not to lose sight of me in this strange establishment, I accompanied my hostess along one side of the gallery, and up a small flight of stairs which led to a couple of doors.

"Here we are!" she said, opening the one on the left hand. "It's Alan's old room. I hope you'll be comfortable, Guy."

I glanced round the big, splendidly furnished apartment, and saw that my things were all unpacked and laid out ready for use. My eyes took in the thick Turkey carpet, the deep easy chairs, and the luxurious brass bedstead.

I looked up with a smile.

"I think I can rough it here for a night or so," I said. "I'm used to hardships."

Lady Bulstrode laughed again, and, giving me an affectionate pat on the shoulder, left me to my toilet—and my reflections.

I could have desired no better company than the latter. Indeed, my first impulse on finding myself alone was to indulge in a kind of sacramental joy-dance round the room; but the thought that there might be someone underneath was sufficient to restrain my ardour. So I contented myself with going up to Rufus, who had jumped on to one of the chairs, and warmly shaking him by the paw.

"Rufus," I said, "we've found her—found her first shot! Who says there's no such thing as Destiny?"

Rufus licked my hand, and then looked up as though to convey his congratulations.

"We'll run no more risks," I went on. "We won't let her sail away this time, eh, my dog?" Then I paused. "Why, damn it, Rufus," I added, "you're sitting on my dress-coat! Get off it, confound you!"

He jumped down hastily in some apprehension, but I was feeling far too cheerful to be annoyed. When you have just found the woman you love, even the spectacle of your dress-coat being used as a door-mat fails to arouse any serious resentment.

While I changed I reflected pleasantly upon what I would say to Astarte. It was evident that she had told Lady Bulstrode little or nothing about her holiday; and I was glad to feel that the whole of those delicious three days was still a secret between us. One thing I was determined about, and that was that, if she was under any misapprehension as to my feelings towards her, it should be swiftly and effectively removed. On the island I had been handicapped, for any departure from the jolly fiction that we were just casual pals would have spoilt everything. Here, however, there was no such barrier. We were meeting on level terms, and it would not be my fault if Astarte remained in any doubt as to how much I loved her. I went downstairs feeling what a journalist would call "agreeably elated."

Dinner passed off in a very cheerful fashion. Even the most sombre person would find it difficult to be dull with dear old Lady Bulstrode, and sombreness was not a vice from which any of us suffered acutely. Astarte, who had quite recovered her usual self-possession, talked away with all her customary good spirits and humour. She told us about her afternoon's adventures with the children—two little girls of five and seven, to whom she seemed devoted—and discussed and described the coming house-party, most of whom had apparently been there the previous year. Like Lady Bulstrode, she seemed to entertain a high opinion of the beauty and charms of Miss Faversham and Miss McCulloch.

I kept up my end with a few picturesque details about the ends of the earth which I still had left over from our conversations on the island; and Mrs. Fawcett, a charming old white-haired lady, with a peculiarly sweet smile, gave us some delicious reminiscences of the late Queen Victoria at Balmoral, near which historic spot she herself resided.

Afterwards we all adjourned to the big, rambling, book-lined apartment which served a kind of triple function as a library, a billiard-room, and a smoking lounge. Here, with the stimulus of coffee and cigarettes, we continued to talk until about half-past nine, when Lady Bulstrode got up from her chair.

"I am going to bed, Guy," she said. "These good people are sure to keep me up to the most scandalous hours all next week, and I mean to get some beauty sleep while I have the chance. I am growing too old for prolonged dissipation."

"So am I, Mary," chimed in Mrs. Fawcett. "I shall come with you."

"I don't want to drag you off, Grace, unless you're sleepy," went on Lady Bulstrode, turning to Astarte. "Perhaps you'll stop and play Guy a game of billiards."

"Yes, please do, Miss Conway," I said. "It's against my principles to turn in before ten, and I shall be frightfully lonely if you desert me too."

"Very well," said Astarte quietly; "but I expect you're too strong for me."

Lady Bulstrode accepted the candle I offered her.

"Don't you believe her, Guy," she said. "Grace is a sort of female John Roberts. She beats all the men we have here."

"Mine will be an easy scalp, then," I returned. "I haven't touched a cue for two years."

"I am sorry for you," said Mrs. Fawcett kindly. "Good-night."

"Good-night," I replied, opening the door. "At least one can die gracefully."

For a moment after they had gone out we both stood silent and still. Then I closed the door, and came up to where Astarte was standing under the big lamp.

