"A Novel" (continued 4)

“If you don’t want to quarrel, just leave her name alone,” said Harry, with a bulldog-like growl.

“Oh, I’ll never mention it again if you like. Now, then, once for all, is it business?”

Harry was silent for a few minutes, and then replied—

“Yes.”

“Your hand on it.”

Harry stretched out his hand unwillingly, and it was taken and held.

“I shall hold you to it now, my lad. Now, then, when is it to be?”

“Oh, first opportunity.”

“No; it’s going to be now—to-night—as soon as it’s dark.”

“Nonsense, it must be some day—when Crampton is not there.”

“That means it will not be done at all, for Crampton never leaves; you told me so. Look here, Harry Vine, if you borrow the amount then, and it’s missed, of course you are asked directly, and there you are. No, my lad, you’ll have to go to-night.”

“But it will be like housebreaking.”

“Bah! You’ll go quietly in by the back way, make your way along the passage to Van Heldre’s room, take the keys down from the hook—”

“How did you know that the keys hung there?”

“Because, my dear little man, I have wormed it all out of you by degrees. To continue: you will go down the glass passage, open the office door, go to the safe, open that, get the two hundred—”

“Two hundred! You said fifty would do.”

“Yes, but then I said a hundred, and now I think two will be better. Easier paid back. You can work more spiritedly with large sums than with small. You’ve got to do this, Harry Vine, so no nonsense.”

Harry was silent.

“When you have the notes, you will lock all up as before, and then if they are missing before we return them, which is not likely, who can say that you have been there? Bah! don’t be so squeamish. You’ve got to do that to-night. You have promised, and you shall. It is for your good, my lad.”

“Yes, and yours,” said Harry gloomily.

“Of course. Emancipation for us both.”

Harry was silent, and soon after they rose and strolled back to the old house, where through the open window came the strains of music, and the voices of Madelaine and Louise harmonised in a duet.

“One less at Van Heldre’s, lad. The old man will be having his evening pipe, and the doors open. Nothing could be better. Half-past nine, mind, while they are at tea. It will be quite dark then.”

Harry was silent, and the two young men entered and sat down, their coming seeming to cast a damp on the little party, for the music was put aside and work taken up, Vine being busy with some notes of his day’s observations of the actions of a newly found mollusc.

Tea was brought in at about a quarter-past nine, and Pradelle rose and went to the window.

“What a beautiful night, Harry,” he said. “Coming for half an hour’s stroll before bed?”

“Don’t you want some tea?” said Harry, loudly.

“No. Do you?”

“No,” said Harry shortly; and he rose and went out, followed by his friend.

“You mean this then,” he said, as soon as they were out on the cliff.

“No; but you do. There is just time for it, so now go.”

Harry hesitated for a few minutes, and then strode off down toward the town, Pradelle keeping step with him, till they reached the street where a lane branched off, going round by the back of Van Heldre’s house, but on a higher level, a flight of steps leading down into the half garden, half yard, overlooked by the houses at the back, whose basements were level with Van Heldre’s first floor.

The time selected by Pradelle for the carrying out of his scheme happened to be Crampton’s club night, and, according to his weekly custom, he had gone to the old-fashioned inn where it was kept, passing a muffled-up figure as he went along, the said figure turning in at one of the low entrances leading to dock premises as the old clerk came out, so that he did not see the face.

It was a trifling matter, but it was not the first time Crampton had seen this figure loitering about at night, and it somehow impressed him so that he did not enjoy his one glass of spirits and water and his pipe. But the matter seemed to have slipped his memory for the time that he was transacting his club business, making entries and the like. Later on it came back with renewed force.

Harry and Pradelle parted in the dark lane with very few more words spoken, the understanding being that they should meet at home at half-past nine.

As soon as the former was alone he walked slowly on round the front of Van Heldre’s house, and there, according to custom, sat the merchant smoking his nightly pipe, resting one arm upon the table, with the shaded lamp shining down on his bald forehead, and a thoughtful, dreamy look in his eyes. Mrs Van Heldre was seated opposite working and respecting her husband’s thoughtful mood, for he was in low spirits respecting the wreck of his ship. Insurance made up the monetary loss, but nothing could restore the poor fellows who had gone down.

Harry stood on the opposite side watching thoughtfully.

“It would be very easy,” he said to himself. “Just as we planned, I can slip round to the back, drop in the garden, go in, take the keys, get the money, lock up again, and go and hang up the keys. Yes; how easy for any one who knows, and how risky it seems for him to leave his place like that. But then it is people’s want of knowledge which forms the safest lock.”

“Yes,” he said, after a pause, as he stood there in profound ignorance of the fact that the muffled-up figure which had taken Crampton’s attention was in a low dark doorway, watching his every movement. “Yes, it would be very easy; and in spite of all your precious gloss, Master Victor Pradelle, I should feel the next moment that I had been a thief; and I’ll drudge as a clerk till I’m ninety-nine before I’ll do anything of the kind.”

He thrust his hands into his pockets and turned off down by the harbour side, and hardly had he reached the water when Pradelle walked slowly up to the front of the house, noted the positions of those within by taking his stand just beneath the arched doorway opposite, and so close to the watcher that they nearly touched.

The next moment Pradelle had passed on.

“I knew he hadn’t the pluck,” he muttered bitterly. “A contemptible hound! Well, he shall see.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, and as if he were quite at home about the place, Pradelle went round to the narrow back lane and stood by the gate leading down the steps into the yard. As he pressed the gate it gave way, and he could see that the doorway into the glazed passage was open, for the light in the hall shone through.

There was no difficulty at all; and after a moment’s hesitation he stepped lightly down, ready with an excuse that he was seeking Harry, if he should meet any one; but the excuse was not needed. He walked softly and boldly into the passage, turned to his light, and entered the back room, which acted as Van Heldre’s private office and study. The keys lay where he knew them to be—in a drawer, which he opened and took them out, and then walked straight along the glazed passage to the office. The door yielded to the key, and he entered. The inner office was locked, but that was opened by a second key, and the safe showed dimly by the reflected lights which shone through the barred window.

“How easy these things are!” said Pradelle to himself, as he unlocked the safe; “enough to tempt a man to be a burglar.”

The iron door creaked faintly as he drew it open, and then began to feel about hastily, and with the perspiration streaming from his forehead. Books in plenty, but no notes.

With an exclamation of impatience, he drew out a little match-box, struck a light, and saw that there was an iron drawer low down. The flame went out, but he had seen enough, and stooping he dragged out the drawer, thrust in his hand, which came in contact with a leaden paper weight, beneath which, tied round with tape, was a bundle of notes.

“Hah!” he muttered with a half laugh, “I can’t stop to count you. Yes, I must, or they’ll miss ’em. Its tempting though. Humph! tied both—”

Thud!

One heavy blow on the back of Victor Pradelle’s head which sent him staggering forward against the door of the safe; then he felt in a confused, half-stunned way that something had been snatched from his hand. A dead silence followed, during which his head swam, but he had sufficient sense left to totter across the outer office, and along the passage to the garden yard.

How he got outside into the little lane he could not afterwards remember, his next recollection being of sitting down on the steps by the water-side bathing his face.

Five minutes before Harry Vine had been in that very spot, from which he turned to go home.

“Let him say what he likes,” muttered the young man, “I must have been mad to listen to him. Why—”

Harry Vine stopped short, for a thought had struck him like a flash.

How it was—why he should have such a suspicion he could not tell; but a terrible thought had seemed to burn into his brain. Then he felt paralysed as he shivered, and uttering an ejaculation full of rage and anger, he started off at a run toward Van Heldre’s place.

“Nonsense!” he said to himself, and he checked his headlong speed. “What folly!”

He walked on past a group of seamen, who had just quitted a public-house, and was about to turn up the lane which led to his home, when the thought came once more.

“Curse him!” he said, half aloud, “I’d sooner kill him,” and hurrying back, he made straight for the lane behind Van Heldre’s.

The gate yielded, he stepped down quickly into the yard, walked to the open door, looked to the right toward the hall, and then to the left toward the office. A dim light shone down the passage, and his heart seemed to stand still. The office door was open, and without hesitation he turned down the passage panting with horror, as he felt that his suspicions were confirmed. He crossed the outer room, the inner door was shut, and entering, he paused for a moment.

“Vic?” he whispered harshly.

All was still.

Trembling now with agitation, he was rapidly crossing to the safe when he stepped on something which gave beneath his feet, and he nearly fell headlong.

Recovering himself, he stooped down to pick up the heavy ebony ruler used by old Crampton, and polished by rubs of his coat-tail till it shone.

Harry felt giddy now with excitement, but he went to the safe door, felt that it was swung open, and groaning to himself, “Too late, too late!” he bent his head; felt for the drawer.

