Front matter (continued 3)

"Governor," said Hal earnestly, "what's the use of bluffin' a fellow like me? I ask you, are you the sort to buy a tin-pot little paper, to go in for house property and then evict your paying tenants? Governor, you're spending money an' that's a very significant thing."

Sir Harry looked at his watch.

"I've five minutes to catch my train," he said pointedly, "is the brougham at the door?"

The brougham was at the door. Its two champing pawing steeds champed and pawed as per specification—as a business man Sir Harry insisted upon written specifications dealing minutely with details of his purchases, even of his carriage horses.

"Another time," said Sir Harry drawing on his gloves, "I shall be happy to discuss this matter. But not now."

He reached his office in Austin Friars and found a note awaiting him. A note daringly spelt and slovenly written.

An hour later he hailed a cab and drove rapidly westward.

In Guilford Street is an imposing house bearing on the fanlight over the front door the astonishing legend, "Apartments," and at this house Sir Harry descended. His knock brought a little Swiss boy in an ill-fitting dress suit.

"Mr. Smith?" inquired Sir Harry and the boy nodded and ushered him upstairs.

The atmosphere of the room into which Sir Harry was shown was, to put it mildly, dense.

Mr. William Slewer was an inveterate smoker of bad cigars.

He lay full length on a sofa with a glowing butt between his teeth, and rose slowly and painfully to his feet as the knight entered.

"How is the leg?" asked Sir Harry pleasantly.

Bill Slewer permitted himself to smile. "That's nothin'," he said indifferently, "a little thing like that don't trouble me any. She smarts some, but nothin' to boast about."

He looked expectantly at Sir Harry and that gentleman read his unspoken questions.

"I have nothing to tell you further," he said, "we are doing our best to make Brockley too hot for him."

"He'd better get a wiggle on," said Mr. Slewer calmly, "I'm sure tired of this foolish old country."

"You must do nothing," said Sir Harry hastily, "you understand that I am not interested in your private affairs, and you must do nothing in Brockley—I will not be associated with the business. I had hoped to have accomplished my purpose anonymously. I had hoped that through the medium of the local press I might have been able to shame the man away, without in any way identifying myself with the—er—movement."

He wiped his forehead nervously.

"I cannot tell you," he went on, with a show at firmness, "how much I deprecate your shooting affray—it is unconstitutional, Mr. Slewer. Very well in its way for America and similar lawless places, but revolver shooting in the suburbs of London Mr. Slewer,—it's—it's—hazardous."

Bill rolled his cigar butt to the opposite corner of his mouth, and said nothing.

Anon he tossed the stump into the fireplace, and searched his pockets vainly for another cigar. Sir Harry tendered his well-filled case.

"I will go further," he said, as Bill struck a match, "I tell you that I think you ought to abandon your object, which is, in my humble opinion, unchristianlike and unlawful, but," he went on, "if you still have this grievance——"

"Oh, she's there all right, all right," Bill assured him.

"Well, if that is so, wait, for heaven's sake wait, until he's out of Brockley."

He paced up and down the room.

"Don't you see, my good man, how the whole thing compromises me? I'm known to dislike the Duke—it wasn't known till the confounded fellow produced a newspaper to proclaim the fact—you are known as having been introduced by me—the thing is too horrible. Why, people would say that I instigated the thing!"

I do not attempt to work out the psychology of Sir Harry's attitude into decimal places. I shrink from suggesting that he would derive any satisfaction from the killing or wounding of the Duc de Montvillier.

Such a suggestion would border upon the preposterous, for Sir Harry was a Justice of the Peace of the County of Kent, and, as is very well known, crime amongst the J.P.'s of Kent is singularly and gratifyingly rare. They are a well-behaved and modest class of citizens, by nature gentle and diffident, in appearance mild and affable, pursuing their calm unbunkered way, the world forgetting, by the world forgot, as somebody so beautifully put it.

There are, of course, black sheep in every family, and it is conceivable that angry and base passions may glow in secret breasts, but basing my opinion upon published statistics, I confidently assert that the mere suggestions that Sir Harry's motives were homicidal in intention, may be dismissed as being too monstrous for serious consideration.

Indeed his next words prove this contention.

"My object in helping you is a purely disinterested one. I brought you away from Brockley in my carriage because I wanted to avoid a scandal and a scene. It was very indiscreet and most improper of you to attempt—er—to stop that young man——"

"Say," said Mr. Bill Slewer of Four Ways, "I'm wise."

"I'm delighted to hear it," said Sir Harry, "and——"

"I'm wise to this peace-on-earth talk," said Mr. Slewer approvingly, "I know the dope. I seen it handed out. Mike Sheehan the alderman felly in New York was fat with it. 'No violence,' says he, 'when I'm around,' says he, 'and if you sock him good,' says he, 'do it when I'm sayin' grace at Delmonico's.'"

"I assure you, my good fellow——"

"Switch off," suggested Mr. Slewer in the friendliest manner. "You're in this Silver Streak deal."

"That is settled," said Sir Harry quickly.

"Settled nothing," said the calm Bill, "I'm next to that deal: Judge Mogg an' me's the David-Jonathan turn. Knew Mogg when his father was toting a five cent freak show round California in '76—I was one of dem freaks."

He chuckled noiselessly.

"The hairy boy from Opkomstisalvacato for mine," he said reminiscently, "young Al. Mogg took the money at the door—that's how he made his pile."

Sir Harry Tanneur preserved a sulky silence.

"Silver Streak," pursued Bill, "she's a whereas-an'-hereby proposition to me, but Al. sorted out the situation—yes, sir. Silver Streak is a life tenancy, an' the London and Denver have got second option. See? This Duke felly got it in his own name, so when he goes to glory, in steps the imperishable London an' Denver Corporation—that's youse."

Bill's face was peculiarly expressionless, but his pale blue eyes challenged contradiction.

"There's a bit in that contract about the heirs of his body," he wagged his head knowingly, "so it comes to this: Dukey ain't much use to you alive——"

"Stop, sir!" The knight drew himself up to his full height. "The suggestion you make is infamous, and I must solemnly and emphatically place on record my complete and absolute disapproval of your reasoning. I do not know whether it is not my duty to inform the police of your threat—for it is a threat—to create—er—a breach of the peace."

He took up his hat and moved to the door.

"I content myself by saying that I dissociate myself from any private scheme of vengeance you may contemplate against the Duc de Montvillier."

Bill's eyes closed wearily.

"You make me tired," he said simply.

Sir Harry left without remembering to recover his cigar case, and, curiously enough, Bill forgot to remind him.

III

Alicia Terrill did not view the Brockley Aristocrat with unmixed joy. Even the lines "To A.T. with the homage of R.N." did little to reconstruct her sentiments in the matter. They ran—

Thou peerless daughter of the age,

So beautiful and fearless;

There soon shall come another stage,

When thou wilt not be Peerless.

She thought them rather impertinent, and it may be said that she did not like Mr. Nape over much.

Her objection to the Aristocrat was its irritating appearance of permanency. She was a girl with decided views.

What elusive quality is it that makes for success in a newspaper? Is it purely a literary one, or a typographical one? Is it the choice of matter, or the arrangement of type? Perhaps a little of each. What it was that made the Brockley Aristocrat successful from its very commencement may have been the individuality that lived in its pages. The deft touch of genius, the gloss and the brilliance of superlative merit. In its first number it claimed, modestly enough, to be of its kind unique.

"The Brockley Aristocrat," said the restrained notice, "will contain all the news worth reading and all the views worth writing: it will be a newspaper devoted to the best interests of the best people."

Mr. Nape, its nominal editor, rose nobly to his responsibilities. Most assiduously did he apply himself to the study of all that was most noteworthy in current journalism. He studied the back-files of the Saturday Review and acquired the style caustic, he diligently acquainted himself with the Imperialism of the Spectator and the National Review, and instantly secured the soundest of views on the Navy. He read from cover to cover the words of Miss Corelli and learnt all about editors: how bad editors are grossly fat and have pronounced Hebraic features, and how good editors are pretty scarce. He took lessons in journalism from a gentleman who guaranteed to turn a dustman into a reviewer in twelve lessons, and he read the life of Delane.

Little wonder that the Aristocrat came to fame in a short space of time with such determined strivings after perfection behind it. Little wonder that people began to read it, and to look forward to Friday (when it was published) and to take sides in the controversy that raged between its proprietor and the owner of the Lewisham and Lee Mail.

"It isn't that I want them to take sides," said the Duke, "but I want to get them interested in me. It was the only method I could think of. You see I'm naturally of a shy and shrinking disposition, and I find it difficult to convey to comparative strangers a sense of my all-round excellences."

He was paying one of his rare visits to Alicia in her own home.

The outward and visible result of his hurricane courtship glittered on the third finger of her left hand.

"But surely," she urged a little impatiently—she was a real girl and this is a true story—"you have some plans for the future, you do not intend to end your days in Brockley?"

He nodded his head.

"I can imagine nothing more satisfying," he said, "than to pass to the dark beyond, to the bourne from which—in the midst of mine own people."

"The calm way in which you have appropriated us all," she said, with a smile which was half amusement and half vexation, "is too appalling. But, dear, there is me."

"There is you," he repeated, with a twinkle in his eyes, "I have thought of that—you shall stay and share my glories."

"In the suburbs?"

She lifted her eyebrows.

"In the suburbs," said the Duke, "we will take some nice house and call it the Chateau de Montvillier with a nice garden——"

"And a nice coachhouse and hot and cold water," she went on icily, "with a month at Margate every summer and a round of local pantomimes every winter—thank you."

"As for myself," said the Duke dreamily, "I shall stand for the Board of Guardians——"

"What!"

"Board of Guardians," said the Duke firmly, "it has been one of my life's dreams: in far-away San Pio in my cow punching days, when I used to lie out on the prairie, all alone, with the great stars glittering and the unbroken solitude of the wilderness about me, that was the thought that comforted me; the whispered hope that buoyed me up. To be a guardian! The trees in their rustling murmured the word, the far-off howl of the prairie dog was, to my fevered imagination, the voice of the chairman calling the Board to order."

"But seriously?" she pleaded, "please, please be serious."