"My dear," I said. "Oh, my dear!" And taking her hands, I gazed steadily and happily into her wide grey eyes. She made no attempt to release herself.

"It just shows," she said, "that you can't play tricks with life. I thought that for once we'd managed to break the rules without being noticed."

"What does it matter?" I retorted. "I have found you now, and I'm not going to lose you again. Oh, Astarte, if you only knew how I've missed you!"

"Dear Stephen," she said gently. Then she released her hands, and put them behind her back. "I want to make things quite clear," she added. "It's all one can do now."

"Go on," I said encouragingly.

"I suppose Lady Bulstrode has told you who I am?"

I nodded.

"Well, in a way that explains everything. You see, I spent three years with father before he was killed, and the whole of that time we were either sailing about in the Hyacinth, or else making little expeditions into places like Patagonia or New Guinea. You can imagine what effect a life like that would have on a girl of seventeen. By the time I was twenty I'd almost forgotten that there was any other way of living except in a ship or in a tent. As for wanting anything else," she shrugged her shoulders, "I don't suppose two people have ever been happier together than father and I were."

For a moment she paused.

"Then," she went on, a little wearily, "he was killed. I can't tell you what that time meant to me. You see, somehow or other I had never thought of life without him. He was so strong and brave and splendid, it seemed impossible that he could die like other people. I was trying to think things out, trying to make up my mind what to do, when Lady Bulstrode wrote to me and asked me to come here. So I came, and here I've been ever since."

"And you've been—been happy?" I asked, for want of a better word.

"Oh, yes. Who could help being happy with Lady Bulstrode? She's the dearest, kindest, jolliest soul in the world, and I owe everything to her. Still, as you see, I don't always tell her the whole truth."

"No intelligent person ever tells the whole truth," I said reassuringly. "Half of it is quite enough, as a rule."

"I thought it was—about my holiday. You see, Lady Bulstrode would have been miserable if she had known that I had hired a boat and was camping out on an island by myself! Of course, it does sound rather a mad proceeding. But after wandering about with father all that time, I've got a sort of craving for the wilds, and now and then it gets so strong I simply can't resist it."

"I know, Astarte," I said. "I know."

"After all, there was no harm in it," she went on. "If you and Rufus hadn't turned up, no one would ever have been any the wiser. That did complicate matters."

"You make me feel like one of George's official explanations," I protested. "I'd have gone, you know, if you'd insisted on it."

She nodded.

"I didn't want you to go a bit. I was awfully glad to have someone to play with. You see, I thought I should never see you again, and that it wouldn't matter. You can imagine what I felt like when I found you were Mr. Heathcote."

"No," I said. "I wish I could. If it was anything like as——"

"I suppose George is your brother—Lord Mapleton?" she interrupted hastily.

"You're right," I replied. "Though George wouldn't be pleased at your way of putting it."

She made a pretty little gesture with her hands.

"Well," she said, "it can't be helped." Then she looked up smiling. "We must just forget all about it," she added.

I shook my head.

"I don't think we can do that," I answered. "You see, I want to go to Kerrin Island for part of our honeymoon."

She made a slight movement, but I went on without giving her time to speak.

"My dear heart," I said, "do you imagine that I'm going to let you go again unless you absolutely send me away from you?"

Coming up to her, I took her two hands, and, lifting them up to my lips, kissed them alternately.

She looked down on me with something very like tears in her eyes.

"You're a dear, Stephen," she said softly, "you're a dear; but—but it can't be."

"And why not?" I demanded.

"Oh," she said pitifully. Then, with an effort: "You see, I don't love you, Stephen."

I looked steadily into her eyes.

"That's not true," I said calmly. "I think we'll tell each other the truth, dear, whatever it is."

"Very well." She drew herself up, and her gaze met mine frankly and unflinchingly. "I do love you, Stephen," she said, "but I'm not going to marry you, because I know all about you."

"I'm sorry for that," I said. "It's certainly enough to prejudice any one."

She smiled a wan little smile.

"Oh, my dear, I didn't mean anything unkind. I only meant that Lady Bulstrode has told me all about your career and your ambitions, and how necessary it is you should marry a rich woman. Do you think I'm going to spoil your life because I'm fond of you?"

"No, I don't," I returned, "but I think you would if I gave you half a chance." Then I paused. "As it is," I went on, "I shall simply buy a marriage licence and a good second-hand thirty-ton boat, and come and carry you off by force."

"I won't, Stephen—I won't. I'm simply not going to ruin your career for you."