Empty!

“You scoundrel!” he groaned; “but he shall give up every note, and—”

Once more he felt as if paralysed, for as he turned from the safe he knew that he was not alone in the office.

Caught in the act! Burglary—the open safe—the notes gone, who would believe in his innocence?

He could think of nothing else, as he heard Van Heldre’s voice in the darkness—one fierce angry utterance—“Who’s there?”

“He does not know me,” flashed through Harry Vine’s brain.

“You villain!” cried Van Heldre, springing at him.

It was the instinctive act of one smitten by terror, despair, shame, and the desire to escape—a mad act, but prompted by the terrible position. As Van Heldre sprang at him and grasped at his breast, Harry Vine struck with all his might, the heavy rule fell with a sickening crash upon the unguarded head, he felt a sudden tug, and with a groan his father’s friend sank senseless on the floor.

For one moment Harry Vine stood bending over his victim; then uttering a hoarse sigh, he leaped over the body and fled.

Chapter Twenty.

In the Black Shadow.

Mrs Van Heldre let her work fall in her lap and gazed across at her husband.

“I suppose Harry Vine will walk home with Madelaine?” she said.

“Eh? Maddy? I’d forgotten her,” said Van Heldre laying down his pipe. “No; I’ll go up and fetch her myself.”

“Do, dear, but don’t stay.”

“Not I,” was the reply; and going out of the dining-room, where he always sat when he had his evening pipe, the merchant went into the study, where by the dim light he saw that his writing-table drawer was open.

“How’s that?” he thought. “Did I—No.”

He ran out into the passage, saw that his office door was open, and entered to receive the blow which laid him senseless before the safe.

Van Heldre did not lie there long.

Crampton came away from the old inn, stick in hand, conscious of having done a good evening’s work over the business of the Fishermen’s Benefit Club, the men having paid up with unusual regularity; but all the same, he did not feel satisfied. Those pedlar sailor men troubled him. They had been hanging about the town for some time, and though he knew nothing against them, he had, as a respectable householder, a confirmed dislike to all nomadic trading gentry. To him they were, whether Jew or Gentile, French or German, all gipsies, and belonging to a class who, to use his words, never took anything out of their reach.

He felt sure that the man he had seen in the darkness was one of these, and blaming himself now for not having taken further notice of the matter, he determined to call at his employer’s on his way home to mention the fact.

“Better late than never,” he said, and he stumped steadily down the main street as a man walks who is possessed of a firm determination to do his duty.

As he went on he peered down every one of the dark, narrow alleys which led to the water-side places, all reeking of tar and old cordage, and creosoted nets, and with more than a suspicion of the celebrated ancient and fishlike smell so often quoted.

“If I had my way,” said Crampton, “I’d have a lamp at each end of those places. They’re too dark—too dark.”

But though he scanned each place carefully, he did not see any lurking figure, and he went on till he reached his employer’s house, where, through the well-lit window, he could see Mrs Van Heldre looking plump, rosy, and smiling, as she busied herself in putting away her work.

Crampton stopped at the opposite side, took off his hat and scratched his head.

“Now if I go and tell him what I think, he’ll call me a nervous old fool, and abuse me for frightening his wife.”

He hesitated, and instead of going to the front door, feeling that perhaps, after all, he had taken an exaggerated view of things, he went on to the corner of the house and lane, with the intention of having a look round and then going on home.

He had just gone about half way, when there was a loud rap given by the gate leading down into Van Heldre’s yard. Some one had thrown it violently back against the wooden step, and that somebody had sprung out and run down the lane in the opposite direction to that by which the old clerk had come.

“Hah!” he ejaculated, and hurrying on he hastily descended the steps, entered the passage, and trembling now in every limb, made his way into the office, where, with all the regular method of the man of business, he quickly took a box of matches from the chimney-piece, and turned on and lit one of the gas burners.

The soft light from the ground-glass globe showed nothing wrong as he glanced round.

Yes; something was missing—the heavy ebony ruler which always reposed on the two brass hooks like a weapon of war at the end of his desk. That was gone.

Crampton’s brow knitted, and his hands shook so that he could hardly strike a second match, as he pushed open the door and entered the inner office where, forcing himself not to look round, he lit another gas jet before taking in the scene at a glance.

There lay Van Heldre, bleeding profusely from a terrible cut on the forehead, the safe was open, and in a very few minutes the old clerk knew that the packet of bank-notes was gone.

“But I’ve got all their numbers entered,” he said to himself, as he went down on his knee by his master’s side, and now, knowing the worst, growing moment by moment more calm and self-contained.

His first act was to take his voluminous white cravat from his neck, and bind it tightly round Van Heldre’s temples to staunch the bleeding.

“I knew no good would come of it,” he muttered. “I felt it from the first. Are you much hurt, sir?” he said aloud, with his lips close to the injured man’s ear.

There was no reply; just a spasm and a twitching of the hands.

“What shall I do?” thought Crampton. “Give the alarm? No; only frighten those poor women into fits. Fetch the doctor.”

He hurried out by the back way as quietly as he could, and caught the principal medical man just as he was going up to bed for a quiet night.

“Eh? Van Heldre?” he said. “Bless my soul! On directly. Back way?”

“Yes.”

Crampton hurried out, displaying wonderful activity for so old a man, and took the police station on his way back.

The force in Hakemouth was represented by a sergeant and two men, the former residing at the cottage which bore the words “Police Station” over the door.

“Where is your husband?” said Crampton to a brisk-looking woman.

“On his rounds, sir.”

“I want him at our office. Can I find him? Can you?”

“I know where he’ll be in about ten minutes, sir,” said the woman promptly, as if she were a doctor’s helpmate.

“Very well,” said Crampton. “Get him and send him on.”

The divergence had taken so long that he had hardly reached the office and poured out some water from a table filter, to bathe the injured man’s face, when he heard the doctor’s step.

“Hah!” said the latter, after a brief examination, “we must get him to bed, Mr Crampton.”

“Is he much hurt, sir?”

“Badly. There is a fracture of the skull. It must have been a terrible blow. Thieves, of course?”

“Or thief, sir,” said the old clerk, with his lip quivering. “My dear master! what would his poor father have said?”

“Hush! Be firm, man,” said the doctor, who was busy readjusting the bandage. “Does Mrs Van Heldre know?”

Crampton shook his head.

“I found him like this, sir, and came over to fetch you at once.”

“But she must be told.”

“John, John dear, are you there? I thought you had gone on to fetch Madelaine.”

Crampton rose hastily to try and bar the way; but he was too late. Mrs Van Heldre was at the door, and had caught a glimpse of the prostrate man.

“Doctor Knatchbull! what is the matter—a fit?”

The trouble was culminating, for another voice was heard in the glass corridor.

“Papa! papa! here is Mr Vine. He walked home with me. I made him come in. Oh, what a shame to be at work so late!”

“Keep her—keep her back,” gasped Mrs Van Heldre, and then with a piteous sob she sank down by Van Heldre’s side.

“John, my husband! speak to me, oh, speak,” she moaned as she raised his head to her lap.

“Ah, you want Brother Luke to you, John Van,” cried Vine, as with Madelaine on his arm he came to the door of the inner room.

There was a moment’s silence, and then Madelaine uttered a wild cry, and ran to her father’s side.

“Good heavens! Crampton, what is it?” cried Vine excitedly,—“a fit?”

“No, sir, struck down by a villain—a thief—and that thief—”

Crampton stopped short in the midst of his excitement, for there was a heavy step now in the passage, and the sergeant of police and one of his men came in.

“Yes. I’ve had my eye on a couple of strangers lately,” he said, as he took out a book and gave a sharp look round. “P’r’aps Mr Crampton, sir, you’ll give me the information I want.”

“Mr Crampton will give you no information at all,” said the keen-looking doctor angrily. “The first thing is to save the man’s life. Here, sergeant, and you, my man, help me to carry him up to his bed—or no—well, yes, he’ll be better in his own room. Pray, ladies, pray stand aside.”

“Yes, yes,” cried Madelaine excitedly, as she rose. “Mother, dear, we must be calm and helpful.”

“Yes; but—but—” moaned the poor woman.

“Yes, dearest,” cried Madelaine, “afterwards. Dr Knatchbull wants our help.”

“Good girl,” said the doctor, nodding. “Get the scissors, some old linen, and basin, sponge and water, in the bedroom.”

“Yes, doctor,” said Madelaine, perfectly calm and self-contained now. “Mother, dear, I want your help.”

She knelt down and pressed her lips for a moment to her father’s cheek, and then placed her arm round her mother, and led her away.