"I am serious," said the indignant Duke, "Brockley is nature, and all that pertains to Brockley is nature. Why even Tuppy sees that! When I told him that the Mayor didn't wear robes and didn't have a mace bearer, the poor chap nearly wept for joy, he's staying——"

"I am not interested in what Tuppy thinks," she said coldly, "or what Tuppy has planned. What interests me is the fact that I have no intention whatever of spending my life in the suburbs, so there."

I wonder if "so there" an expression that a lady, who had at one time lived in Portland Place, would use?

I wonder——

Alicia Terrill was angry, and not without cause.

Women have no sense of men's humour, and I do not think the Duke was tactful.

He was a young man who took things for granted.

Had Alicia been an heiress, she might have entered into the spirit of the Duke's humour. She could have afforded the whim. But she was not rich. Money is a horrid thing, and especially horrid to the poor girl who marries the rich man, however sincere and whole hearted her love is for him, and his for her.

For there comes, and there must come, an unpleasant feeling of dependence, a sensation such as must have been experienced by the unfortunate negroes who lived in Uncle Tom's Cabin (and nowhere else), when the whip of the overseer cracked, that is particularly irksome to a girl of independent character.

The Duke, as I say, took much for granted. Money was as nothing to him, he did not count it as a serious factor in life.

People with money seldom do.

You may say, having in mind the incidence of the Duke's tempestuous wooing, that there was little solid foundation for a true and abiding companionship such as marriage implies; that the ground was already prepared for misunderstandings. Perhaps your judgment is correct: in offering my own opinion, in all modesty, I venture to differ, because I know the Duke intimately.

"If you really loved me," she went on, "you would realize that I was your first interest—you would be ready to sacrifice these wretched whims of yours. It isn't the money and it isn't that I am ashamed of the suburbs—I would live in the Brixton Road—but I want to be the first thing in your life——" She faltered and made an heroic attempt to appear calm.

The Duke was genuinely astonished at the outburst, at the defiance that trembled in her tone, at the proximity of tears.

Nay, he was scared and showed it.

"My dear girl," he began.

"I'm not your dear girl," she flamed, "I will not accept your horrid patronage. I will not allow you to treat quite serious matters—matters that affect my life—as subjects for your amusement."

"My dearest——" he began but she stopped him.

She removed the half circle of diamonds from her finger with deliberation. She said nothing because she was choking.

She did not throw it at him, because she was a lady and had lived in Portland Place.

She laid it on the table and fled.

The Duke stood speechless and open mouthed; he did not behave like a hero.

Did Alicia behave like a heroine?

A study of contemporary fiction compels me to confess reluctantly that she did not.

But this is a true story, and this remarkable scene I have described actually occurred.

IV

Olejoe the First, crowned and confident, was on his throne, and Tuppy was rehearsing him in view of an approaching function.

"Draw near us," said Tuppy.

"Draw near us," repeated Olejoe pompously.

"What ho, varlets—a beaker of wine," coached Tuppy.

"What ho, varmints——"

"Varlets," corrected Tuppy.

"What ho, var——"

Just then the Duke entered, a tragic figure.

Olejoe, proud of his accomplishments, spoke his lines.

"Ho! noble dook," he bleated, "draw near——"

"Come down out of that," said the Duke peevishly, "go into the kitchen."

"If," said Olejoe taking off his crown politely, "I've said anything that's given offence——"

"Go to the devil," said the Duke.

The king retired hurriedly.

Not a word was spoken till he had departed, then:

"I'm disengaged," said the Duke bitterly.

"My dear old feller!" expostulated Tuppy.

"I'm disengaged," repeated the Duke. He looked round for a seat. The throne invited him and he mounted its wooden steps.

"I'm finished," he said and sat down on Olejoe's abandoned crown.

He sprung up with alacrity and flung the bauble away.

"Steady with the crown jewels, old man," said Tuppy anxiously. "Hank, the Koh-i-noor's knocked off, there it is under your chair. Monty, old owl, why this introduction of R. E. Morse, Esq?"

In a few gloomy words the Duke made clear the situation.

Fortunately for all concerned Tuppy's knowledge of women and their ways was encyclopaedic.

As Tuppy himself confessed, what he didn't know was hardly worth finding. He admitted he was a misogynist, he confessed that his experience had been a bitter one, but he tried, as he said, to think that all elderly ladies were not like the dowager, and few marriageable girls had the physical strength to chuck a feller down three flights of stairs.

"Mind you, old bird," warned Tuppy, "the intention is there all right. The will to do, bein' somewhat hampered by an undeveloped muscular development, it follows that my own experience was a unique reply to the Brownin' feller who asked—

What hand an' mind went ever paired?

What brain alike conceived an' dared?

What act proved all its thought had been?

What will but felt the fleshy screen?

"Dear old feller, as one who's felt the fleshy screen grip me by my neck an' the left leg of my trousers—yes, positively and indelicately the left leg of my trousers—I can answer the Brownin' feller. It was a remarkable experience. I nearly wrote an account of it for the Field. But Monty, poor soul, your experience is milder in fact though parallel in principle. Metaphorically you've been scruffed an' bagged, an' there's only one thing to do."

He paused.

"Sit it out, my boy; be aloof, noble, patient, stricken with grief; go to church on Sunday in deep mourning; start a soup kitchen an' be good to the poor—that fetches 'em."

"Sure," said Hank.

"There's another way," said Tuppy with enthusiasm, "be the riotous dog, stay out late an' come home early, sing comic songs, wear soft fronted dress shirts to emphasize your decadence, go to the devil ostentatiously—that fetches 'em to."

"Sure," agreed Hank.

"That is easier," said the Duke thoughtfully.

"It was all so very unexpected and sudden," he went on reverting to the tragedy of the evening.

"It always is," said the sympathetic Tuppy, "take my case: I hadn't time to catch hold of the bannisters before——"

I think the Duke was genuinely distressed. He sat with his head resting on one hand, his brows wrinkled in a frown, his free hand plucking idly at the velvet fringe that ornamented the throne.

"I had looked forward to a joyous winter," he said disconsolately, "we'd got the brokers in; we might have been evicted by the police; I most certainly should have gone to Brixton Prison—I'd arranged to borrow Windermere's state carriage and postillions for the occasion—and now the whole scheme is nipped in the bud."

They sat in the common-room which in the day time commanded a view of the tiny garden, and toward the darkness which hid amongst other things the Sacred Ladder, now alas! purposeless. The Duke shook his clenched fist.

"Woe is me——" he began.

Out of the gloom of the garden leapt a thin spurt of white flame.

There was a crash of glass and a splint of wood flew from the gilded back of the throne.

Instantly came a stinging report, and the light went out—Hank was in reach of the switch, and Hank moved quickly in emergencies like these.

V

Mr. Slewer's attack came unexpectedly and found the Duke unprepared. Once before Mr. Slewer had come to Kymott Crescent, but his arrival had been noted by the observant Hank, and there had been a raid upon a well furnished armoury.

The Duke ran for the conservatory, but Hank's arm caught him.

"Not on your life," he murmured. "If that's Bill he's waitin'—get upstairs an' find your gun. Mine's hangin' behind the door of my room."

He heard the Duke mount the stairs with flying feet, and cautiously opened the conservatory door that led to the garden.

"Hullo, you Bill," he said softly, but there came no answer. Disregarding the sage advice he had given to the Duke he stepped swiftly into the darkness. He sank down flat on the wet grass and peered left and right. There was no sign of any intruder, but he was too old a campaigner to trust overmuch to first appearances.

There was a light step behind him, and he was joined by the Duke.

"See anything," whispered the Duke and pushed a Colt into his hands.

"Nothing," said Hank, "he's gone."

Noiselessly they wriggled the garden length.

Hank made for the place where the ladder should have been, but his sweeping arm could not find it. Later it was discovered against the wall at the end of the garden.

Kymott Crescent is an offshoot of Kymott Road.

If you take the letter Y, the left fork to represent the Crescent, and the straight line and right fork to represent Kymott Road, you may realize the easier how the mysterious assassin escaped. For on the other side of the wall at the end of the Duke's garden is a main thoroughfare, deserted at this hour of the night, and it was as simple a matter to gain access to the garden as it was to escape from it.

They returned to Tuppy, a preternaturally solemn figure, sitting entrenched behind a divan which he had thoughtfully upended.

"He's gone," said the Duke cheerfully, but awoke no responsive gleam in Tuppy's eye.

"Oh, he's gone, has he?" said Tuppy absently.

"Yes, nipped over a ladder—I say, Tuppy, you're not scared?"

"Not a bit, oh dear no," replied Tuppy, without any great heartiness.

"There wasn't any danger, you know."

"Of course not," said Tuppy airily, "quite so."

He glanced apprehensively at the shattered glass of the door.

"Better put up the shutters, old feller," he said with a careless wave of his hand, "there's a beastly draught."

There were, as it happened, two folding shutters, artfully concealed at the side of the door, which Hank closed.

Tuppy sighed explosively.

"Of course," he said, "a little thing like that wouldn't worry me. To a feller who has seen the ups an' downs of life, especially the downs, an incident of this description—put the bar over that shutter, Hank, old friend, I still feel the draught—an incident of this description is mere child's play—I think I'll toddle."

The Duke protested.

"So soon! oh rot, Tuppy, stay and make a night of it. I want your invaluable advice, Tuppy; I'm at sixes and sevens."

"Not to-night, old boy," said Tuppy earnestly, "got a shockin' headache—too much port—liver out of order."

They escorted him to his door.

Safe inside the portals of his own mansion Tuppy recovered his spirits.

"If the fishin' is as excitin' as the shootin'," he mused aloud, "I've got hold of a fine sportin' estate."

VI

Mr. Nape, the eminent editor, sat before his desk in the editorial offices of the Aristocrat. His long black hair was rumpled, his pen-holder bore marks of a severe biting. Before him were pigeon-holes neatly labelled "Government—Attack on," "Imperialism and Crime," "Comprenez Vous?" (this was the already famous rival column to "On Dit" in a rival sheet), "New Ideas," "Notes for Leader" and similar comprehensive titles. There was a pigeon-hole marked "Advertisements," but this was empty.

Mr. Nape was sore, for the L. & L. Mail had discovered the identity of the Aristocrat's editor, and had referred to him as "a peddling crimemonger" and a "contemptible plagiarist," to say nothing of calling him "a pseudo Holmes."