"My career!" I echoed. "Do you imagine I want to be a politician? Do you think I want to sit on a stuffy green bench and listen to people like dear old George, when I can sail the blue seas and love you?"

"It certainly does sound more attractive," she admitted weakly.

"Of course it is," I said. "It was what we were created for. We'll simply take up life where you left it off when your father died. I'll buy that boat, and we'll wander about the world just as we please for a thousand years, and we'll love each other like the sea loves the wind and the night loves the stars."

I stopped for breath, and, with shining eyes. Astarte leaned forward.

"My Stephen," she said, "you make it very hard."

I took her in my arms and kissed her dear, soft, half-open lips.

"Well," I asked softly, "have you anything else to say, Astarte, before we play billiards?"

She looked up, and I saw the old, delicious smile breaking through her tears.

"Only that I was right after all," she whispered. "I said you were too strong for me, Stephen."

The Man with the Chin

"I shouldn't like to marry a man with a chin like that," said the girl in red. Her companion, a ferret-faced young gentleman with his hair parted in the middle, inserted his eye-glass and stared deliberately across the room.

"Obstinate-lookin' beggar—what?" he drawled.

Unconscious of these criticisms, George Leslie sat at his solitary table, only looking up from his newspaper whenever the door of the room opened to admit a fresh arrival. It was on the sixth occasion that his inspection appeared to be successful. His lips parted in a smile, and, laying down his paper, he rose quietly from his chair.

The girl in red nudged her companion.

"She's come at last. Kept him waiting long enough."

The ferret-faced young man indulged himself in another leisurely survey. "Worth it, too, by Jove!" he ejaculated admiringly.

His criticism, if a trifle crude in expression, was sound enough in taste. The girl who had just come in was most distinctly worth waiting for. Beautifully dressed, with a shy yet charming prettiness, she moved across the tea-room towards Leslie, and held out her hand with a little smile of apology.

"I am so sorry!" she said. "I know I'm dreadfully late."

There was a momentary twinkle in Leslie's grey eyes.

"Twenty-one-and-a-half minutes," he said. "Not a record, Nancy, by a long way."

She sat down in the chair which he pulled up, and began to take off her gloves.

"There's one nice thing about you," she answered, looking at him with frank affection, "you never mind people being late, do you?"

"I occasionally make an exception in business hours," said Leslie.

"Oh, business!" She shrugged her pretty shoulders. "I expect you're simply horrid in business, George. I'm sure you bully all those poor people at the garage dreadfully."

Leslie shook his head.

"I leave that to Morton these days. My time's taken up in making them miserable at the works."

The girl laughed.

"I can just see you," she said. "I suppose you stick your chin out and growl at them like you do at me when you're cross?"

"Something the same way," admitted Leslie, "only not quite so violent. You see, they're not often as irritating as you are, Nancy."

She looked at him mischievously, and then suddenly clasped her hands.

"Oh, George," she said, "I'd quite forgotten. Are you doing anything next Wednesday?"

"Nothing more than usual," said Leslie. "About eight hours' work."

"Oh, that's all right then. It's father's and mother's wedding-day, and the old dears want to celebrate it in some way. I suggested that we should go for a motor picnic to Beechwood—just the three of us, and get you to drive us. Don't you think it's a lovely idea? You know there's a dear old church there, where Cardinal Wolsey was married or died or did something, and you and I can get away together after lunch and have a look at it. Both father and mother don't care for that sort of thing, and they won't mind my going with you. You know father's taken quite a fancy to you since you came round that day and showed him the new car."

Leslie leaned back in his chair and looked at her with a kind of amused gravity. Then he shook his head.

"Things can't go on like this, Nancy," he said.

Her dark blue eyes opened innocently.

"Can't go on like what?" she inquired.

"I mean I can't go on deceiving your people in this way."

Nancy drew back, pouting.

"Oh, George dear, I thought we'd settled all that."

Leslie smiled.

"You settled it, Nancy—I didn't. But at the best it was only to be a temporary arrangement. Well, in my opinion, the time has come to end it."

"But we can't end it, dear," protested Nancy, helping herself delicately to a chocolate éclair.

"Why not?" asked Leslie. "I can go to your father and ask him whether he has any objection to me as a son-in-law. If he has—well, at least we shall know where we are, and then you can make up your mind what you're going to do."

"Now you're being horrid," said Nancy. "You know very well father won't let me marry you. He thinks, because you've made your money yourself, and because you run a motor-car business, that—that——"

"That I'm not a gentleman," finished Leslie, smiling good-naturedly. "Well, I can't help that, Nancy. Perhaps he's right. My point is that it doesn't alter the question. If you're going to marry me, you'll have to do it some day either with or without your father's consent."