An hour later, when everything possible had been done, and Mrs Van Heldre was seated by her husband’s pillow, Vine being on the other side holding his friend’s hand, Madelaine showed the doctor into the next room.

“Tell me,” she said firmly. “I want to know the truth.”

“My dear child,” said the doctor, “You know all that I know. Some scoundrel must have been surprised by your father, and—”

“Doctor,” said Madelaine quietly, and with her clear matter-of-fact eyes gazing into his, “I have been praying for strength to help my mother and my poor father in this terrible affliction. I feel as if the strength had been given to me, so speak now as if I were a woman whom you could trust. Tell me the whole truth.”

The doctor gazed at her with a look full of admiration, and taking her hand, he said kindly:

“I was treating you as if you were a girl, but I will tell you the truth. I am going to telegraph to town for Mr Reston; there is a fracture and pressure on the brain.”

“And great danger, doctor?”

“Yes,” he said, after a pause, “and great danger. But, please God, my child, we will save his life. He is a fine, strong, healthy man. There; I can say no more.”

“Thank you,” said Madelaine calmly, and she quietly left the room.

“Any one might think that she did not feel it,” said the doctor slowly; “but I know better than that. It’s wonderful what a woman will suffer without making a sign. I cannot telegraph till eight o’clock, but I may as well write my message,” he muttered, as he went down-stairs. “Humph! the news is spreading. Somebody come.”

Chapter Twenty One.

Harry Looks the Fact in the Face.

Harry Vane checked his headlong pace as soon as he was out of the lane, and walked swiftly along by the harbour till he reached the sea. Here, in the shelter of a rock, he stooped down and lit a cigar, before throwing himself on a patch of shingle, and holding his temples with his hands, as he tried to quell the tumult in his brain and to think calmly.

But it was in vain. He felt half mad, and as if the best way out of his difficulty was to go and leap into the sea.

“Curse Pradelle!” he groaned. “I wish I had never seen him—coward, thief, cheat! Oh, what am I talking about? Why didn’t I face it, and tell Van Heldre the honest truth? I was innocent. No, no; I was as bad as Pradelle, and he shall disgorge. Every penny shall go back. If he says no, come what may, I’ll out with the whole truth.”

“I couldn’t help it,” he groaned after a pause. “I’d give anything to have frankly told the truth.”

He walked quickly home, and assuming a calmness he did not feel, entered the drawing-room, where Louise was seated reading.

“Your company gone?” he said roughly.

“Yes, dear. Papa has walked home with Madelaine.”

Harry turned sharply round, for he mentally pictured in one agonising thought the scene at Van Heldre’s home.

“Is anything the matter?” asked Louise.

“Matter? No. It’s very dark outside, and the light makes one’s eyes ache. Seen Pradelle?”

“No, dear,” said Louise gravely. “I thought he went out with you.”

“Yes, of course, but he likes to go wandering about the town. I wanted a quiet smoke by the water-side. I’m tired. I think I shall go to bed.”

“Do, dear. I’ll wait till papa comes.”

“Good night.”

“Good night, Harry dear,” she said rising, and, putting her arms around his neck, she laid her cheek to his. “Good night, dear. Harry darling, don’t worry about the work. Do it like a brave, true man; it will make father so happy.”

There was a sudden catching sob in Harry Vine’s throat, as like a flash, the memory of old happy boy and girl days came back. He caught his sister to his breast, and held her tightly there as he kissed her passionately again and again.

“My darling brother!” cried Louise as she tightened her grasp about his neck. “And you will try for all our sakes.”

“Yes, yes,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

“Never mind what poor aunt says. Be a man—a frank, honourable man, Harry. It is the order of the true haute noblesse after all. You will try?”

“Please God, yes, Lou—so hard—ah, so hard.”

“That’s like my dear brother once again,” she cried, fondling him. “There, darling, I’m speaking to you like our mother would. Let me be your mother to you as well as sister. You will begin again?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” he whispered hoarsely; “from this moment, Lou, I will.”

“May I say more?” she said gently, as her hand played about his brow.

“Yes, anything, Lou; anything. I’ve been a fool, but that’s all over now.”

“Then about Mr Pradelle?”

“Curse Mr Pradelle,” he cried passionately. “I wish I had never brought him here.”

“Don’t curse, dear,” said Louise, with a sigh of relief. “Yes, there has been an ugly cloud over this house, but it is lifting fast, Harry dear, and we are all going to be very happy once again. Good night.”

He could not speak; something seemed to choke him; but he strained her to his heart, and ran out of the room.

“Oh!” ejaculated Louise; and throwing herself into a chair, she burst into a passion of weeping; but her tears were those of joy, and a relief to her overburdened heart.

“Is it too late?” said Harry to himself, as a cold chilly hand seemed to grasp his heart. “No; I can keep my own secret, and I will turn over a new leaf now, and old Crampton shall rule it for me. What an idiot I have been!”

He shuddered as he recalled the scene in Van Heldre’s office, and involuntarily held his hands close to the landing-lamp.

“Poor old fellow!” he said, as his hand involuntarily went towards his vest; “but he’ll soon get over that. He couldn’t have known me in the dark. I—My locket!”

He turned like ice as he gazed down to see that the gold locket he wore at his watch-chain had been torn off.

“No, no; I lost it when I threw myself down on the shingle,” he muttered, as he fingered the broken link. “I could not have lost it there.”

Just then he started, for there was a faint cough on his left.

“Then he has come back,” he cried hastily; and going a few steps along the passage he tapped sharply, and entered Pradelle’s room.

Chapter Twenty Two.

The Punishment Begins.

Pradelle was seated in a low chair with his head resting on his hand. He looked up curiously at Harry as the young man hastily closed and locked the door.

“You’ve come at last, then,” said Pradelle sourly, as he winced from the pain he was in.

“Yes, I’ve come at last,” replied Harry. “Now, Pradelle, no nonsense! There has been enough of this. Where is the money?”

“Where’s what?”

“The money—those notes?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Then I’ll tell you plainly. I want five hundred pounds in Bank of England notes, stolen by you from Mr Van Heldre’s safe.”

Pradelle sank back in his chair.

“I like that,” he said, with a low, sneering laugh.

“No nonsense. Give me those notes.”

“You mean you want to give me the notes.”

“I mean what I say,” cried Harry, in a low, angry voice.

“Why, you went and got them, as we agreed.”

“I did not go and get them as we agreed.”

“Yes, you did, for I saw you.”

“How dare you, you lying cur!” cried Harry, seizing him by the throat and holding him back against the chair. “Give me the notes.”

“Don’t! don’t! You’ve hurt me enough once to-night. Look! my head’s bleeding now.”

Harry loosed his grasp, for the fact was patent.

“I—I hurt you?”

“Yes, with that ruler. What made you hit me like that? Take me for old Van Heldre?”

Harry’s jaw dropped, and he stared wildly at his companion.

“I—I hit you!” he faltered, as he struggled with his memory and asked himself whether he had stricken Pradelle down and not the old merchant.

“Well, I’ve got a cut two inches long and my head all swollen up. What made you do it?”

“I—do it! Here, what do you mean?”

“Mean? Why, that you were so long getting the loan—”

“Say stealing the notes. It would be more like the truth,” said Harry shortly.

“I won’t. I say you were so long getting the loan that I came to see what you were about, and you flew at me and knocked me down with the big ruler. Took me for a watchman, I suppose.”

“But when?—where?” cried Harry excitedly.

“Where? By the safe; inner office. What a fool you were!”

“Impossible!” thought Harry, as his confusion wore off. “Look here,” he cried aloud, “this is a mean, contemptible lie. You have the money; give it me, I say.”

“Supposing I had it,” snarled Pradelle, “what for?”

“To restore it to its owner.”

“Well, seeing that I haven’t got the money I say you shall not give it back. If I had got it I’d say the same.”

“You have got it. Come, no excuses.”

“I tell you I haven’t got a penny. You struck me down after you had taken it from the safe.”

“It’s a lie!” cried Harry fiercely. “I was not going to do the accursed work, and I did not strike you down.”

“Then look here,” cried Pradelle, pointing to his injured head.

“I know nothing about that. You have the money, and I’ll have it before I leave this room.”

“You’ll be clever then,” sneered Pradelle.

“Will you give it me?”

“No. How can I?”

“Don’t make me wild, Pradelle, for I’m desperate enough without that. Give me those notes, or, by all that’s holy, I’ll go straight to the police and charge you with the theft.”

“Do,” said Pradelle, “if you dare.”

The man’s coolness staggered Harry for the moment.

“If I’d got the money do you think I should be fool enough to make all this fuss? What do you mean? What game are you playing? Come, honour among—I mean, be square with me. You’ve got the notes.”

“Ah!” ejaculated Harry, with a look of disgust. “I tell you I have not.”