In consequence, he had for three days, devoted himself to a feverish hunt into the antecedents of Mr. R. B. Rake.

He learned that Mr. Rake had at one period of his career been engaged as schoolmaster—a peg to hang "priggish pedagogue" upon—that he drew inspiration for his leaders from Hydeholme ("gregarious gramophone"), that he was a gentleman of loud voice and aggressive self-confident manner—"pomp and circumstance" wrote Mr. Nape cleverly, and other more or less important items, all of which went into the Leader.

In truth Mr. Nape's reply to the slanderous innuendoes of the L. & L. Mail might be described as having been effective and complete.

Now Mr. Nape was in a quandary, because he was engaged in a distasteful task.

This was none other than the booming of the Tuppy party and, worst of all, the editing of a letter of apology.

It would appear in the first case, that in honour of our distinguished neighbour, Lord Tupping, Mrs. Stanley Terrill would give a reception at her house; that amongst others the following eminent people would be present. Sir Harry Tanneur, the Mayor of Brockley, the Vicar, Captain Hal Tanneur (9th R.W. Kents) and others too numerous to mention. Bewildered that the citadel of the Duke's fiancée should shelter the arch enemy, Mr. Nape had commenced a long and scathing satire entitled "The Pier Master" (a happy description of Sir Harry), when peremptory orders came for its suppression and the substitution of laudatory notices concerning the forthcoming function.

It had required all the Duke's powers of persuasion to induce Tuppy to accept the invitation.

"It's a plant," said Tuppy furiously, "it's the old Tanner bird showin' off the captive at his chariot's wheel: he's dazed that poor dear lady into givin' a party—I'm not goin'. High Jupiter! Devastin' Ulysses!" he swore, "did that dear old thing Guy Tuppin' go down on the stricken field of Crecy, all mucked about with two handed sword an' maces an' things, for this! Did——"

"You cannot escape a tea-party by reference to your alleged ancestors," said the Duke calmly, "in the stricken field time of business Tanner can give you a stone and a beating. Tuppy, you've got to go."

So Mr. Nape sat, though his soul revolted, engaged in writing pleasantly and amiably and heartily, a fore-notice of the reception which was to introduce Lord Tupping to his awe-stricken neighbours.

His task was made all the more difficult by the knowledge that already public interest had been aroused in the attempt to jockey the Duke from the suburbs. That letters signed "Fair-play" and "Pro Bono Publico" had begun to arrive, that a meeting of the Ratepayers' Association had been projected, and that there were not wanting other signs of the Duke's growing popularity in the neighbourhood. Mr. Nape had suddenly found himself a political force; he had the satisfaction of knowing that he was behind the scenes; crowning joy of all, he had been referred to as a "wire puller" and had displayed the significant phrase, with an affectation of nonchalance, to Hank.

"He means a leg puller," said Hank.

"We don't think you treat this matter seriously enough," said Mr. Nape severely; "we have a certain duty to our party; a certain responsibility to our public; the whole district is ripe for change; the job of dismissing the water-cart man has roused considerable feeling; the appointment of the workhouse master's son to the position of rate collector is a scandal—people are asking how long, how long?"

"How long?" demanded the Duke.

"How long," repeated Mr. Nape.

"I mean how long have they been asking that remarkable question?"

Mr. Nape coughed modestly.

"It coincided with the appearance of our little leaderette on 'Subconscious Corruption,'" he admitted.

As to the letter of apology, the Duke silenced criticism with extraordinary brusqueness. The change in the policy of the Aristocrat was revolutionary. It affected Mr. Nape dismally, it affected Mr. R. B. Rake, editor of the L. & L. staggeringly—it had a paralysing effect upon the household at Hydeholme.

"Now what on earth is the meaning of this," demanded the knight. He stabbed the newspaper with his short forefinger. The article it referred to was headed "An Open Letter."

It began—

"To one whom I have offended."

"That's me, of course," said the knight and read on.

As he read and re-read he grew more and more bewildered, for this was an apology, an abject grovelling plea for forgiveness.

"It is forbidden that I should see you——"

"Quite right," said Sir Harry. "I told William that under no circumstance he was to admit him."

"My letters are returned unopened" (Sir Harry smiled grimly. He had received a letter in the Duke's handwriting and had promptly reposted it), "and with every day comes a surer knowledge of my error in opposing your will....

"It is this realization that has decided me upon my future conduct. You wish me to go away—I will go. You wish me to be more considerate"—("I've never said so in so many words," commented the knight)—"you desire that I should forego all local ambition and retire to the oblivion from whence I sprang—so be it."

"Remarkable," was all that Sir Harry could say.

"If I have caused you pain by my presumption"—("Pain!" said Sir Harry, and thought of the sixty thousand pounds)—"I am sorry. I return to the wilds, to the illimitable breadth and length of the wilderness. Here on some waterless plain, where vultures hover in the clear blue sky...."

"D'ye know," said Sir Harry helplessly. "D'ye know, Hal. I really cannot understand this business. I really can not. Last week he was referring to me as 'the sort of person who had made England what she was'—in quite an objectionable way—spoke insultingly about the leather trade and referred meaningly to Hidebound Arrogance. Now——!"

"It's Tuppy!" said Hal. "I knew it would happen; Tuppy is the chap who is working the oracle. As soon as the idea occurred to me I said, 'By Jove! that's a corker!'"

Sir Harry fixed his pince-nez more firmly on his nose and continued to read—

"I have dared too much" ("I should jolly well say so," interjected Hal), "I have moved too fast and I pay the penalty. Our contract is broken" ("That's an important admission if he goes into court about the lease," commented Sir Harry over his glasses); "at the appointed time I will remove myself. Farewell."

Sir Harry folded up the paper. He looked at Hal, and Hal looked at him. Then Sir Harry took off his glasses, folded them and placed them ceremoniously in his waistcoat pocket.

"May we say," he queried with majestic calm, "that we have triumphed?"

Strangely enough this "Open Letter" inspired the same question in the mind of Alicia Terrill.

VII

Luckily Mrs. Terrill, by her simple device of opening the folding doors that separated the drawing-room from the breakfast-room, was able to offer one fair sized apartment for the accommodation of her guests. Built almost identically on the same lines as that occupied by the Duke, No. 66 had been transferred (as the Lewisham and Lee Mail in a breathless article described it) into "a veritable bower of roses equalling in stateliness and expensiveness the most splendid habitations of Belgravia and the West End."

It was Hal's idea that the conservatory at the back, and which, as in the Duke's house, was an annexe to the breakfast room, should be converted, by means of three flags and a red carpet ("a lavish display of bunting," said the Lewisham and Lee Mail), into a sort of throne room. Hither Tuppy was conducted.

Tuppy was very irritable and very beautiful in his dress kit, and one by one the guests were ushered into the presence.

Hal was a self-appointed M.C.

"Mr. Gosser and Miss Gosser," announced Hal.

"Glad to see you—how do you do."

"Mr. James Fenton, Mrs. James Fenton and Mr. Fenton, Junior."

"Happy to meet you—how de do?"

"Mr. Copley, Mr. Minting, Mr. Arthur Brown."

"Oh damn it! How de do, how de do?" wearily. It must be understood that much of Tuppy's greeting was sotto voce.

"Miss Sprager, who's a very fine fiddle player."

"How de do—beastly cold isn't it?"

"Mr. Willie Sime—brought any songs, Sime?"

"Got a shocking cold, old chap."

"Thank heavens—glad to meet you, Mr. Sime."

"Mrs. Outram."

"Weird old bird—how are you, Mrs. Outram, glad to meet you."

"Mr. R. B. Rake, B.A. The editor of the Lewisham——"

"I am honoured to make your acquaintance, my lord," said the boisterous journalist, "there is no more pleasing feature of our modern life than the democratizing of the peerage."

"Noisy devil! How de do—glad to meet you."

"Mr. Pulser, Mrs. Pulser, Miss Pulser."

"Oh Lord! how many more of em? Glad to meet you, how de do?" There was scarcely room to move, the guests overflowed into the hall and on to the stairs.

Sir Harry, wedged in one corner, surveyed the scene with a glow of pardonable pride. To him it represented the Duke's coup de grâce.

Mr. Rake wormed his way through the press of people to his side.

"Well, sir?" demanded Mr. Rake.

He said this in a tone that suggested that he had only omitted "what did I tell you?" out of pure politeness.

For Mr. Rake had an unpleasant knack of claiming personal credit for all and sundry happenings, from weddings to earthquakes, no matter how little he had to do with their instigation, that had earned for him amongst his colleagues the title of "Prophet of the Afterwards."

"This, I think," Mr. Rake went on, "effectively settles our friend."

Sir Harry nodded.

"The letter of course was the official suicide, this might aptly be described as the wake."

Arousing no enthusiasm he continued—

"What a remarkable man Lord Tupping is!"

"Yes."

"So popular!"

"So it appears."

"Everybody is simply charmed with him! It is 'Lord Tupping this' and 'Lord Tupping that' on every hand!"

"Yes, yes," said Sir Harry indulgently, "Tuppy is a good fellow." The good fellow at that moment was expostulating with Hal.

"Now look here, Tanny, old friend," he said firmly. "I'm not goin' to meet anybody else. I'm sick of this business an' I'm dashed if I'm goin' to stick it any longer."

"It will be soon over, old man," soothed Hal, "we've finished the Duke."

"Oh!" said Tuppy absently.

"Yes—didn't you see the letter he wrote to the governor in his rag."

"No," said the innocent Tuppy.

"What! not the bit about the vultures in the air, and the brazen sky!"

"Blue sky," corrected Tuppy, and went on hastily, "I suppose you mean blue, don't you?"

"Blue or brazen," said Hal carelessly, "it was a lot of infernal rot."

"My dear old feller," said Tuppy huffishly, "eminent strategist an' military authority as you are, incisive analyst of character as you may be; rampin' rhetorician an' high steppin' logician as in all probability you imagine yourself to be, I cannot accept your dictum on literary quality or diction. I thought that vulture touch was exceptionally imaginative, and the introduction of the blue sky supremely delicate."