"There's no hurry," protested Nancy weakly.

"Not the least," admitted Leslie, "but, on the other hand, there's no reason for waiting. The business is bringing me in an excellent income, and we're only wasting both our lives."

Nancy stirred her tea, and looked at him sorrowfully.

"George," she said, "you'll make me cry if you go on like that. Why can't we stop as we are just a little longer? Something's sure to turn up."

Leslie shook his head.

"Nothing ever turns up in this world unless people dig for it. Come, Nancy"—he smiled at her—"if you like me well enough to marry me, surely you can't mind my asking your father whether he objects. I know you dislike rows and unpleasantness of any kind, but there must be a limit to everything."

Nancy wriggled rather unhappily in her chair, looking prettier than ever.

"I don't know what to do," she said forlornly. "I'm awfully fond of you, George, and I would like to marry you, really I would, dear, but I simply can't go and have a nasty, silly squabble with father and mother. You know they wouldn't hear of it. They're frightfully old-fashioned, both of them, and they think I'm sure to marry a duke or something. If I told them I wanted to marry you, they'd have a fit. I might just as well say I was going to run away with the coachman. Give me some more tea, dear."

Leslie, who did not seem to be the least annoyed, poured her out a second cup.

"Well, it seems pretty plain, Nancy," he said, "that you'll have to choose between me and your love of peace."

She looked at him with a kind of mock despair.

"Oh, George, are you going to desert me, just when I want your help? I didn't think you were like that, or I shouldn't have loved you."

"But you must make up your mind one way or the other," protested Leslie, laughing.

Nancy shook her head despairingly.

"What's the good of telling me that, George? You know I can't make up my mind; I never could. Someone's always had to do it for me. Let's just go on as we are for a bit. It's awfully nice loving each other, and no one knowing anything about it, and perhaps you'll save father's life or something."

"If that's all it depends on," said Leslie ironically, "we may as well begin printing the invitations."

"Now, you're not to stick out your chin like that and look cross," said Nancy. "It's just as tiresome for me as it is for you; and you ought to be nice and sympathetic, instead of being grumpy."

"I'm not a bit cross really," said Leslie. "I should as soon think of getting cross with a flower as with you."

Nancy brightened up wonderfully.

"Oh, that's sweet of you, George. I love people to say things like that to me, and you so seldom do it." Then she paused, and looked at him with mischievous, pleading eyes. "And you will come and drive us on Wednesday, won't you, dear?" she added.

The corners of Leslie's mouth twitched.

"Nancy," he said, "you're as wicked as you're beautiful."

"Oh, dear," said Nancy, "that's the second in two minutes."

* * * * * * *

Colonel Peyton pushed back his plate, and got up from the breakfast-table.

"Well, it's a lovely day," he observed, looking out of the window. "I hope that young man will be punctual. Are you women ready?"

"Did you ever know mother late for anything, Father?" inquired Nancy calmly.

Colonel Peyton chuckled, and shook his finger at her.

"It's you I'm thinking of, miss," he said; "you're the one that will keep us waiting."

"Come along," said Mrs. Peyton, "and put your things on, darling. We mustn't keep the car standing."

Mrs. Peyton, having been brought up with horses, had never been able to rid herself of the idea that a motor became restless under such treatment.

Nancy laughed, and accompanied her mother upstairs, from which region she shortly emerged, looking bewitchingly demure and pretty in a sort of Kate Greenaway cloak and bonnet.

The Colonel, who was just struggling into his coat, gazed at her with fond approval.

"Very nice, Nancy," he said; "very nice. You remind me of your mother."

The compliment—to Colonel Peyton it was a very genuine compliment—had hardly left his lips when there came the loud hum of a motor-car driving up to the house. Nancy stepped forward, and opened the door.

"Punctual to the minute," observed the Colonel triumphantly. "It's a pleasure to deal with a young man like that."

The young man in question brought the car round with a graceful sweep, and pulled up noiselessly level with the doorstep.

"How do you do?" he said, taking off his cap, and bowing slightly to Nancy and Mrs. Peyton.

The Colonel stepped out and offered his hand.

"How are you, Mr. Leslie?" he inquired. "Very good of you to come round and drive us yourself. Now you're making cars of your own you don't do much of this sort of thing, I suppose—eh, what?"

"Not often," said Leslie gravely. "Unless people specially ask for me, I generally send one of the men."