“Harry! Harry!”

It was his sister’s voice, and he heard her knocking sharply at his door.

“Look here, Pradelle, you’ve got those notes, and I tell you once more, you have to give them up or it’s a case of police.”

He had been moving towards the door, which he unfastened and threw open.

“I’m here, Louy,” he said.

“Quick, dear! A message from papa. We are to go on to Mr Van Heldre’s at once.”

“Van Heldre’s?” faltered Harry, whose legs seemed to give way beneath him.

“Yes, dear; a policeman brought the message.”

“A policeman?”

“Something is wrong. No, no, don’t turn like that. It is not father, but Mr Van Heldre, so the man said. I think it is a fall.”

Harry Vine’s breath came thick and short. What should he do? Fly at once? No; that meant being taken and brought ignominiously back.

“Don’t hesitate, dear,” said Louise; “Pray come quickly.”

“Yes,” said Harry huskily. “Of course, I’ll come on. Will you—you go first?”

“Harry, what are you thinking, dear? Why do you look so shocked? Indeed I am not deceiving you.”

“Deceiving me?”

“No, dear; I am sure it is not papa who is hurt. There come along, and see—for Madelaine’s sake.”

She said these last words very softly, almost in a whisper; but the only effect they had upon him was to make him shudder.

What should he do—face the danger or go? He must face it; he knew he must. It was his only hope, and already his sister was hurrying him to the door—his sister, perhaps unconsciously to hand him over to the police.

“No,” he said to himself, with an attempt to be firm, “he could not have seen me; but was it after all Pradelle I struck down?”

A chill shot through him.

The locket torn from his watch-chain?

“Why, Harry dear, you seem quite upset.”

“Upset—I—yes, it is so sudden. I am a bit—there, I’m all right now.”

“Poor Madelaine! she must be in sad trouble.”

Greater than the speaker realised.

She was in the dining-room with the elder Vine, and hung for a few moments on Louise’s neck to sob forth her troubles when she entered. Then, without a word or look at Harry, she hurried up-stairs.

“Why did you not speak to her, Harry?” whispered Louise.

He made no reply, but sat listening to his father, his eyes dilated and throat dry.

“And—and do they suspect any one?” whispered the young man in a voice he did not know for his own.

“No; the police have been away since, and they think they have a clue—two pedlars who have been about the place lately.”

“And Mr Van Heldre—is—is he badly hurt?”

“Very badly. It is doubtful whether he can recover.”

The young man’s breath came and went in a strange labouring way as he sat rigidly upon his seat, while his father went on telling him fact after fact that the son knew only too well.

“Poor Van Heldre! First the ship, then this terrible calamity. Crampton tells me that there was a sum of money deposited in the safe—five hundred pounds in notes, and all gone—every penny—all gone. Poor old Crampton! he almost worshipped Van Heldre. He is nearly wild with grief. One minute he scowled at me savagely; the next minute he was apologetic. It’s a terrible business, children. I thought you had better both come on, for, of course, I could not leave now.”

Just then Mrs Van Heldre came down, looking red-eyed and pale, to take Louise to her breast.

“Thank you, my dear, thank you,” she sobbed; “it was like you to come. And you too, Harry Vine.” She took and pressed the young man’s hand which was dank and cold. Then, in a quick access of gratitude, she laid her hands upon his shoulders, and kissed him.

“Thank you, my dear,” she said in a voice broken with sobs. “You seem always to have been like Maddy’s brother. I might have known that you would come.”

If ever man suffered agony, that man was Harry Vine as he listened to the poor simple-hearted woman’s thanks. His punishment had commenced, and every time the door opened he gave a guilty start, and turned white as ash.

“Don’t take it like that, Harry,” said Louise tenderly. “There is always hope, dear.”

She looked lovingly in his eyes, and pressed his hand, as their father went on talking in a low voice, and giving utterance to his thoughts.

“The scoundrels, as far as I can make out, Harry, my boy, seem to have got in by the back. The door was unfastened, and they must have known a good deal about the place—by watching I suppose, for they knew where to find the keys, and how to open the safe.”

Harry’s breath came in a spasmodic way, as he sat there chained, as it were, to his place.

“Five hundred pounds. A very heavy sum. I must not blame him, poor fellow, but I should have thought it a mistake to have so large a sum in the house.”

At last the doctor descended looking very grave.

“Ah, Knatchbull,” said Vine in an excited whisper as he rose and caught the doctor’s hand; “how is he?”

The doctor shook his head.

“Has he recovered his senses?”

“No.”

“Nor said a word about who his assailants were?”

“No, sir, nor is he likely to for some time to come.”

Harry Vine sat with his eyes closed, not daring to look; and as the doctor’s words came a terrible weight of dread seemed to be lifted from his brain.

“I may go up now, may I not?”

“No, sir, certainly not,” said the doctor.

“But we are such old friends; we were boys together, Knatchbull.”

“If you were twin-brothers, sir, I should say the same. Why, do you know, sir, I’ve forbidden Mrs Van Heldre to go into the room. She could not control her feelings, and absolute silence is indispensable.”

“Then he is alone?”

“No, no; his daughter is with him. By George! Mr Vine, if I had been a married man instead of a surly old soured bachelor, I should be so proud and jealous of such a girl as Miss Van Heldre that I should have been ready to poison the first young fellow who dared to think about her.”

“We are all very proud of Madelaine,” said Vine slowly. “I love her as if she were my own child.”

“Humph! your sister is not,” said the doctor dryly.

“No, my sister is not,” said the old man slowly.

“Then, now, Mr Vine, if you please, I am going to ask you people to go.”

“Go?” said Vine, in angry remonstrance.

“Yes; you can do nothing. No change is likely to take place, perhaps for days, and with Miss Van Heldre for nurse and Crampton to act as my help if necessary, there will be plenty of assistance here. What I want most is quiet.”

“Harry, take Louise home,” said the old man quickly.

“And you will go with them, sir?”

“No,” said Vine quietly. “If I lay in my room stricken down, John Van Heldre would not leave me, Knatchbull, and I am not going to leave him. Good night, my children. Go at once.”

“But, Madelaine, father.”

“I shall tell her when she comes down that you were driven away, but I shall send for you to relieve her as soon as I may.”

Louise stifled a sob, and the old doctor took and patted her hand.

“You shall be sent for, my dear, as soon as you can be of use. You are helping me in going. There, good night.”

A minute later, hanging heavily on her brother’s arm, Louise Vine was walking slowly homeward through the silent night. Her heart was too full for words, and Harry uttered a low hoarse sigh from time to time, his lips never once parting to speak till they reached the house.

To the surprise of both, on entering they were confronted by Aunt Marguerite.

“What does all this mean?” she said angrily. “Why did every one go out without telling me a word?”

Louise gently explained to her what had befallen her father’s friend.

“Oh,” said Aunt Marguerite, with a slight shrug of the shoulders. “Well, it might have been worse. There, I am very tired. Take me up, child, to bed.”

“Good night, Harry; you will go and lie down,” whispered Louise. “Good night, dear.”

She clung to him as if the trouble had drawn them closer, and then went into the hall to light a candle.

“Good night, Henri,” said Aunt Marguerite, holding her cheek for the young man’s mechanical kiss. “This is very sad, of course, but it seems to me like emancipation for you. If it is, I shall not look upon it as a calamity, but as a blessing for us all. Good night.”

The door closed upon her, and Harry Vine sat alone in the dining-room with his hands clasped before him, gazing straight away into his future, and trying to see the road.

“If I had but thrown myself upon his mercy,” he groaned; but he knew that it was impossible all through his regret.

What to do now? Where to go? Money? Yes; he had a little, thanks to his regular work as Van Heldre’s clerk—his money that he had received, and he was about to use it to escape—where?

“God help me!” groaned the unhappy man at last; “what shall I do?”

He started up in horror for the door handle turned. Had they found out so soon? Was he to be arrested now?

“Harry—Harry!”

A quick husky whisper, but he could not speak.

“Harry, why don’t you answer? What are you staring at?”

“What do you want?”

“Look here, old fellow; I’ve been waiting for you to come up—all these hours. What have you found out? Van Heldre was robbed to-night of five hundred pounds in notes, and you have that money.”

“I haven’t, I tell you again, not a shilling of it. Look here, what about the police? Have they put it in their hands?”

“The police are trying to trace the money and the man who struck Van Heldre down. Where is that money? It must be restored.”

“Then you must restore it, for I swear I haven’t a single note. Hang it, man, have I ever played you false?”

Harry was silent. His old companion’s persistence staggered him.

“I tell you once more, I went to the office to see if you had got the loan, and was knocked down. Curse it all! is this true or is it not?”