"Anybody would think that you had written that bit yourself," chaffed Hal. Tuppy was not to be appeased.

"That's beside the question," he complained.

Then Alicia interrupted them.

She monopolized Tuppy, and Hal, after a vain attempt to join in the conversation, withdrew a little sulkily.

"Lord Tupping," she asked, "aren't you feeling a terrible hypocrite?"

"Not unusually so, dear lady," said Tuppy.

"Sir Harry thinks that you are not on speaking terms with the Duke."

Tuppy coughed.

"At the present moment I ain't," he confessed, "it is over a little question as to whether potatoes should be boiled with salt. I say without, but he's a most obstinate beggar lately—since his trouble."

Alicia ignored the addition.

"Who wrote that dreadful letter," she asked suddenly.

"What letter?" Tuppy's face was a blank.

"Oh, please don't pretend that you are ignorant—that wretched letter full of nonsensical——"

Tuppy drew himself up.

"Dear lady," he said stiffly, "if you refer to the vultures——"

With a woman's quick intuition she guessed at the authorship of that piece of imagery.

"No—I am not referring to that portion of the letter," she said tactfully, "in fact I thought that little touch rather fine," she added, inwardly praying for forgiveness, "but the letter in general—the whole idea, it was the Duke's, of course?"

"The less imaginative part was the Duke's," confessed Tuppy, "the crude outlines, so to speak, the framework——"

"Well," she broke in, speaking rapidly, "you are to tell the Duke that he must not do such a thing again; I will not receive farewell messages through the public press—indeed, you may tell him that nothing will induce me to read the paper again."

"I say," protested Tuppy, "don't say it! Next week's letter ain't half bad——"

"Next week!" Alicia's blood boiled. "Do you mean to tell me that he dares to repeat——"

"He's written twenty already," said the informer, "some of 'em good, some of 'em so, so. There's a very fine one called 'The Profits of Penitence' that'll appear in the Christmas number. That's a tremendously touchin' thing—about Christmas bells an' children dyin' in the snow."

Alicia had no words by now.

She gained self-possession with an effort.

"You—must—tell—the—Duke," she began.

"Why not tell him yourself," suggested Tuppy.

Somebody at the far end of the room had just finished singing, and people who had found seats were smiling sweetly at people who were standing. And people who were standing were smiling back and saying "selfish pig" under their breaths, when Sir Harry mounted a chair, and instantly the hum of talk died down.

"My friends," said Sir Harry, "I feel that we cannot separate to-night without my saying a few words concerning the object of this gathering (cheers). We have met together to do honour to our neighbour, Lord Tupping (loud cheers).

"Heaven and earth!" fretted Tuppy, "why doesn't he leave me alone?"

"Lord Tupping," Sir Harry went on, "has shown us, by example, the attitude of the typical English peer. Dignified, yet gracious; reserved, yet approachable; he combines generosity with restraint and is a striking contrast to the pseudo-nobleman, whose unedifying behaviour has, I think I am right in saying, scandalized our beautiful suburb."

"I say! I say!" said Tuppy indignantly, but nobody heard him.

"As oil to water," said Sir Harry, "as the genuine is to fictitious, so is the old nobility to the upstart—I should say, so is the English nobility to the—er—foreign: they do not mix; they have nothing in common; their ideals are separated by an immeasurable gulf."

"We cannot but be sensible," the knight proceeded, when there was a commotion at the doorway and a tall man pushed his way through. It was the Duke, hatless, pale and a little breathless.

"Tuppy!" he called, and to Sir Harry's amazement the object of his panegyric came half-way to meet him. In the silence that fell upon the assembly every word of the conversation was audible.

"Tuppy, did you come over the garden wall to-night?" was his astounding question.

"No, old feller."

"Sure?"

"Sure, dear boy."

The Duke stood thinking.

"Then you didn't drop this," he said and held out his hand.

It held a silver-mounted cigar case.

Sir Harry recognized it with a smothered oath. It was the case he had given to Bill Slewer.

"It is inscribed 'Harry Tanneur,'" said the Duke, "and the gentleman who dropped it in his hurry left me a further token of his regard."

He held up his other hand, and Alicia gave a little cry, for the hand was swathed in a pocket handkerchief, ominously scarlet.

Part V

THE DUKE ADVENTURES

I

It was nearing the period when "something would have to be done." These were Olejoe's exact words. With an action pending in the High Court, the presence of the brokers' man was suggestive rather than conclusive. Olejoe was a splendid splash of colour, a picturesque accessory, but as Tuppy pathetically complained, he had not as yet justified the trouble and expense.

It is true that with a silver salver in his hand he had replaced the sedate servant. That he received visitors and showed them in; that clad in his striking raiment he negotiated with the butcher and the milkman, and that he was one of the Sights. More than this, he was admitted into the family circle, and was invariably introduced to callers as "my brokers' man" or "my possessionist," With Tuppy's coming the question of Olejoe became a vital one. Tuppy, it may be said, was now an inmate of 64. A curt note from Sir Harry's solicitors had terminated his tenancy. Supplementary to this was a letter from Sir Harry himself in which he dealt freely in such phrases as "two-faced duplicity," "run with the hare and hunt with the hounds," "betrayal of a sacred trust," and similar happily coined phrases of opprobrium.

"The perfectly horrible thing is," Tuppy said in bitterness of spirit, "I've given up my flat in Charles Street, an' it's a thousand to thirty the landlord won't take me back again, unless I pay something off the old account."

The Duke pressed him to stay, and Hank was extremely urgent in his invitation.

"The Duke should surely have somebody he can talk 'blighted hopes' to," he said: in his capacity as An Authority on Women, Tuppy stayed.

Thus Olejoe came to be a problem, for Tuppy brought the faithful Bolt, and No. 64 was not built for the accommodation of a house party.

Olejoe, therefore, became the pivot around which revolved a ceaseless whirl of discussion.

He was a Domestic Crisis.

"Something must be done with Olejoe."

This was the beginning and the end of the agenda under review.

Olejoe was present at the most important of these. From time to time he interjected expostulatory noises.

"A Johnny man that I know," said Tuppy reminiscently—"I don't exactly know him, but I owe his brother a hundred, which to all intents an' purposes extends my acquaintance—because if I don't know him, he is pretty sure to have heard about me from the brother fellow, who's a deuce of a bleater about money affairs——"

"I'll look him up in the Dictionary of National Biography," said the Duke; "in the meantime, this man——?"

"Well, this man used to go to the wooliest places—Africa an' Klondike an' similar horrid spots outside the radius; used to go bug huntin', an' lion fishin' an' bee-stalkin'. When he got something extra, in the way of skins or wings or feathers he used to send it to Wards, have it stuffed an' stuck up in his library. When I say 'library' I mean the place he used to sleep in on Sunday afternoons. But if he got something extra-extra, somethin' stupendously gape-ish, such as a pink lion or a sky-blue rattlesnake—somethin' absolutely priceless, he used to give it to some dashed museum. There was insanity in the family, mind you."

The Duke cast a calculating glance at Olejoe.

"We might leave him at the South Kensington," he mused.

"Stuffed?" suggested Hank.

"In a box," said Tuppy enthusiastically, "with a rippin' big label on the top, 'A present to the Nation from a True friend' or some rot like that."

"Or in lieu of conscience money," said the Duke, "from two who have robbed the inland revenue, asking finder to notify the same in the Times newspaper."

"Gents," said Olejoe with a forced smile, "foreigners I've always been obligin' to, without the word of a lie. Orgin grinders, ice-cream blokes, an' ladies who tell your fortune with little dickey birds wot pick a bit of paper out of the box to tell you whether your husband will be dark or fair, an' how many children you're goin' to have. If you treat others well, you can expect to be treated well yourself. Do unto others as thyself would be done is a sayin' old an' true—so no larks, if you please."

"When you started that interestin' exposition on tolerance of the alien," said Tuppy aggrieved, "I was under the impression you were goin' to say somethin' particularly apposite."

"No larks," confirmed Olejoe.

"Say," said Hank suddenly, "what's the matter with sendin' him to the Tanneur guy?"

"Alive?" asked Tuppy in a matter of fact tone that made Olejoe shiver.

"Why sure; send him along with a tag tied to his coat—it's gettin' round about the festive season when you give away things you've no use for."

"I feel certain," said the Duke, "that Olejoe could be used for some wise purpose. An age that has found employment for bye-products in general, should not be at a loss for using up this variety. The difficulty about the knight is that he's going abroad."

"Abroad?"

"Abroad—whether that means a season at the Riviera or an exploration of the Sandwich Islands, I cannot say. But abroad he's going, or gone."

"We couldn't send our dear old friend as a courier?" questioned Tuppy. "A sort of unofficial dragoman?"

But the Duke shook his head.

"The situation is this," he said. "We take a house; the knight buys out our landlord; we refuse to pay rent; the knight puts a broker's man in; we're tired of the broker; we've no room for the broker; he has outlived his usefulness; Q. What should A do with B?

"We might, of course, bury him in the garden," the Duke went on, "thus enriching the soil; we might wait for a foggy night, take him out and lose him——"

"Monty! I've got it!"

The inspiration had come to Tuppy with extraordinary suddenness.

"Pay him out."

"What?"

"Pay the rent," said Tuppy solemnly; "it's unusual in cases like this, an' it's a bad precedent: but as a solution it's got points you could hang your hat on."

II

It is a fault of some authors, that they persistently refuse to introduce characters into their stories, unless those characters in the course of the narrative, perform an act or acts, of such transcendent importance as to make the story impossible without their presence. Accordingly we are familiar with the faithful servant who meanders through 300 pages with little to say for himself save "Dinner is served, your Grace," and "His lordship has not yet returned from 'unting, m'lady;" who is deliciously obscure until the end of the book, when he gives his life for the children, or produces the missing will. We know of governesses, pretty and otherwise, who are the merest shadows for twenty chapters, but enter into their kingdom in the twenty-first, when they accuse the Earl of unblemished character of being the father of the beggar boy.

I could have wished that Olejoe might have passed from these pages naturally, and without fuss, just as people pass from the real pages of life, without ostentation, noiselessly ignoring the rules of the theatre, which demand that no character shall leave the stage without an effective "line" to take them "off," such as "We meet to-morrow!" or "Look to it, Sir George—look to it!" or in the cases of more important figures, a long and heroic peroration.