Nancy's eyes sparkled merrily.

"May I sit in front with the driver, Father?" she asked. "I love to watch him pull out the handles."

The Colonel looked a trifle embarrassed.

"Oh, I—I—er—expect Mr. Leslie doesn't like to be asked questions while he's driving, Nancy."

It seemed to him curious that his daughter failed to recognize that Leslie was a cut above the ordinary chauffeur.

"I hope Miss Peyton will sit in front if she wishes to," said Leslie. "I don't in the least mind being asked questions. One gets used to it, you know."

Nancy did not wait for any further discussion, but jumped lightly up into the vacant seat, while a solemn-looking butler proceeded to stow a hamper into the back of the car. The Colonel and Mrs. Peyton then took their places, and Leslie, slipping in his clutch, turned the car slowly round and started off up the road.

It was a beautiful summer day of blue and gold, and the twenty-five miles to Beechwood lay through some of the fairest country in England. Pleasantly warmed by the sun, and lulled by the gentle drone of the motor, the old people lay back in their comfortable seats, and gazed contentedly at the passing scenery. Not so Nancy, who, sitting upright, with a demure smile on her face and mischief in her eyes, proceeded to question Leslie with an apparently artless enthusiasm as to the various parts of the car. He answered her seriously and politely, never smiling or varying from the respectful tone of a temporary employé.

"I hope Nancy isn't bothering that young man too much," observed the Colonel in an undertone to his wife.

Mrs. Peyton beamed good-naturedly at the couple in front.

"Oh, people of that sort like to be asked questions," she whispered back. "He's proud to show off his car to Nancy; you can be sure of that."

"I only hope she won't make him run us into a ditch with her chattering," was the Colonel's rejoinder.

That this tragedy was successfully avoided may be gathered from the fact that half an hour later the car pulled up in a little woodland clearing just above Beechwood village. It was a charming spot carpeted with soft mossy turf, and hemmed in on three sides with trees. From the fourth the Buckinghamshire countryside stretched out in a magnificent rolling panorama of twenty miles.

After a brief and whispered consultation with his wife, Colonel Peyton turned to Leslie.

"I hope you'll lunch with us, Mr. Leslie," he said. "We have brought plenty for four."

Leslie bowed.

"I shall be very pleased to," he answered. And going round to the back of the car, he proceeded to assist Nancy in getting out the hamper.

The lunch looked most attractive spread out on a clean white cloth, for, like many elderly soldiers, Colonel Peyton regarded food as only slightly inferior in importance to religion and good breeding. Seated beside Mrs. Peyton, Leslie found himself being patronized by that complaisant lady with all the well-meaning condescension of her kind.

"You must eat a good lunch, Mr. Leslie," she observed, helping him generously to cold game-pie. "I am sure it must be most tiring driving that great heavy car."

"To say nothing of answering all your questions—eh, Nancy?" put in the Colonel. "Have some champagne?" He held out the bottle to Leslie.

The latter filled up Mrs. Peyton's glass, and then helped himself.

"Driving a car nowadays isn't a very tiring business," he explained, "especially when one is used to it."

"Well, I mean to try it before long," said the Colonel. "One has to take to the infernal things in self-defence—what? I shall probably come down on you, now you've taken to making cars yourself. Sir Herbert Temple tells me they're excellent."

Nancy clapped her hands.

"Oh, Father, that will be delightful!" she said. "And can't you get Mr. Leslie to come and drive us?"

Leslie bit his lip to stop himself from smiling.

"My dear child," said the Colonel, "Mr. Leslie is much too busy a man for that sort of thing. It's very good of him to come to-day."

"I suppose the motor-car business is a very thriving industry," hazarded Mrs. Peyton vaguely. "Do you make them yourself, Mr. Leslie?"

"With a little assistance," answered Leslie. "It's rather complicated work, you know."

"It must be," said Mrs. Peyton sympathetically. "The tyres alone, for instance. I can't think how you cut all those funny patterns on the rubber. What a perfect day for a picnic, isn't it?"

Having taken this abrupt æsthetic turn, the conversation wandered away into general channels, until by a natural process it drifted back to the immediate surroundings of the party.

"I want to see the church," said Nancy, throwing a little sidelong glance at Leslie. "I believe it's most awfully interesting. Cardinal Wolsey did something or other in it."

"The church, the church?" inquired Colonel Peyton in whom lunch had induced certain symptoms of restfulness. "What church? Where is it?"

"I believe it's down in the village," answered Nancy innocently. "I could walk down and back before you are ready to start."