He placed his head close to the light, and Harry shuddered.

“Don’t believe me unless you like. I wish I had never come near the place.”

“I wish so too,” said Harry, coldly.

“There, don’t talk like that, man. It has turned out a failure, unless you have got the coin—have you?”

“Have I?” said Harry with utter loathing in his voice, “No!”

“You can believe me or not, as you like, but I always was your friend, and always will be, come what may. Now, look here; we are safe to get the credit of this. If you didn’t fell me, some one else did. Van Heldre, I suppose; and now some one must have knocked him down. Of course you’ll say it wasn’t you.”

“No,” said Harry coldly. “I shall not say it. I was by the safe, and he caught hold of me. In my horror I hit at him. I wish he had struck me dead instead.”

“Don’t talk like a fool. Now look here; the game’s up and the world’s wide. We can start at once, and get to Saint Dree’s station in time to catch the up train; let’s go, and start afresh somewhere. You and I are safe to get on. Come.”

Harry made no reply.

“I’ve packed up my bag, and I’m ready. Get a few things together, and let’s go at once.”

“Go—with you?”

“Yes. Look sharp. Every minute now is worth an hour.”

Go with Pradelle! the man who had been his evil genius ever since they had first met. A feeling of revulsion, such as he had never felt before, came over Harry Vine, and with a voice full of repressed rage he cried:—

“I’d sooner give myself up to the police.”

“Don’t be a fool. I tell you to come at once. It’s now half-past two. Plenty of time.”

“Then in heaven’s name go!” said Harry; “and never let me see your face again.”

“You’ll talk differently to-morrow. Will you; once more?”

“No.”

“Then I’m off. What do you mean to do?”

“Wait.”

“Wait?”

“Yes. I shall not try to escape. If they suspect me, let them take me. I shall face it all.”

“You’ll soon alter your tune. Look here; I’ve been true to you; now you be true to me. Don’t set the police on to me. No, you will not do that. You’ll come after me; and mind this, you will always hear of me at the old lodgings. Great Ormond Street.”

Harry stood gazing straight at him, believing, in spite of his doubts, that Pradelle had not taken the money.

The idea was strengthened.

“Look here; I’ve only three half-crowns. I can’t go with that. How much have you?”

“Thirty shillings.”

“Then come, and we’ll share.”

“No.”

“Lend me half then. I’ll manage with that.”

For answer Harry thrust his hand into his pocket and took out all he had.

“What, all?” said Pradelle, as he took the money.

There was no reply.

“Once more. Will you come?”

Silence!

“Then I’m off.”

Harry Vine stood gazing at vacancy; and once more tried to see his own path in the future, but all was dark.

One thing he did know, and that was that his path did not run side by side with Victor Pradelle’s. His sister’s words still rang in his ears; her kisses seemed yet to be clinging to his lips.

“No,” he said at last, moodily; “I’ll face what there is to come alone. No,” he groaned, “I could not face it, I dare not.”

He started guiltily and scared, for there was the sound of a door closing softly.

He listened, and there was a step, but it was not inside the house, it was on the shingle path; and as he darted to the old bay window, he could see a shadowy figure hurrying down the path.

“Gone!” he said in a low voice, “gone! Yes, I’ll keep my word—if I can.”

He opened the casement window, and stood there leaning against the heavy stone mullion, listening to the low soft beating of the waves far below. The cool air fanned his fevered cheek, and once more the power to think seemed to be coming back.

He had had no idea of the lapse of time, and a flash of broad sunlight came upon him like a shock, making him start away from the window, now lit up, with the old family shield and crest a blaze of brilliant colour.

“Roy et Foy,” he read silently; and the words seemed to mock him.

Henri Comte des Vignes, the plotter in a robbery of the man who had been his benefactor, perhaps his murderer.

“Comte des Vignes!” he said, with a curious laugh. “Boy! vain, weak, empty-headed boy! What have I done—what have I done?”

“Harry!”

He started round with a cry to face his sister.

“Not been to bed?”

“No,” he said wearily. “I could not sleep.”

She laid her hands upon his shoulders and kissed him.

“Neither could I,” she said, “for thinking of it all. Harry, if he should die!”

He looked down into the eyes gazing so questioningly into his, but his lips framed no answer.

He was listening to the echoing of his sister’s words, which seemed to go on and on thrilling through the mazes of his brain, an infinitesimally keen and piercing sound at last, but still so plain and clear—

“If he should die!”

Chapter Twenty Three.

Uncle Luke Grows Harder.

“I would not stop over these, my dears,” said Vine, as they sat at breakfast, which was hardly tasted, “but if I neglect them they will die.”

He had a glass globe on the table, and from time to time he went on feeding with scraps of mussel the beautiful specimens of actinia; attached to a fragment of rock.

“We’ll all go on directly and see if we can be of any use. I’m glad Knatchbull called as he went by.”

“But what news!” said Louise sadly. “It seems so terrible. Only yesterday evening so well, and now—”

She finished her remark with a sob.

“It is very terrible,” said her father; “but I hope we shall soon hear that the villains are caught.”

Harry sat holding the handle of his tea-cup firmly, and gazing straight before him.

“You’ll go up to the office, of course, my boy?” said Vine.

“Eh? Go up to the office?” cried Harry, starting.

“Yes, as if nothing had happened. Do all you can to assist Crampton.”

“Yes, father.”

“He was very quiet and reserved when I went in at seven; quite snappish, I might say. But he was too much occupied and troubled, I suppose, to be very courteous to such an old idler as I am. Ah!” he continued, as a figure passed the window, “here’s Uncle Luke.”

A cold chill had run through Harry at the mention of Crampton—a chill of horror lest he should suspect anything; and now, at the announcement of his uncle’s approach, he felt a flush run up to his temples, and as if the room had suddenly become hot.

“Morning,” said Uncle Luke, entering without ceremony, a rush basket in one hand, his strapped-together rod in the other.

“Breakfast? Late for breakfast, isn’t it?”

“No, Luke, no; our usual time,” said his brother mildly.

“You will sit down and have some, uncle?”

“No, Louy, no,” he replied, nodding his head and looking a little less hard at her. “I’ve had some bread and skim milk, and I’m just off to catch my dinner. The idiot know?”

“My dear Luke!” said his brother mildly, as Uncle Luke made a gesture upward towards Aunt Marguerite’s room; “why will you strive to increase the breach between you and our sister?”

“Well, she tells every one that I’m mad. Why shouldn’t I call her an idiot? But nice goings on, these. Wonder you’re all alive.”

“Then you have heard?”

“Heard? Of course. If I hadn’t I could have read it in your faces. Look here, sir,” he cried, turning sharply on his nephew, “where were you last night?”

Harry clutched the table-cloth that hung into his lap.

“I? Last night?” he faltered.

“Yes; didn’t I speak plainly? Where were you last night? Why weren’t you down at Van Heldre’s, behaving like a man, and fight for your master along with your henchman?”

“Uncle, dear, don’t be so unreasonable,” said Louise, leaning back and looking up in the old man’s face—for he had thrown his basket and rod on a chair, and gone behind her to stand stroking her cheek—“Harry was at home with Mr Pradelle.”

“Pradelle, eh?” said the old man sharply. “Not up?”

“Mr Pradelle has gone,” said Louise.

“Gone, eh?” said Uncle Luke sharply.

“Yes,” said his brother. “Mr Pradelle behaved very nicely. He left this note for me.”

“Note, eh? Bank note—”

Harry winced and set his teeth.

“No, no, Luke. Nonsense!”

“Nonsense? I mean to pay for his board and lodging all the time he has been here.”

“Absurd, Luke!” said his brother, taking up a liberal meal for a sea-anemone on the end of a thin glass rod. “He said that under the circumstances he felt that he should be an encumbrance to us, and therefore he had gone by the earliest train.”

“Like the sneak he is, eh, Harry?”

The young man met his uncle’s eyes for the moment, and then dropped his own.

“You’ll kill those things with kindness, George. Any one would think you were fattening them for market. So Master Pradelle has gone, eh? Don’t cry, Louy; perhaps we can coax him back.”

He chuckled, and patted her cheek.

“Uncle, dear, don’t talk like that. We are in such trouble.”

“About Van Heldre, that boy’s master. Yes, of course. Very sad for Mrs Van and little Madelaine. Leslie was down there as soon as one of the miners brought up the news, trying to comfort them.”

Harry’s teeth gritted slightly, but he relapsed into his former semi-cataleptic state, as if forced to listen, and unable to move.

“I like Leslie,” said Vine sadly.

“So do I. At least, I don’t dislike him so much as I do some folks. Now if he had been there, he’d have behaved better than you did, Master Harry.”