The rules of the theatre do not insist upon heroics for a part like Olejoe's. I think something like this would have fulfilled all requirements—

Olejoe (one foot on doorstep, bundle slung over shoulder):

Farewell, my lord.

Farewell, my noble Duke: the elms shall bud

To greeny leafness, and the summer sun

Shall gild the cupula of this great house.

I pass to winter, to an endless night,

Bereft of your bright presence: for this gold,

This token of your grace, my charged heart

Puts lock upon my tongue (business with handkerchief). Farewell!

There were, as it happened, certain lines to be said by Olejoe in the natural course of events, for the broker's man shares with the waiter, the boots, the chambermaid, and the hotel porter the same characteristic and absolute repugnance to effacement.

The bailiff's receipt lay on the table, and Olejoe in a ducal coat, a lordly pair of trousers and a cowboy hat, the united contributions of the household, took the handsome tip the Duke had delicately slipped into his hand, and with tearful eyes expressed his gratitude.

"Gents all," said Olejoe, who had little knowledge of and regard for the stateliness of blank verse, "as man to man I'm obliged to you. If I've done anything that I oughtn't have done I ask your pardon. I've had me dooty to do an' I've done the same to the best of my ability. I've always found you to be gentlemen, an' if any one sez contrary, it'll be like water on a duck's back—in at one ear an' out at the other. If I can ever do you a turn as far as lays in me power, I'm ready an' willin', an' with these few remarks I thank you one an' all," which was a highly creditable speech.

So passed Olejoe, and I would that no further necessity existed for introducing him again, so that I might emphasize my protest against convention in art.

"The House will now go into committee," said the Duke, "on a purely personal matter—Hank, I'm feeling most horribly worried."

"If it's the eternal feminine woman," said Hank rising quickly, "as I've got a hunch it is, you'll find me in the back lot plantin' snowdrops."

"You're beastly unsympathetic," complained the indignant Duke, "here are two loving hearts——"

"Anatomy," said Hank at the doorway, "is a science I've no love for since the day the Dago doctor of Opothocas Mex. amputated my little toe under the mistaken impression that ptomaine poisonin' was somethin' to do with the feet."

"What we've got to do now," said Tuppy, when the unromantic Hank had disappeared, "is to get somethin' particularly touchin', I'm afraid I've spoilt the other letters, by unintelligently anticipatin' the contents."

"What an ass you were, Tuppy," said the Duke testily, and Tuppy cheerfully agreed.

For two hours they sat composing the wonder working epistle.

"To whom it may concern," it was addressed, and began "What is life? says Emerson."

"That's a fool start," said Tuppy. "Why drag in old man Emerson anyway?"

"Can you suggest a better?" asked the Duke tartly.

"What's the matter with this," asked Tuppy, "you know the Tennyson stuff." He knit his forehead in the effort of remembrance. Then he recited, filling in the blanks as well as he could—

It's jolly true tum-tum befall,

I feel it tum-tum tum-tum most;

It's better to have loved a gal

Than never to have loved at all!

"Rotten," said the Duke.

"I don't think I have quite got the lines right," Tuppy owned, "but any feller can see the drift of the thing."

"If ever I write poetry, Tuppy," said the Duke solemnly, "I should be very grateful if you would refrain from quoting it."

The Emerson opening was allowed to stand. Tuppy made another determined effort to introduce a flower of poetry into the letter when it was nearing completion.

"Look here, Monty. Why not work in that bit about

Love to a girl is a thing apart,

'Tis a feller's whole existence?"

"Partly," said the Duke, "out of respect for the dead, whom you are misquoting. It runs 'Love to a man is a thing impart!'"

"She wouldn't know the difference," said the sanguine lord.

"That's beside the question: this is supposed to be an open letter addressed to Sir Harry; I can't chuck words of poetry at his unfortunate head—after all he's been punished enough."

They broke off their composition to join Hank in the garden whilst the sedate servant laid the table for lunch.

So far from planting snowdrops Hank had established himself in the little green-house at the end of the garden—a warm cosy little greenhouse on a wintry day—and ensconced in a deck chair had fallen asleep. They woke him by the simple expedient of opening the door wide and letting in a rush of icy cold air.

"Notice anything strange about next door?" yawned Hank, and the Duke started.

"No," he replied with a shade of anxiety in his voice. "What is it?"

"Blinds down, shutters up—general air of desolation," enumerated Hank.

The Duke looked quickly and raced into the house. The sedate servant (his name was Cole) was folding a serviette.

"Cole," said the Duke sternly, "where are the people next door?"

"Gone, m'lord," said Cole.

"Gone! when did they go! Where have they gone, and why on earth was I not told."

"They went last night, m'lord," said Cole, "they have gone to Bournemouth if I am accurately informed—my source of information is the butcher——"

"The postman would have been better," said the Duke reprovingly.

"The postman is an extremely reticent person and moreover is a radical who does not approve of Us," said Cole. "The butcher, on the contrary, stands for landed interest and the established church."

"Excellent," said the Duke, "proceed."

"They left last night," Cole went on dealing with the questions in order, "which accounts for the fact that I did not inform your grace, information having arrived with chops—ten minutes ago."

Cole paused deferentially, then continued, "If your grace will remember, I suggested a joint for to-day's lunch, a suggestion which was not acceptable. Had it been a leg of mutton, your grace would have been informed two hours ago—the joint requiring that extra time to cook, and the butcher in consequence calling earlier."

"You are vindicated, Cole," said the Duke sadly—

As they disposed of the dilatory chop at lunch the Duke was exceptionally quiet. "I don't know why they've gone away," he said at last, "but I'm not so sure that their departure isn't providential."

"My mind was runnin' on the same set of rails," said Hank. He pushed back his plate and produced a cigar. "Duke, it's about time we settled Big Bill for good an' all."

"Don't tell me," said Tuppy hastily, "that your shootin' friend is in the neighbourhood?"

Hank nodded slowly.

"Here last night, wasn't he, Dukey?"

"He was," said the Duke absently.

"We traced his little footsteps in the garden bed," said Hank.

"But, my dear foolish Transatlantic cousin," protested Tuppy, "the police, old friend! The dashed custodians of public peace an' order! What the dooce do you pay rates an' taxes an' water rates an' gas bills for!"

"The police?" Hank smiled. "Oh, the police are all right: but there's nothing doin' with the police. This is a feud for private circulation only."

"But!" cried Tuppy violently and unpleasantly excited, "it's distinctly unfair to our splendid constabulary; you oughtn't to be selfish, old feller—suppose this horrid person with his unsportin' revolver killed me! Oh, you can laugh, dear bird, but it'd be doosid unpleasant for me!"

"I'm not laughing, Tuppy," said the Duke seriously, "I can quite understand your funk——"

"My dear good misguided an' altogether uncharitable friend," said Tuppy, greatly pained, "it isn't funk—I'm notoriously rash as a matter of fact: why my discharge was suspended for bein' rash an' hazardous—they were the Official Receiver's own words. No, it isn't funk, it's an inherited respect for the law."

He was considerably ruffled.

"Well, let me say I can appreciate your law-abiding spirit," said the Duke, "but as Hank said, this isn't a case for the police: it's a purely personal matter between Mr. Slewer and myself. But because the beggar is getting over bold, it is necessary to clip his wings—this is our opportunity."

It was at this point that Olejoe made his reappearance. Cole announced him and the Duke, somewhat astonished, ordered him to be brought in.

He entered smiling somewhat vacantly, and stood unsteadily by the door holding his hat in his hand.

"A friend's a friend," he said thickly, "an' a friend in need is a friend in—deed." He smiled benevolently. "There's them," he said with a sneer, "that don't believe all they hear an' only half what they see. There's them that wouldn't believe people could be crowned an' sat on a throne an' all." His smile became indulgent. "Me an' a friend of mine," he went off at an angle, "not exactly a friend but a chap I know, went up to the West end. His name was Harry."

"Olejoe," said the Duke sternly, "go home."

"'Arf a moment," said Olejoe, "I'm coming to the part that will knock you out. D'ye know the White Drover outside Victoria Station? It's a house I seldom use. But Harry does, so we went in."

"I gathered that much," said the Duke.

"'What's yours,' sez Harry. 'No,' I sez, 'it's my turn, what's yours?' 'No,' sez Harry, 'I'll pay, what's yours?' 'No,' I sez—"

"Cut it out," pleaded Hank, "forget it——"

"... when I heard a chap speakin' in the next bar: a private bar with red velvet seats. An American chap he was, like Hank."

It is a proof of Olejoe's exhilaration that he said "Hank" calmly and coolly and without a blush.

"He sez—the American chap—'I'm layin' for Dukey,' an' the other feller (I'll tell you his name in a minute, it'll come as a terrible surprise to you) sez 'Do nothin' yet,' just like that 'do nothin' yet!'

"'I've got an idea,' sez this chap—not the American chap—'that when this Duke person finds my niece has gone with us to Merroccer——'"

"To Morocco?" queried the Duke eagerly.

"To Merroccer," repeated Olejoe, "the same place as the leather—'when he finds I've persuaded my niece (I'll tell you who she is in a minute: I'm keepin' that back to the last), when he finds I've took my niece for a holiday to Merroccer the chances are,' sez the old boy, 'he'll come after her. Now if the Duke goes to Merroccer,' sez the chap—you'll never guess his name, not if you guess for a million years—'if the Duke goes to Merroccer. I don't care a damn what you do—in Merroccer.'"

"Tuppy," said the Duke quickly, "you can stay out of this business if you like: if you come in there'll be no risk and a lot of amusement. Will you come?"

"Like a shot," said Tuppy.

"No, you'd never guess..." Olejoe was saying.

"We've time to pack and catch the two-twenty from Cannon Street. Just take a few things—we can buy what we want in Paris."

They made a rush from the room.

"You'd never guess," Olejoe rambled on with closed eyes and swaying slightly, "who the old feller was, and who the young lady was ... now," with a heavy jocularity, "I'll give you three guesses...."

He was still talking when the door slammed behind the adventurers.

III

There are limitations even to the powers of dukes.