"I don't think you'd better," said the Colonel. "You'll probably meet some drunken tramp."

"Well, perhaps Mr. Leslie would walk down with me," suggested Nancy. "I do want to see the church frightfully. That was why I suggested Beechwood."

"I should be delighted to," said Leslie simply.

Colonel Peyton looked a little doubtful. The young man certainly seemed most respectful and well-mannered, but—but—well, well, after all, where was the harm. Having asked him to lunch, it would appear rather unkind to refuse his well-meant offer, especially as the suggestion had originally come from Nancy.

"Go along with you, then," said the Colonel good-naturedly. "But don't be late. We want to start back by three."

Side by side, Nancy and Leslie set off down the hill. For some little way Nancy was bubbling over with suppressed merriment, which only found its escape when they rounded the corner of the hill and were out of sight of the older people. Then she thrust her arm through Leslie's, and broke into a long ripple of laughter.

"Oh, George dear," she said. "I thought I should have exploded. Your face was simply lovely!"

Leslie smiled contentedly.

"If it comes to that," he retorted, "you're looking rather nice yourself this morning, Nancy."

Nancy squeezed his arm gently.

"That's very pretty," she said, "but you mustn't say that sort of thing too often, George, or I shall think you've been practising. Where are we going to?"

"Why, to the church, of course," answered Leslie.

Nancy wrinkled her nose.

"But I don't want to go to the church," she protested. "It's sure to be all dusty and stuffy, and there'll be some horrid old man who'll want to crawl round with us and point out Cardinal Wolsey. Let's go and sit in the wood somewhere, and just talk."

Leslie shook his head.

"No, Nancy," he said sternly. "I can't encourage such deception. Come along to the church."

Nancy sighed.

"Oh, dear," she murmured, "that's the worst of loving a man with a chin like yours. I shouldn't be half so frightened of you if you had a beard, George. Will you grow one to please me when we're married?"

"You shall have whiskers if you want them," said Leslie tenderly.

Nancy laughed, and, withdrawing her arm, stopped to pick two or three flowers that were nestling in the hedgerow.

"There you are," she said, putting them in his buttonhole. Then she turned up her face. "You may kiss me now if you like."

Leslie put his hands on her shoulders, and kissed her very gently.

Nancy patted his sleeve.

"You dear, obstinate old thing!" she said. "I believe you like me rather, after all."

"I do a little," said Leslie quietly.

Walking side by side, they came out on to the bend of the hill that leads down into Beechwood village. The small hamlet with its thatched cottages lay spread out below them in the warm July sunshine.

"What a sweet place, isn't it?" said Nancy. "There's the church." She pointed down to a little square tower, half hidden amongst the trees. "And, oh, look!" she added. "There's someone outside with a motor-car. I suppose he's come to see Cardinal Wolsey too."

Leslie said nothing. He was busy flicking away some dust from his coat with his handkerchief.

"He's left the car and gone inside," went on Nancy. "What fun! Let's steal it, George, and go for a ride!"

"I don't think we'd better," said Leslie. "He might be the bishop inspecting."

Nancy shook her head.

"Bishops never inspect," she said decidedly. "They sit at home and swear at the Government. I know, because my uncle's one."

"Well, we'll go inside too, and see what he's doing," said Leslie. "Perhaps he's breaking open the poor-box."

They turned in under the old wooden gateway and walked up the churchyard path. The door of the porch was open, and as they entered Leslie closed it behind them. At that moment the organ broke softly into music.

Nancy slipped her arm into her companion's.

"Oh, dear!" she whispered. "I believe there's a service on."

As she spoke an elderly clergyman in a surplice came out suddenly from a side door in the chancel. He walked slowly to the steps, and stood there with a book in his hand looking down the aisle towards them.

"It's our wedding service," said Leslie simply.

All the colour went suddenly out of Nancy's face. She stood for a moment as if turned to white marble, while the sound of the organ rose louder and louder, mounting up triumphantly into the fretted roof, and filling all the church with its joyous harmony. She tried to speak, but somehow or other the words refused to come. Then she felt Leslie's arm tighten, and she was walking up the aisle, while the music sank and died in low, melodious tones. She had a vague impression of two men getting up from the front pew.

"Gathered together—sight of God—face of this congregation—join together—man and woman—holy matrimony—honourable estate instituted——"

But this was impossible, absurd. She couldn't be married like this. What was Leslie thinking of? The man must stop.