“Uncle, dear, don’t be so hard on poor Harry.”

“Poor Harry! Good job he is poor. What’s the good of being rich for thieves to break through and steal?”

“Ah! what indeed!” said his brother sadly.

“Look at Van Heldre, knocked on the head and going to die.”

“Uncle!”

“Well, I dare say he will, and be at rest. Knocked on the head, and robbed of five hundred pounds. My money, every penny.”

“Yours, Luke?” said his brother, pointing at him with the glass rod.

“Thanks, no, George; give it to the sea-anemone. I don’t like raw winkle.”

“But you said that money was yours?”

“Yes; a deposit; all in new crisp Bank of England notes, Harry. Taking care of it for me till I got a fresh investment.”

“You surprise me, Luke.”

“Always did. Surprised you more if Margaret had had five hundred pounds to invest, eh?”

“Then the loss will fall upon you, uncle,” said Louise sympathetically, as she took the old man’s hand.

“Yes, my dear. But better have the loss fall upon median Crampton’s heavy ebony ruler, eh, Harry?”

The young man looked once more in the searching malicious eyes, and nodded.

“Bad job though, Louy. I’d left poor Harry that money in my will.”

“Oh, uncle!” cried Louise, holding his hand to her cheek.

“Yes; but not a penny for you, pussy. There, it don’t matter. I shan’t miss the money. If I run short, George, you’ll give me a crust, same as you do Margaret.”

“My dear Luke, I’ve told you a hundred times, I should be glad if you would give up that—that—”

“Dog kennel?” sneered the old cynic.

“That hut on the cliff, and come and share my home.”

“Yes, two hundred times. I’ll swear,” said Uncle Luke. “You always were weak, George. One idiot’s enough for you to keep, and very little does for me. There’s my larder,” he continued, pointing toward the sea; “and as to Harry here, he won’t miss the money. He’s going to be the Count des Vignes, and take Aunt Marguerite over to Auvergne, to live in his grand château. Five hundred pounds is nothing to him.”

The perspiration stood on Harry’s brow, cold and damp, and he sat enduring all this torture. One moment he felt that his uncle suspected him, the next that it was impossible. At times a fierce sensation of rage bubbled up in his breast, and he felt as if he would have liked to strangle the keen-eyed old man; but directly after he felt that this was his punishment called down by his weakness and folly, and that he must bear it.

“Going, Harry?” said his father, as the young man rose.

“Yes; it is time I went on to the office.”

“Good boy. Punctuality’s the soul of business,” said Uncle Luke. “Pity we have no corporation here. You might rise to be mayor. Here, I don’t think I shall go fishing to-day. I’ll stop, and go on with you two to see old Van. Louy, dear, go and tell your aunt I’m here. She might like to come down and have a snarl.”

“Uncle, dear,” said Louise, rising and kissing him, “you can’t deceive me.”

She went out after Harry.

“Not a pair, George,” said Uncle Luke, grimly. “Louy’s worth live hundred of the boy.”

“He’d drive me mad, Lou, he’d drive me mad,” cried Harry, tearing his hand from his sister’s grasp, and hurrying away; but only to run back repentant and kiss her fondly before hurrying away.

Chapter Twenty Four.

The Trifle that Tells Tales.

As Harry Vine left his father’s house, and hurried down the slope he gazed wildly out to sea. There were no thoughts of old Huguenot estates, or ancient titles, but France lay yonder over that glistening sea, and as he watched a cinnamon-sailed lugger gliding rapidly south and east, he longed to be aboard.

Why should he not do as Pradelle had done, escape from the dangers which surrounded and hemmed him in? It was the easiest way out of his difficulties.

There were several reasons.

To go would stamp him with the crime, and so invite pursuit. To do this was to disgrace father and sister, and perhaps be taken and dragged back.

When he reached the harbour, instead of turning down to the left, by the estuary, he made his way at once on to the shore, and after a little hesitation, picked out the spot where on the previous night he had thrown himself down, half mad with the course he had been called upon to take.

The engraved gold locket with which his nervous fingers had so often played would be lying somewhere among the stones, perhaps caught and wedged in a crevice. It was so easy when lying prone to catch such an ornament and snap it off without knowing. He looked carefully over the heap of stones, and then around in every direction; but the locket was not there.

“It must be somewhere about,” he said angrily, as if he willed that it should; but there was no sign of the glittering piece of well-polished gold, and a suspicion that had for a long time being growing increased rapidly in force, till he could bear it no longer, and once more something seemed to urge him to fly.

He had clung so to that hope, shutting his eyes to the truth, and going down to the beach to search for the locket. Even when he had not found it, he said that perhaps some child had picked it up; but there was the truth now refusing to be smothered longer, and he walked on hastily to reach Van Heldre’s office, so as to search for the locket there. For it was the truth he had fell that sudden snatch, that tug when the old merchant dashed at him, and then fell. The locket was torn off then. He might not be too late. In the hurry and confusion it might not have been seen.

The ordinary door of entrance to the offices was closed, and at the house the blinds were half drawn-down. He felt that he could not go to the front door. So after a little hesitation, he went round into the back lane, and with a strange sensation of dread, passed through the gateway and down the steps into the neatly kept garden yard.

Everything was very still; and Harry Vine, with an attempt to look as if entirely bent upon his ordinary task, went up to the door, entered the glass corridor, as he had entered it the night before, and by a tremendous effort of will walked quickly into the outer office.

The inner door was open, and after a hasty glance round, he was in the act of crossing to it when he found himself face to face with the old clerk. For some moments neither spoke—the old man gazing straight at Harry with a peculiar, stony glare, and the latter, so thrown off his balance, that no words would come.

“Good morning,” he said at last.

The old man continued to stare as if looking him through and through.

“What do you want?” he said at last.

“Want? It is past nine o’clock, and—”

“Go back. The office is closed.”

“Go back?” said Harry, troubled by the old man’s manner more than by the announcement; for it seemed natural that the office should be closed.

“Yes, young man; you can go back.”

“But—”

“I said, go back, sir—go back! The office is closed,” said the old man fiercely; and there was something menacing in the manner of his approach, as he backed his junior to the closed door, and unlocked it and pointed to the street.

“Mr Crampton—” began Harry.

The old man looked at him as if he could have struck him down, waved him aside, and closed and locked the door.

Harry stood a few moments thinking. What could he do to gain an entrance there, and have a quiet search of the place? The only plan open seemed to be to wait until Crampton had gone away.

He had just come to this conclusion, after walking a short distance along the street and returning, when a fresh shock awaited him. Van Heldre’s front door was open, and Duncan Leslie came out, walking quickly towards him, but not noticing whom he approached till they were face to face.

“Ah, Mr Vine,” he said, holding out his hand; “I had some thought of coming up to you.”

“What for?”

“What for? Surely at a time like this there ought not to be a gap between friends. I am afraid you misunderstood me the other night. I am very sorry. There is my hand.”

But trembling with that other anxiety, Harry Vine had still the old sling of jealousy festering in his breast. Leslie had just come from Van Heldre’s; perhaps he had been talking with Madelaine even there; and, ignoring the proffer, Harry bowed coldly and was passing on, but Leslie laid his hand upon his arm.

“If I have been more in the wrong than I think, pray tell me,” said Leslie. “Come, Vine, you and I ought not to be ill friends.”

For a moment the desire was upon him to grasp the extended hand. It was a time when he was ready to cling to anyone for help and support, and the look in his eyes changed.

“Ah, that’s better!” said Leslie frankly. “I want to talk to you.”

Why not go with him? Why not tell Leslie all, and ask his help and advice? He needed both sorely. It was but a moment’s fancy, which he cast aside as mad. What would Leslie say to such a one as he? And how could he take the hand of a man who was taking the place which should be his?

Leslie stood still in the narrow seaport street for a few moments, looking after Harry, who had turned off suddenly and walked away.

Chapter Twenty Five.

On the Rack.

How was he to pass that day? At home in a state of agony, starting at every word, trembling at every knock which came to the door? He felt that he could not do that, and that he must be engaged in some way to crush down the thoughts which were fermenting in his brain.

Certain now that he had lost the locket in the slight struggle in the office, he literally determined to leave no stone unturned, and walked once more down to the beach, where he went on searching, till glancing up he saw Poll Perrow, the old fish-woman, resting her arm on the rail at the edge of the cliff, looking down at him, and apparently watching him.

That was sufficient to turn him from his quest, and he went off hastily, and without intent, to find himself upon the long, narrow, pier-like point which acted as a breakwater to the harbour.

He went on and on, till he reached the end, where with the sea on three sides, and the waves washing at his feet, he sat down on one of the masses of rock as his uncle so often took up his position to fish, and watched the swirling current that ran so swiftly by the end of the point.