For instance, even a Duke starting forth at 2.30 to catch the 2.20 from Charing Cross is hardly likely to succeed, unless he performs one of those miracles of which one hears in the course of destructive and pessimistic parliamentary debate, to wit: put back the hands of time.

There was time to shop and time to reflect. Time also to wire to the sedate Cole and give instructions for the management of the house during the Duke's absence. It gave Mr. Bill Slewer time also to discover the Duke's plans—the Duke's instructions to Cole had included a counsel of frankness as to his whereabouts.

The party left London by the nine o'clock train—that same "Continental," that Hank had "flagged"—and the crossing from Dover to Calais was a pleasant one to Tuppy's infinite relief. They arrived in Paris before daybreak, and idled away that day and the next. The Tanneurs were in Paris, if report was true. The work of investigation was to be divided.

"You do the magazins, Tuppy," said the Duke, "if you hang round the shopping centre you are pretty sure to spot 'em."

The Duke haunted the Louvre, Hank systematically went through the hotel lists. Tuppy, after spending ten minutes examining the contents of a jeweller's shop window in the Rue de la Paix, came back to the hotel thoroughly exhausted.

By accident they learnt that the Tanneurs had gone on to Madrid, and there was a wild rush to catch the Sud Express. They caught it by the narrowest of margins. At Bordeaux, Tuppy got out to buy some French papers: by the merest chance met a man he knew; exchanged greetings and inquiries, spoke rudely of the dowager ... the Sud Express was half-way to the border before Tuppy realized that he ought to have been on it....

Accordingly there was a day lost at Biarritz where the chafing Duke waited for Tuppy to catch up.

In Madrid, they had no difficulty in finding out that the Tanneurs had arrested their progress at Avila.

Back to the walled city dashed the adventurers. As their train came clanging into the station, the south bound express drew out and the Duke caught a glimpse of Alicia's slim figure standing at the window of a saloon—and swore. They returned to Madrid the same night, by a train that stopped at every station, and sometimes between stations. It discharged them, weary, bedraggled and extremely cross, at the Medina in the middle of the night.

Hank alone of the trio was imperturbable. Nothing shook the nerves or disturbed the serenity of the American. His inevitable cigar between his teeth, he surveyed the chill desolation of the dreary terminus with bland benevolence.

It was Tuppy's fault that they missed the Sevilla Express. Tuppy, acquiring a sudden and passionate love for art, strayed through the Prado, lingered in the Valesquez Room, melted into a condition of ecstatic incoherence, before the wonders of Titian, the glories of Rubens, and the beauty of Paul Veronese, and finally contrived to get himself locked in at closing time.

He was discovered by a watchman, pounced upon as an international burglar, arrested, and finally released, after considerable trouble, in which the British ambassador, the Minister of Marine and the Duke were involved.

"It is no use your being angry, my dear old ferocious friend," said the penitent Tuppy. "Unfortunate as my intrusion into the realms of art may be, I merely illustrate the sayin' of that remarkable German feller who wrote a play about the devil, that Art is long an' time's doocid short, and dear old Titian an' cheery old Velasquez wait for no man."

"My dear man, you had a time table."

"Assure you, old feller, I hadn't."

"But I gave you one; a little red book."

"So you did," said Tuppy thoughtfully, "a little red book with egg marks. Now d'ye know," he said in a burst of confidence, "I didn't know that dashed thing was a time table."

"What the dickens did you think it was?" asked the Duke in tones of annoyance, "a set of sleeve links?" Thenceforward Tuppy behaved like a perfect gentleman. The Duke went further and said that Tuppy behaved like a perfect nuisance.

For if a train was due to leave at seven, and breakfast was ordered at six o'clock, you might be sure that somewhere in the neighbourhood of 4 a.m. Tuppy would thrust his head into the Duke's apartment with an anxious inquiry.

"Time's a bouncin', old feller, what?" he would ask. "I hear people movin' downstairs—are you quite sure about that train?"

"For goodness' sake, Tuppy, go to sleep," said the Duke on one occasion, and Tuppy withdrew—but not to slumber. Tuppy would begin packing. You could hear Tuppy's boots falling on the bare floor of the Spanish hotel—you could hear Tuppy's apologetic "damn!" Then he whistled softly and with heart-breaking flatness the "Soldiers' Chorus"; then he took a stealthy bath—blowing like a grampus and with a sibilant hissing that suggested an ostler at his toilet. Then there came from his room a squeaking and a grunting as Tuppy manipulated his physical developer. Then a thunderous crash! as the dumbells fell to the floor—at this point the Duke would rise and address feeling remarks to his friend.

Such a programme as I have outlined is faithfully typical of what happened in Cordova, in Seville, in Ronda, in Algeciras and in Gibraltar. It was at Ronda that the Duke came up with his quarry.

Alicia, breakfasting alone in the airy little "comidor" of the Station Hotel saw a shadow fall across the doorway but did not look up from the book she was reading.

When she did, she met the smiling eyes of the Duke and half rose with outstretched hands. Of course it was only an unconscious impulse, but it was unnecessary to go half way with the Duke. He greeted her as though they had parted but yesterday, the best of friends.

He had the valuable gift of taking up, where he had left off—you never saw the joint in the Duke's friendship.

Alicia thought rapidly.

After all one cannot offer one's hand and snatch it instantly back again. It had been foolish of her, unmaidenly perhaps, indiscreet no doubt, but here she was chatting gaily with the Duke.

"We left mother in Paris, my aunt is with us, we've had most perfect weather...."

She noticed that she was "Miss Terrill" to him—there was a negative satisfaction in that. So, apparently he had not picked up the threads, as they had dropped. Also he made no reference to their parting interview, offered no explanations, was neither tragic nor mournful, displayed, in fact, none of those interesting symptoms which usually distinguish the young man of blighted hopes. He was the most unconventional man Alicia had ever met.

The interview had its embarrassing side as Alicia suddenly remembered.

"My uncle will be down very soon," she said suddenly, "I don't think that you and he are quite——?" she left the Duke to finish the sentence.

He rose.

"We aren't—quite," he said.

"I shall probably see you again," she smiled. She was perfectly self-controlled, serenely mistress of herself and the situation. "Sir Harry has read your Open Letters—I think he was touched by your abasement," she said maliciously, and, I cannot help thinking, incautiously.

"Naturally," said the Duke calmly, "even an uncle has his feelings: to know that his niece has inspired——"

"Good-bye," she said hurriedly, "perhaps it would be better if you didn't see me again." She added inconsistently, "We are going on to Tangier to-morrow."

"By Algeciras or by Cadiz?" queried the Duke.

"By Algeciras and Gibraltar," said Alicia. "Good-bye."

She held out her hand nervously.

The Duke took it, and kissed her.

"Oh!" cried Alicia.

The Duke looked surprised.

"What is the matter?" he asked and stroked his cheek. "I'm shaven?"

"How—how dare you?" she said hotly.

"Dare?" The Duke was puzzled. "Why, aren't you engaged to me?"

"You know I'm not! You know I've returned your hateful ring—you know——"

The Duke stopped her with an imperious gesture. "As to that matter," he said graciously, "will you accept my assurance that I have entirely overlooked it? Please never mention it again."

He left her with a confused feeling that somehow and in some manner she was under an obligation to him.

IV

El Mogreb Alaska, that enterprising sheet, duly announced the arrival of the Duke's party. "Unfortunately," said the journal, "one member of the Duke's entourage, the Rt. Hon. the Lord Tupping, was left behind at Gibraltar through some mistake as to the hour of the sailing of the Gibel Musa."

From which it may be gathered that Tuppy had fallen from grace. He came on by the next boat—two days later, with a tentative grievance. That is to say, it was a grievance that he was prepared, to withdraw in the absence of any reproach on the part of the Duke.

Tuppy had been spending a day with a friend who was Deputy-Adjutant Something or other to the forces.

"I didn't mistake the hour, Monty, old feller," he explained eagerly, "I was down on the dashed pier, with all my traps, gazin' pensively at the lappin' waves an' the sea-gulls circlin' on rigid pinions an' all that, waitin' for you, when it occurred to me that you were a doosid long time comin'. So I drove to your hotel an' found you'd left the day before."

They sat in the big hall of the Continental Hotel. From the narrow street without, came the sing-song intonation of young Islam at its lessons, and the pattering of laden donkeys. Tuppy talked to the Duke but was looking elsewhere.

Hank had found some countrywomen of his, and surrounded by all that was best and beautiful in Ohio, was solemnly narrating for their especial benefit a purely fanciful description of a Moorish harem. One face in that circle attracted Tuppy strangely.

"Then there's the laundry wife who does the washin', an' the cook wife who does the cooking, an' the washin'-up wife, an' the sock wife who darns the socks——"

"Oh, Mr. Hankey, you're jollying us?"

"No, sir," said Hank firmly, "when I was American Minister at Fez in '82...."

Tuppy's explanations, having been satisfactorily exploited, the Duke listened with amusement to the procession of unfounded statements Hank was leading forth for the benefit of the fair Americans.

"Do you know, Mr. Hankey," said one suddenly, "we really don't believe a word you're saying. For one thing I'm sure you was never the favourite of the Sultan or we should have read about it in the New York Sunday papers. And I'm certain you never married the Sultan's daughter, Fatima, because you'd just be ashamed to confess it to a lot of nice American girls. You're just a new-comer like the American we met on the Fez Road who asked our guide where the nearest Beer Hall was."

A shriek of laughter greeted this innocent jest. Hank sat up, his lazy voice became immediately incisive.

"On the Fez Road—an American?"

"He was a man with white eyes," said a voice.

"Oh, Mamie, how unkind! still his eyes did look white."

Hank shot a swift glance at the Duke, and the latter nodded.

"I suppose," drawled Hank, "it would be a mighty improper question to ask where this freeborn citizen of God's country is stayin' in Tangier."

But nobody knew. They had met the man by accident, they had seen him once in the Great Sok, more than this they could not say.

Hank had picked up a servant, none other than Rabbit.

Rabbit is a well-known figure in Tangier society. A waif of the streets, a bravo, an adventurer, a most amusing child of nature was this Rabbit—so-called because of a certain facial resemblance to bunny. It may be said of Rabbit that he disobeyed most commands of the Prophet. He drank, gambled, and was on friendly terms with the giaour. None the less he rose at inconvenient hours of the night, tucked a praying carpet under his arm and hied him to his orisons. Rabbit had curious likes and dislikes; he was not everybody's man.