The monotonous drone continued:

"Have this woman—wedded wife—live together—God's ordinance—holy estate matrimony—lover, comfort, honour, an' keeper—sickness and in health—forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her so long as ye both shall live?"

Leslie's voice came, cheerful and distinct:

"I will."

"Have this man—wedded husband—live together—God's ord'nance—holy estate matrimony. Obey him, serve him, love, honour, and keep him—sickness—health—forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him so long as ye both shall live?"

Nancy gasped.

"Who giveth this woman—married—this man?"

There was a shuffle of feet, and somebody stepped forward beside her.

Nancy found herself holding Leslie's hand. Her mind seemed to be a whirling wilderness of amazed protest. What was she to do? Why hadn't she spoken before? She wouldn't be married like this—she wouldn't—she wouldn't! It was hateful of Leslie! She'd—she'd—What was it the man wanted her to say?

"I, Nancy, take thee, George—wedded husband—have and to hold——"

Somehow she had stumbled through the responses, and then she was kneeling beside Leslie, and her hand was still in his.

It was too late now. She was married—married—married, and all the protests in the world would be worse than useless. Even the parson's drone seemed to ring with a note of finality.

"Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder."

Of what happened immediately after, Nancy never had any very clear idea. She remembered signing a book, and shaking hands with two complete strangers, and being congratulated by the old clergyman. And at last she and Leslie were alone.

It was then that Nancy began to cry.

"Don't, dearest, don't!" said Leslie.

He took her in his arms, and kissed her wet eyes and quivering lips.

"Oh, how could you—how could you?" She hid her face against his coat, and somehow the laughter forced its way through her tears. "Oh, George, you beast, you beast, you bully!"

"It was the only way, my Nancy."

His voice was very tender, and the steady grey eyes looked down on her alight with love. She took his handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed her eyes.

"I'll never forgive you—never! It was horrible of you, George!" Then came the old mischievous smile, like a flash of sunshine through the rain. "However did you do it, dear?"

"I got a special licence on Saturday," said Leslie calmly. "Then I came down here, saw the parson, and told him to be ready at two o'clock. I said we might keep him waiting, so I would pay double fees."

Nancy burst into a ripple of laughter.

"Oh, George," she said, "I think you must be the devil!"

"Well, he took up the bargain quick enough. Then I told Morton, my partner, to come down with another car and wait outside the churchyard. Directly he saw me coming he was to go in and start the parson, and that's how everything was ready. It was quite a simple matter, really."

"But it's only just beginning," said Nancy. "Think of father and mother."

"I have," said Leslie. "Morton is driving them home. I have given him a letter explaining the circumstances. We shall go back in the other car."

Nancy collapsed.

"And then?" she inquired faintly.

"Then I shall take you to Claridge's, and go round and see your father. I want to apologize to him."

Nancy shuddered.

"What do you think he'll say?"

Leslie took her two hands and drew her towards him.

"Dearest," he said, "your father and I are going to be great friends."

She looked up into his strong, kind face. Then she gave a little happy laugh.

"George," she said, "I'm glad you've got a chin like that. It makes me feel so safe."

Tony and His Conscience

The taxi pulled up with a jerk opposite Hyde Court Mansions, and the Honourable Reginald Seton, in the glossiest of top hats and the most delicate of grey frock-coats, stepped out carefully on to the pavement. Then, with the graceful deliberation that marked all his movements, he extracted half-a-crown from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to the driver.

The man pocketed the coin with a wheezy "Thank ye, sir," and, leaning over from his box, inquired furtively, "Wot's goin' to win ter-day, guv'nor?"

Reggie sighed.

"My bookmaker," he said, adjusting his field-glasses to a nicer angle. Then, with his head slightly on one side, he mounted the two or three stone steps that led into the big block of flats.

The liftman, who looked like a dirty edition of the All Highest, touched his cap as Reggie approached.

"Mr. Delmar's flat, sir?" he inquired, opening the door.

Reggie nodded.

"They tell me, sir," pursued the liftman, as he and Reggie progressed heavenwards, "that Little Eva's very 'ot to-day—very 'ot indeed, sir."

"How unpleasant for her jockey!" replied Reggie, with a slight shudder.

The liftman smiled respectfully.

"It's a good tip, sir," he observed. "I 'ad it straight from the stable."

Reggie looked at him with admiration.

"Did you really, Smith?" he said. "How clever of you! The only things I've ever had from a stable have been bills."

"Ah, well, sir," said the liftman indulgently, "you can afford to pay 'em."

Reggie shook his head.

"That's just where you're wrong, Smith; I can afford not to—which is much more important."