“How easy it would be,” he thought, “to step down off the end of the rock into the sea, and be carried right away.”

“And disgrace them by acting like a coward,” he said half aloud; and leaping up he walked swiftly back to the cliff, and then went up the path that led to home.

At the door he met Louise and his father.

“Back again, Harry?” said the latter, wonderingly.

“Yes; the place is shut up. No business to-day,” he said hastily.

“Did you see Madelaine?” asked Louise, anxiously.

He shook his head.

“Or poor Mrs Van Heldre?” said his father.

“No; I thought it would worry them.”

“But you asked how Van Heldre was?”

“No,” said Harry, confusedly. “I—it seemed a pity to disturb them.”

“Come back and make amends,” said Vine rather sternly. “They must not think we desert them in their trouble.”

“But both you and Louise have been on this morning.”

“Yes, and would have stayed if it would have helped them,” said Vine. “Come.”

Harry hung back for a moment, and then, in the hope that he might be able to slip away from them, and search the office in Crampton’s absence, he went on by their side.

To the surprise of all, as they reached the house the door was opened by Crampton, who stood scowling in the doorway, and barred the way.

“How is he now, Crampton?” said Vine, as Harry’s heart began to palpitate with the fear that all this was intended for him.

“Dying,” said the old man, shortly.

“No, no, not so bad as that,” cried Louise and her father in a breath. “Doctor Knatchbull said—”

“What doctors always say, Miss Louise, that while there’s life there’s hope. ’Tisn’t true. There’s often life and no hope, and it’s so here.”

“Crampton, you are taking too black a view of the matter,” said Vine, quickly. “It’s very good of you to be so much moved as his old and faithful servant, but let’s all, as a duty, look on the best side of things.”

“There is no best side,” said Crampton, bitterly. “The whole world’s corrupt. Well; what do you people want to say?”

“To say? We have come to be of help if we can. Come, Louise, my dear.”

He took a step forward, but the old man stood fast.

“You know all there is to know,” said the old clerk sourly, as he looked half angrily at Vine, and then, totally ignoring Harry, he turned his eyes on Louise, when the hard look softened a little. “Send in by-and-by if you want to hear, or I’ll send to you—if he dies.”

“Dies!” cried Vine, with a start of horror. “No, no; he is not so bad as that.”

“As bad as a man can be to live.”

“You forget yourself, Crampton,” said Vine, with dignity. “You forget yourself. But there, I can look over it all now. I know what you must feel. Go and tell Mrs Van Heldre or Miss Madelaine that we are here.”

The old man hesitated for a few moments, and then drew back to allow Louise and her father to pass; but as Harry stepped forward hastily to follow, the old man interposed, and fiercely raised his hand.

“No,” he said. “I’m master now. Go back! Go back!”

Harry shrank from him as Crampton stood pointing down the street, and then strove hard to master the abject sensation of dread which made him feel that all the old man said was true. He was master now, and with an angry gesture he turned and walked swiftly away, to turn as he reached the end of the street and see Crampton watching him from the door-step, and with his hand still raised.

“Am I such an abject coward that I am frightened of that old man?” he muttered, as he recalled how only a few hours back he used to treat him with a flippant condescending contempt. “Yes, he’s master now, and means to show it. Why did I not go in boldly?”

He knew why, and writhed in his impotence and dread. The task of keeping a bold face on the matter was harder than he thought. He wandered about the town in an objectless way hour after hour, and then went home. His father and sister had not returned, but Aunt Marguerite was down, ready to rise in her artificial manner and extend her hand.

“Ah, Henri, my child,” she said; “how pale and careworn you look! Where are they all?”

“Van Heldre’s,” said Harry shortly.

“Ah, poor man! Very bad, I hear. Yes, it’s very sad, but I do not see why his accident should so reverse our regular lives at home. Henri, dear, you must break with Mr Van Heldre after this.”

“I have broken with him, aunt,” cried the young man fiercely.

“Ah! that’s right; that is spoken like one of our race should speak. Good boy. And, Henri, my darling, of course there will be no more silly flirtings with you sister’s friend. Remember what I have told you of the fair daughters of France, and let the fraülein marry that man Leslie.”

“Aunt, you’ll drive me mad,” exclaimed Harry, grinding his teeth; and without another word he dashed out of the house. His first thought was to go up the cliff path on to the wild granite plain and moors which overlooked the town, but he could not stir in that direction. There was the hunting dread of that locket being found, and he went on down again into the town, and looked about the shore for hours.

The afternoon was growing old, and his mind was becoming better able to bear the brunt of all that was to come.

He raised his eyes, and was on the point of going back home to see if his father and sister had returned, when he caught sight of old Crampton coming out of the post-office, after which the old man walked on in the direction of his home.

The opportunity at last! The office would be unguarded; and, walking swiftly in the direction of Van Heldre’s, he turned round into the back lane, and, strung up to act firmly and determinedly, he pressed the back gate.

It was fast.

Desperate and determined now, he went round to the principal office door, but it was locked. Harry drew a long breath, and walked straight to the front door and rang. The maid who opened drew back to let him pass.

“My father—sister here?”

“In the drawing-room; in with my mistress.”

“No, no,” said Harry hastily, as the maid moved towards the door; “never mind me; I’ll go in soon.”

The woman left him in the hall, and he waited till he heard the kitchen-door close, when he walked swiftly and softly to the glass window, and hurried into the office.

The inner office door was open, and he darted in, to hastily look all round, under table, chairs, beneath the bookshelves, among the newspapers that lay in places in a heap; but there was no sign of the missing trinket, and an icy feeling of dread began to grow upon him.

The waste-paper basket!

It was half full, and the locket might easily have dropped in there, but a hasty examination was without avail.

The fireplace!

He looked there, in the ready-laid fire, beneath the grate, in the fender; he even raised it, but without avail.

“It must be here somewhere,” he muttered fiercely; and he looked round again, and in amongst the papers on the table.

Still without avail.

“It is in the waste-paper basket,” he said, with a feeling of conviction upon him, as, trembling in every limb, he went to the other side of the table where it stood.

“What’s that?”

A faint sound. Was it Crampton returning?

He stood listening, his brow glistening with the cold perspiration; and as he remained breathless and intent, he seemed to see again the office as it was on the previous night, almost totally dark, the safe opened, and the shadowy figure of Van Heldre dashing at him.

Was it fancy, or was the place really dark? A curious mist was before his eyes, but all was silent; and he went down on his knees, turned to a waste-paper basket upside down—the torn letters, envelopes, and circulars forming a heap on the well-worn Turkey carpet; but no piece of metal fell out with a low pat.

“It is here; it is here; it shall be here,” he panted; and then he sprang to his feet shivering with shame and dread, face to face with Madelaine Van Heldre, who, pale with emotion, heavy-eyed with weeping, but erect and stern, flashed upon him a look full of anger and contempt.

“Ah, Madelaine!” he stammered, “have you seen a half-written letter—must be here somewhere—left on my desk?”

“Henri des Vignes—the soul of honour!” she said bitterly. “Have you fallen so low as this?”

“I—I don’t understand you.”

“You coward! And you can lie to me—the woman you professed to love!”

“Madelaine, for pity’s sake.”

“Let me tell you what you are looking for.”

“I—looking for?”

“Yes; you are looking for something for fear it should fall into the hands of the police.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh! is it possible that a man can be so base? Let me tell you, then. You are looking for the locket snapped from your chain when my poor father was stricken down.”

“Madelaine! what are you saying?”

“Stricken down by the wretch whom, in my pity and love, I had asked him to receive into his house, that he might redeem his character, and prove to the world that he had only been weak.”

“You—you did this!” he gasped.

“I did this; and found that in his love for his old friend my father had already determined to be a second father to his son.”

“Oh!”

“And for what? To bring him where he might play the part of serpent on the hearth, and sting him to the quick.”

“Madelaine, for God’s sake, mercy!”

She could have none then.

“To give shelter, ah! and, some day, the hand of the weak, trusting girl who loved him, and said, ‘Give him time, father, and he will change’—to give him some day her hand and love, and welcome him as a son.”

“Madelaine!” he cried, throwing himself on his knees, to clasp the hem of her dress and literally grovel at her feet.

“To the man who could stoop to be a vile contemptible thief!”

“No, no, no!” cried Harry, springing to his feet; “not that—not that.”

“And rob him.”

“No; anything but that. I swear I did not do that.”

“And when detected in the act did not scruple to play the would-be murderer.”

“Madelaine, have pity!”

“And cruelly struck him down.”

“Madelaine. All you say is not true.”

“Not true? Go up to where he lies hovering between life and death, and see your work. Coward! Villain! Oh, that I should e’er have been so weak as to think that I loved such a wretch as you!”