His world had two names. The world that treated him well, and to whom he attached himself, was "Mr. Goodman"; the world repugnant had a name which has no exact equivalent in the English language, but which in German would be "Mr. Shameless-dog-burnt-in-pitch-and-consigned-to-the underworld." Hank was the time being his "Mr. Goodman," and to Rabbit Hank delegated the task of discovering Bill.

Rabbit discharged his task in three minutes. His procedure was simple.

He strolled into the market place and found a small boy in tattered jelab and very industriously kicking another small boy. Having impartially smacked the heads of both, he sent them on their errand of discovery. Then he went off to sleep. In an hour's time Rabbit presented himself before Hank in a picturesque condition of exhaustion and reported that Mr. Bill Slewer was staying at a little hotel near the Kasbah. It was not exactly an hotel, said Rabbit frankly, but a House of Experience, where strangers threw a Main with Fate.

"The difficulty with Bill will be his unexpectedness," said the Duke, "there is no place in the world more suitably situated for the springing of a surprise than Tangier."

"Where's Tuppy?" he asked.

"Tuppy has found an ideal," said Hank, "something worshipful. Did I introduce you to that pretty little girl from Drayton, Ohio?"

"You introduced me to several pretty little girls from Drayton, Ohio," said the Duke.

"I mean the one that talks."

The Duke drew a long breath.

"The description is inadequate," he said, "do you mean the one that sometimes doesn't talk?"

Hank ignored the slight to his kindred.

"The curious thing about it is that she hasn't a dollar an' Tuppy knows it. Her father is just a plain American gentleman with a contempt for millionaires: I doubt if his capital value runs into six figures—dollars I mean."

"Have you been matchmaking?" asked the Duke severely, and Hank blushed.

"I've no use for lords an' suchlike foolishness," he confessed, "but Tuppy has possibilities." His declaration in Tuppy's favour coincided with one made by that worthy on his own behalf.

He had at little trouble secured an introduction to the laughing girl who had acted as Hank's interlocutor.

Now, on the back of a gaily caparisoned mule, he was returning from an excursion to the suburbs, and the girl who rode the donkey at his side was listening demurely whilst Tuppy spoke upon his favourite subject—which was Tuppy.

"You must understand, Miss Boardman," he said, "that mine is a blighted life: I'm a piece of humanity's flotsam, a pathetic chunk of wreckage on the sea of human existence."

"Oh, no, Lord Tupping," murmured the girl.

"It's true," said Tuppy gloomily, "saddled by rank an' bridled by circumstance" (this was his pet figure), "I've been outdistanced an' outfaced in the Marathon of Life. My whole nature, naturally pure an' confidin', has been warped an' distorted by a variety of conditions, an' even the early grave to which I would extend a fervent welcome—steady, you beast." He jerked back the reins of his prancing mule, readjusted his hat and eye-glass and proceeded—"The merciful dissolution for which I yearned was denied me, an' doomed to tread the thorny path that leads to oblivion—I'll knock your head off if you don't keep quiet—doomed to stalk, if I may use the expression—a sad shadow amidst the laughin' throng, I've become a wretched, embittered creature."

"Oh, no, Lord Tupping!" dissented the girl.

"Sometimes," Tuppy proceeded recklessly, "I'm in such a dashed horridly low state that I don't care what happens—when I would gladly change places with fellers goin' out to war, an' all that sort of thing. I did volunteer for the Boer war, but my stupid man forgot to post the letter."

"How splendid!" said the girl with her eyes sparkling, "have you ever been to war, Lord Tupping?"

"Not exactly to war," said Tuppy carefully, "in the wars, yes; but not to war."

Earlier in the afternoon he had gently broken to her the story of his mésalliance.

"I was a boy at the time an' she was a prima donna." He could not bring himself to own up to a strong woman. "We parted practically at the church door," he went on with melancholy relish, "information came to me that she was already married. I dropped her—or rather I gave her the opportunity of droppin' me."

"How chivalrous! it must have been a painful experience."

"It was," said Tuppy emphatically, "more painful for me than for her."

They threaded a way through the crowd in the Great Sok.

"Now, Miss Boardman," said Tuppy, "you know all that is to be known about me. I've told you," he said moodily, "more than I've ever told any feller."

Tuppy believed, when he said this, he was speaking the truth. It was the surest sign of his confidence and friendship, that he added to the history of his life—a history filed in most newspaper offices, and which appeared at regular intervals in the New York journals, indeed, every time that the strong lady changed her husband—the assurance that he had told his hearer "more than he had ever told anybody else." In this Tuppy was not singular.

But to the girl at his side, it was all very new, and all very, very tragic, and there were tears in her eyes as her cavalier led the way down the hill to the town.

In spite of his confidence she was ill-prepared for the proposal that followed.

It was after dinner, when the cool breezes from the Atlantic made life bearable; when the sea was bathed in moonlight and the shadowy Spanish hills bulked mistily on the ocean's rim, that Tuppy declared himself.

"Miss Boardman," he said suddenly—they were watching the sea from the terrace of the Cecil—"d'ye know I'm nearly a beggar, broke to the wide, unsympathetic world, up to my neck in debt." The attack was sudden and the girl was alarmed.

"Lord Tuppy—I'm—I'm sorry," she stammered.

"That's all right," said Tuppy easily, "don't let that worry you. But I wanted to tell you. An' there's another startlin' statement I want to make, I've been talkin' with your father."

"Have you?" faltered the girl.

"I have," said Tuppy firmly, "I asked him straight out if he was one of those millionaires that grow as thick as huckleberries in America."

For a moment only the girl suspected his motive.

"I was frank with him," said Tuppy, "so doosid frank that he nearly chucked me out of the window, but wiser councils prevailed, as dear old Milton says, an' he listened—Miss Boardman, you're not rich."

She made no reply.

"So that's why I'm goin' to ask you to come an' share a ninety pounds a year baronial castle in the suburbs of London. I've got a little income, enough to pay the rent an' buy a library subscription—will you take me?"

All this Tuppy said with an assumption of firmness that he was far from feeling.

"There's nothin' in me—I'm a reed an' a rotter."

"Indeed you mustn't say that!" she pleaded.

"I am," said Tuppy resolutely, "I'm a long worm that has no turnin', but I offer you the homage of my declinin' years—is it a bet?"

His voice shook. Tuppy was ever ready to be stirred by his own emotions.

"The title ain't much good to you, an' it ain't much good to me," he said huskily, "it's a barren possession. An unpawnable asset that has come unsullied through the ages—I offer it to you," his voice broke, "for what it is worth."

She accepted him, whereupon, I believe, Tuppy broke down and they wept together.

V

Sir Harry Tanneur had one admirable British quality. He had a supreme contempt for the foreigner. If the foreigner happened to be, moreover, of dusky hue, Sir Harry's scorn was rendered more poignant by a seasoning of pity. He was totally fearless of all danger. He had never been in danger except once, when he slipped up on a banana skin outside the Mansion House and had all but fallen under an omnibus. Thereafter Sir Harry was the avowed enemy of the banana industry and had carried his prejudice to the extent of refusing to underwrite a Jamaica loan. Danger with bullets in it, danger garnished with schrapnel; danger indeed of the cut and thrust order; he knew nothing about, and was accordingly genuinely amused when the British Vice-Consul advised him not to venture too far from the city.

"There's Valentini amongst the Riffi's, and El Ahmet playing round with the Angera people, and a thousand and one cutthroats wandering about, robbing each other," said the official, "altogether it is fairly unsafe to move out of Tangier without an escort."

Sir Harry smiled tolerantly.

"Thanks," he said airily, "it's very proper of you, of course, to warn me, you've got to protect your department, but I'm quite able to look after myself, and if it comes to fighting," he chuckled, nodding at Hal, "we've a fellow here who can teach these rascals a thing or two."

Lieutenant Hal Tanneur of the 9th West Kent, remarked modestly that there were one or two dodges, he could show them.

So in spite of all warning, Sir Harry rode out on the Fez Road, with Alicia on his left and the military gentleman on his right, and two mules, bearing respectively a cold collation and Mahmud Ali, that magnificent courier, guide, interpreter and bodyguard behind them.

It was not as pleasant a ride as Alicia had anticipated. Sir Harry was not in his very best mood, and Hal was sulky. That morning in the market Sir Harry and his son had come face to face with the Duke. An unexpected meeting for Sir Harry, who had not dreamt that the Duke would so completely fulfil his prophecy. With some vague misgivings Sir Harry remembered certain conversation with Bill Slewer.

He had been vexed at the time, and had perhaps spoken hastily and foolishly. He recalled dimly an historical parallel. A king had once said in his anger "Will nobody rid me of the turbulent priest," and straightway four rollicking spirits had driven over to Canonbury—or was it Canterbury? and sliced off the head of a worthy bishop, Cardinal Wolsey or somebody of the sort. These thoughts filled his mind as his Arab barb trotted through the sand.

In his annoyance he had accused Alicia of encouraging the Duke to follow her, and she had indignantly denied it. Hal, rashly coming to the support of his father, had been entirely and conclusively squashed.

So three people rode forth on a picnic harbouring uncharitable thoughts toward the Duc de Montvillier.

Sir Harry's wrath was tinctured with fear because of Big Bill Slewer of Four Ways, Texas.

Hal's anger was inflamed by jealousy, for he was in love with his cousin.

Alicia's annoyance was directed against the Duke because he had been the cause of her embarrassment.

Was Bill Slewer in Tangier? Sir Harry had sent the imposing Mahmud Ali to inquire, but Mahmud Ali had no familiars, as Rabbit had, and the answer he brought to his employer was unsatisfactory.

They rode in silence for an hour, with no sign of the enemy the vice-consul had foreshadowed. Alicia was in ignorance of that interview. Sir Harry had not deemed the conversation sufficiently interesting to repeat.

When they had reached the little hill whereon lunch was to be taken, he unbent. Possibly a pint of excellent champagne was responsible for his garrulity.

"Danger?" said Alicia, looking nervously about. "Oh, uncle, what a ridiculous thing to say."