The lift stopped at the third landing, and Mr. Smith flung back the trellised iron gate. Then he stepped out after Reggie, and, crossing to the door exactly opposite, pressed the electric bell.

"Thank you, Smith," said Reggie languidly; "you are very efficient."

The bell was answered by a middle-aged, clean-shaven man with a face like a tired mask.

"Good-morning, Ropes," said Reggie. "Is Mr. Delmar up?"

Ropes stepped back, opening the door.

"Mr. Delmar is dressing, sir; I think he is expecting you."

"I know he is," said Reggie, advancing into the hall, and beginning to take off his gloves. "Has he ordered the car?"

"Nine-thirty sharp, sir."

Reggie smiled.

"Ah, well," he said, "I think we shall be ready by ten, with any luck."

"Yes, sir," replied Ropes; "I should think so, sir."

"You were always an optimist, Ropes," said Reggie.

At that moment a door on the farther side of the hall was thrown open and a voice—a peculiarly engaging, good-tempered sort of voice—inquired cheerfully:

"That you, Reggie?"

Reggie laid down his hat and stick on the settee.

"The answer," he said, "is in the affirmative."

"Well, come in," replied the voice, "and don't be an ass."

Accepting the first suggestion, Reggie walked across the hall.

The room which he entered was as comfortable as a man's bedroom has any right to be. A wood fire was crackling away pleasantly in the grate, and reflecting a comfortable glow on the two or three excellent specimens of Mr. Finch Stuart's talent which hung upon the walls.

On the bed sat Tony, tastefully draped in a white Turkish bath robe. He was smoking a cigarette and helping himself out of a bottle of champagne from the table beside him.

Reggie looked at him reprovingly.

"Tony," he said, "I thought you had long ago abandoned that disgusting English habit of eating breakfast."

Tony shook his head.

"You have always misjudged me," he said. "My real tastes are as simple as a schoolboy's. Have some?"

He poured out a glass and handed it to Reggie, at the same time casting a critical eye over the latter's clothes.

"My dear Reggie," he said, "you are very beautiful, but do you think that's the most suitable costume for motoring down to Newmarket in?"

"Quite," said Reggie contentedly, "if one goes inside."

"Oh," replied Tony, "you've arranged it, have you? May I hear the details?"

"Certainly," said Reggie, sipping gracefully from his glass. "You will perform your usual miracles with the steering-wheel, Musette will watch you with grave approval, and Gwendoline and I will sit behind and hold hands."

"And suppose Musette wants to go inside?"

Reggie smiled.

"I am not the least afraid of that," he said.

Tony got up from the bed and began to shed his bath robe.

"Well, you had better hold Gwendoline's hand as engagingly as you can," he said. "It will probably be your last chance, as far as I'm concerned."

Reggie looked at him with a faint wrinkle in his forehead.

"Is it a riddle, Tony?" he asked plaintively. "I am no good at riddles unless I'm slightly drunk."

"The answer," said Tony, selecting a shirt with some care, "is Little Eva. It's very painful, but the fact remains that if Little Eva doesn't win to-day there's an end of Antony Delmar."

Reggie paused in the act of lighting a cigarette.

"You're not thinking of poisoning yourself, are you, Tony?" he asked, with interest. "Because, if so, a doctor chap once told me——"

Tony laughed.

"You're always very helpful, Reggie," he said; "but, as a matter of fact, I've not the least idea of doing anything so exciting. I only mean that unless Little Eva brings it off we've finished this particular chapter. I've no doubt Ropes will lend me a tenner, but, bar that, I shall be what Pat O'Donnell used to call 'bruk to the buff.'"

For the first time Reggie looked a little serious.

"Are things really as bad as that?" he asked.

"Worse," said Tony calmly. "Much worse. There are my unhappy tradesmen to be considered. That's the only point that worries me. I hate doing a tradesman, Reggie, but I'm afraid I shall have to."

"Of course you will," said Reggie hopefully. "We're always having to do unpleasant things in this life. It's what my uncle the bishop calls 'our duty,' You'll have to go bankrupt, Tony, and then borrow a few thousands and start over again."

Tony, who was adjusting his tie with some care, smiled.

"It's a good idea," he said, "but, unfortunately, I've rather forestalled it. The five thousand that I've got on Little Eva with Morris and Weaver was a sort of farewell testimonial from my friends. I think I touched everyone except you and Ropes, and Ropes has been paying the bills for at least a fortnight. I really can't go on any longer, or the poor fellow will have lost all he's robbed me of."