"So I said, my dear," said Sir Harry; "with Gibraltar a stone's throw away, and a British fleet to be had for the asking—it is all bosh to talk about danger."

"That is what I said, governor," corrected Hal. "I pointed out that Morocco is in too dicky a position to fool about with British subjects—now who the devil is this?"

His last words were addressed to nobody in particular and Alicia followed the direction of his gaze.

Over a sandy ridge two miles away, pranced two horsemen. "Pranced" is the word, for that is the impression they conveyed. Hal, who was no fool despite all contrary views that might be held, knew that they were galloping pretty hard.

"They are making straight for us," said Sir Harry, and his face was a little pale.

Hal jumped up and gave an order to the guide. "Pack these things up as quick as you can," he ordered; "we can't be too careful."

He raised his glasses and fixed them on the riders. Then he swore.

"That damned Duke," he said and heard a long-drawn sigh behind him, where Alicia stood.

"Duke!" muttered Sir Harry, "confound the fellow! I thought it was—er—well, never mind. Who's the other man?"

"Who?" snorted Hal. "Who could it be, governor, but the Yankee person."

"Hum," said Sir Harry.

He was surprised to find that he did not resent the coming of his enemy as much as he thought he should. He bowed stiffly as the two drew rein, and was ready to be conventionally distant and polite. But he was unprepared for the Duke's greeting.

"What the dickens do you mean by coming out so far," demanded the Duke angrily. "How dare you expose Alicia to this danger!"

"Sir!" said the outraged knight.

"Get up, get up on your horses," commanded the Duke unceremoniously and like children they obeyed. Alicia stole a look at her lover. She experienced a shock.

His face was set and white, just as she had seen it twice before. There were rigid lines about his mouth and face, and his underjaw was thrust forward so that his whole face was transformed.

"Trot!" he said shortly, and they began their journey homeward.

Now and again Hank would turn in his saddle and look earnestly backward.

"Have you any arms?" asked the Duke suddenly.

"I have always made it a practice——" began Sir Harry.

"Have you got arms?" the Duke cut him short.

"No, I haven't!"

The Duke's lips curled.

"You wouldn't," he said and Sir Harry very rightly resented all that the words implied.

"Have you, Tanneur?" the Duke asked.

"I've got a revolver," said Hal meekly.

"Good; you, at least, have a glimmering of intelligence—do you see 'em, Hank."

The American shook his head.

"There's a ridge running parallel with us," he said, pointing away to the left. "I guess they are keeping up level, we'll see 'em soon."

The girl looked at the deserted ridge and her heart beat faster.

The Duke turned in his saddle and beckoned the guide.

"Did you know where you were taking these people?" he asked.

"By God and the prophet——!" the man protested.

"You didn't know Valentini was holding these hills, eh?"

The Duke's eyes glittered.

"Keep close to us," he ordered, "if you try to bolt when the shooting starts you're a dead man—sabè?"

"Si, señor," stammered the guide.

"Shooting! shooting!" spluttered Sir Harry, "is there any danger?"

"Yes."

"Danger to us?"

He received no answer.

For the next ten minutes they rode without speaking a word. Sir Harry thought a great deal.

"As you have taken so much trouble," he said at last, "I feel it is only my duty as a Christian and a gentleman to tell you that I have every reason to believe that an enemy of yours——"

"Bill Slewer," interrupted the Duke brusquely. "Yes, I know all about him. In fact I happen to know that he has prepared a little ambuscade for my especial benefit. He is waiting for my return to-night."

He said this in a matter-of-fact tone, as though referring to a dinner engagement. Alicia looked at him in some concern, and he smiled.

"I'm not worrying about Bill," he said; "it's——" He pointed to the ridge.

VI

"Crack!"

The Duke's horse reared, but he pulled it down.

"Half right—gallop!"

He caught the bridle of the girl's horse, and cantered to where a little hillock afforded a rough entrenchment.

"Don't dismount, the hill covers you," he said, and plucked a carbine from his saddle bucket. He handed the reins of his horse to Sir Harry and swung to the ground. Hank followed him up the little hill, and Alicia heard them talking.

"Four hundred?" said Hank.

"A little farther I should say," said the Duke; "this air is wonderfully clear and deceptive."

"We'll give 'em five hundred," concluded Hank.

"That will be nearer the mark," agreed the Duke.

Very deliberately they adjusted the sights of their carbines. "I think," she heard the Duke say, "that the gentleman in the white night-shirt is some sort of leader."

Hank raised his weapon. For a moment his cheek cuddled the stock and the slim barrel pointed at the invisible enemy.

"Bang!"

Her horse moved restlessly, and Sir Harry was all but unseated.

"Bang!"

The Duke fired.

"Got him!" said Hank and waited.

In a minute the two came running to their horses. "Gone to ground," said the Duke briefly, and sprang into the saddle.

There was no sign of the brigand's forces as they emerged from the sheltering hill. On the sandy slope of the ridge there was a little patch of white lying very still. The girl averted her eyes.

The party now struck off to the right.

"I had hoped," said the Duke, "to have entered Tangier by some other route than that." He pointed ahead to where a little clump of trees suggested a human habitation.

"But isn't this the nearest way," asked Alicia wonderingly. They could see the stretch of the Fez Road as it dipped and wound across the plain.

"It is," said the Duke grimly.

He did not tell her all—it seemed unnecessary. He had learnt something of Mr. Slewer's movements, and Bill had discovered something of his.

For example, Bill learnt of the Duke's pig-sticking expedition and had carefully gone over the route the Duke would take. Neither the Duke nor Hank had made any secret of their intention, and it was a simple matter to convey their plans to Bill.

"We might as well get it over," said the Duke, "let Bill know we are going out, and see what he does."

What Bill did was to ride out of Tangier and select a likely spot for a "meeting." In an excess of diffidence he chose a place where he could see without himself being seen; where he might shoot without running the risk of being shot—a not unnatural selection.

Unfortunately for Bill there was a rabbit-faced gamin mounted on a sorry donkey, who ambled in his rear. When the man from Texas halted at the little wood three miles outside the town and made a careful reconnaissance, the rabbit-faced young man was an interested observer. He duly reported to the Duke.

Now, as the fugitives moved toward the Fez Road, the Duke felt that he was between the devil and the deep sea. Had he and Hank been alone, there would have been little or no cause for anxiety. Indeed the adventure was one of his own seeking, and had been anticipated with some satisfaction. He remembered this and reproached himself.

Without Alicia there would be no cause for anxiety—it would have been amusing to have seen Sir Harry under fire. Particularly Bill's fire!

"Look out!" said Hank.

They were nearing the wood, but that was not the cause of Hank's warning.

Their pursuers had thrown off all pretence of concealment and had come into the open. The Duke calculated that they numbered thirty in all.

There were three men on their right flank and four on their left, and the remainder galloped behind.

"They are trying to head us off," said Hank.

"Crack! crack!"

"Firin' from their horses—that won't do much harm."

Sir Harry ducked violently as the bullets began to whine overhead, and Hal fingered his revolver irresolutely.

The party on the right was now reinforced and were gaining ground. They swerved still farther away from the little party.

"What is the idea?"

This new manoeuvre was disconcerting.

"Makin' for the wood," said Hank calmly, "it's a hold up, sure."

This evidently was the plan, for as the fugitives struck the uneven surface of the Fez Road the right and left horns of the pursuing crescent, converged as by signal upon the wood ahead.

Hank unslung his Winchester.

"There'll be somethin' doin'," he said with conviction. His prophecy was fulfilled, for scarcely had the last fluttering white jellab disappeared into the plantation than there came a perfect fusilade of firing.

The Duke looked back.

The Moors in the rear numbered a dozen. He chose his ground.

There was a dry water-course to the right of the road and into this he led his party.

"Dismount!"

They were off their horses in a trice.

He found a shelter for Alicia.

"Stay there and don't move," he ordered peremptorily. The Moors were galloping in a circle about the little position.

Firing was going on on all sides, but it was in the wood that it was heaviest.

Flat on the ground lay Sir Harry Tanneur, dazed, bewildered, horribly afraid. After a while, "No bullets seem to be coming from the wood?" he ventured.

The Duke smiled.

"The gentlemen in the wood, have, I should imagine, sufficient to keep them engaged—Bill Slewer is a mighty handy man with a revolver."

"Good Lord!" said Sir Harry, and the situation began to dawn on him.

"If we can keep our gyrating friends at a distance——" the Duke continued.

"Dukey!"

It was Hank's urgent summons that sent him to the American's side.

"What are these?"

Hank pointed to the road beyond the copse.

A disordered mob of galloping men were coming toward them.

The Duke looked long and carefully.

"That or those," he said with a sigh, "is the army of His Shereefian Majesty the Sultan of Morocco."

He looked down into the white face of the girl. "In the words of the transpontine heroine," he said flippantly, "we are saved!"

VII

Somewhere in New York, in the Cherry Hill district, lives a lady who at some remote period embarked upon a matrimonial undertaking, and became officially and legally Mrs. Bill Slewer. Happily for her, a paternal government deprived her, at stated intervals, of communion with her lord. Bill in Sing-Sing was an infinitely better husband than Bill at home. When Mr. Slewer finally disappeared, this poor woman hoped most sincerely that she had heard the last of him. But this was not to be, for that same paternal government of the United States of America sought her out.

"DEAR MADAM" (ran the letter), "I regret to inform you, that your husband, William Slewer, was killed by Moorish brigands in the vicinity of Tangier, on December 24 last. It would appear that the Moors came upon him unexpectedly, whilst he was awaiting the return of a friend in a little wood near the city, and in spite of a most desperate resistance, in which six of the brigands lost their lives, he was shot down. As a result of the representations of this department, and on the evidence of the Duc de Montvillier, the Moorish Government has offered compensation, which, although inadequate in view of your terrible loss, may replace the means of sustenance, of which you have been deprived. I enclose a draft on the First National Bank for $20,000 (say twenty thousand dollars).

"Yours faithfully,

——."

VIII

From the Lewisham and Brockley Directory:

KYMOTT CRESCENT.

* * * * *

62. The Lord and Lady Tupping.

64. The Duc and Duchesse de Montvillier.

66. Mr. S. Hankey.

Butler & Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frome, and London.