He drew himself up.

“It is not true,” he said. “I did not commit that theft; and it was in my agony and shame at being found before the safe that I struck him down.”

“You confess you were there—that you were a partner in the crime?”

“Yes, I was there,” said Harry slowly; “and I sinned. Well, I am ready. Take your revenge. I am in your hands. You have the evidence of my crime. Denounce me, and let me go out of your sight for ever.”

“And my father’s old friend—my second father? And Louise, my more than sister. What of them?”

He quailed before her as she stood, her eyes flashing, a hectic flush on either cheek; and he felt he had never known Madelaine Van Heldre till then.

“Oh!” he groaned as he covered his face with his hands, “I am guilty. Let me suffer,” he said slowly. “They will soon forget, for I shall be as one who is dead.”

“No,” she said; “I cannot speak. If he who is hovering between life and death could advise, he would say, ‘Be silent; let his conscience be his judge.’ I say the same. Go. The locket is not there.”

“The police?” he cried in a questioning tone.

“No,” she said, “the secret was mine. I found it tightly clasped in my poor father’s hand.”

“Then the secret is safe.”

“Safe?” she said scornfully. “Safe? Yes, it is my secret. You asked for mercy. I give it you, for the sake of all who are dear to me; and because, if he lives, my poor father would not prosecute the son of his old friend. There is your locket. Take it, and I pray heaven we may never meet again. Crampton!”

“Yes, Miss Maddy, Crampton—old Crampton, who held you in his arms when you were one hour old.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Watching my master’s interests—watching over you.”

“Then you have heard?”

“Every word, my child.”

“You cursed spy!” cried Harry fiercely, as he seized the old man by the throat.

“You’ve done enough, Master Harry Vine, enough to transport you, sir; and if he dies to send you to your death.”

“Crampton!” shrieked Madelaine, as Harry drew back trembling.

“Be merciful, like you, my dear? No, I cannot.”

“Then you’ll go and tell—”

“What I’ve heard now, my dear? No; there is no need.”

“What do you mean?”

“To watch over you, whether my poor master lives or dies. I know you! You’d forgive him if he asked.”

“Never! But Crampton, it is our secret. He must go—to repent. Dear Crampton,” she cried, throwing her arms about his neck, “you must be merciful too!”

“Too late, my dear,” said the old man sternly; “too late.”

He placed his arm round her and drew her to his breast, as if to defend her from Harry.

“When I went home that night,” he continued in a slow, solemn voice, “I felt that something was not right, and I came on here—in time to see—”

“Oh!” cried Madelaine.

“In time to see that shivering, guilty wretch flee from where he had struck my poor master down; and if I had been a young man and strong I could have killed him for his crime.”

“You saw him?”

“Yes, my dear. No need for the locket to bear witness. I had my duty to do, and it is done.”

“Done?”

“Yes; to punish him for his crime.”

“Crampton, what have you said? Harry! before it is too late!”

“It is too late, my child. See here.” He held out a scrap of reddish paper. “From the London police. I could not trust those bunglers here.”

Madelaine snatched the paper from his hand and read it.

“Oh!” she moaned, and the paper dropped from her hand.

Harry snatched it from the floor, read it, let it fall, and reeled against the table, whose edge he grasped.

Madelaine struggled and freed herself from the old man’s detaining arm.

“Harry!” she panted—“it would be my father’s wish—escape! There may yet be time.”

He leaned back against the table, gazing at her wildly, as if he did not grasp her words. Then he started as if stung by a sudden lash as old Crampton said: “I have done my duty. It is too late.”

Chapter Twenty Six.

Leslie Makes a Declaration.

“Where is Harry?” said George Vine that same evening, as he sat in his study, surrounded by his living specimens of natural history, and with the paper before him that he had vainly tried to fill.

“He must be waiting about down in the town—for news,” said Louise, looking up from her work.

“He ought to have been here to dinner, my dear,” said the naturalist querulously; “it would have been some comfort. Tut—tut—tut! I cannot collect my thoughts; everything seems to slip from me.”

“Then why not leave it, dear, for the present? This terrible trouble as unhinged you.”

She had risen and gone to the back of his chair, to pass her arm lovingly about his neck, and he leaned back, dropping his pen to take her hand and play with it, pressing it to his lips from time to time.

“I suppose I had better,” he said sadly; “but I am dreadfully behindhand—four letters from the Society unanswered. I wish they did not expect so much from me, my darling.”

“I do not,” said Louise, smiling. “Why should you wish to be less learned than you are?”

“Had we not better go on again to Van Heldre’s now?”

“I think I would leave it till quite the last thing.”

“Ye-es,” said Vine, hesitating, “perhaps so; but I don’t like it, my child. Van Heldre has always been to me like a brother, and it seems so strange and hard to be almost driven from his side. Doctor’s like a tyrant, and as for Crampton—there, wait till the poor fellow is well again, and if we together do not give Master Crampton a severe setting down, my name is not what it is.”

“You must forgive it, dear; he is so anxious about his master.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Vine pettishly; “but the man is so insolently overbearing. Really, my dear, if he has been in the habit of behaving to Harry as he has conducted himself towards us, I do not wonder at the poor boy’s intense dislike to the office routine.”

“It is not fair to judge him now,” said Louise.

“No, my dear, I suppose not; but it is very painful, when I feel as if you and I have quite a right in that poor fellow’s bedroom, to be literally expelled, Madelaine siding with the doctor, and poor Mrs Van Heldre really utterly broken down.”

“We should only make matters more painful by interfering. Let us go and ask how Mr Van Heldre is about ten, and I will get Madelaine to let me sit up with her and help.”

“No,” said Vine, rising and pacing the room, “I shall not sit down quietly. I feel that it is my duty to insist upon being there. I shall go up at once.”

“Wait till I put on my things, dear.”

“No; I shall only go for an hour now, and I will come back and fetch you later on.”

“But, papa, dear!”

“There, there, there! don’t be alarmed, I shall not get out of temper with Crampton now. That will keep.”

“Then you will go—now?”

“Yes,” he said decidedly; “I cannot sit here.”

“But you hardly tasted your dinner. Let me get you some tea first.”

“My dear child, I can touch nothing; and pray don’t oppose me. I am in such a state of nervous irritation that if you do I am sure I shall say something unkind, and then I shall be more upset than I am now.”

“I am not afraid,” said Louise, hanging on his shoulder for a few moments, and then kissing his wrinkled, careworn brow.

“Thank you, my darling, thank you. You will not mind being left? Harry ought to be here.”

“Oh, no, dear; but you will come back soon and tell me all. Harry will be here before then.”

“Of course, my dear, of course.”

“And you will give my dear love to Madelaine,” Louise cried, as her father moved away from the door.

He nodded, and with bended head went off down the path, while, after watching till he had disappeared, Louise stood gazing out to sea, as the evening began to close in, and a soft, melancholy breeze came whispering among the trees.

She could not tell why it was, but everything seemed to wear a different aspect, and a profound sense of dejection came upon her, which brought the tears to her eyes.

Where could Harry be? It was hours since she had seen him, and as she felt how much she required help and counsel at that time, her thoughts strayed to Duncan Leslie, and she looked across an intervening depression to the steep cliff path, which led up past Uncle Luke’s den to the Mine House, where a faint light twinkled, and away beyond, like a giant finger pointing upward, the great chimney shaft towered.

She stood gazing at that faint light for some minutes, with her eyes growing dim, and the troubled feelings which had often assailed her in secret increasing till, with checks burning and an angry ejaculation, she turned into the house, where she fetched her work from the study, and was soon after seated by the window trying to sew. At the end of a few minutes she rose and rang for the lamp, which was brought in by the cook.

“Where’s Liza?” said Louise.

“Gone down into the town, ma’am,” said the cook, looking at her uneasily.

“What for? She did not ask leave.”

“She said she would not be long, ma’am,” said the woman evasively.

“Tell her to bring in the tea the moment my father returns. Let everything be ready.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The woman hurried out, and Louise sat gazing at the door, thinking that the woman’s manner was strange.

“I am upset,” she said with a sigh, “and that makes things seem different.”

She had been dreaming over her work for a few minutes when she started, for she heard voices talking loudly. She sat up in her chair with her senses on the strain, trembling lest there should be bad news from the Van Heldre’s. She was nor kept long in suspense, for there was a quick step in the hall, a sharp rap at the door, and Liza entered, scarlet with excitement and exertion, her shawl over one arm, her hat hanging by its strings from the other.

“Liza!”

“Yes, miss, it’s me. Can I speak to you a minute?”

“Have you brought news from Mr Van Heldre’s?”

“Which I have, miss, and I haven’t.”

“How is he?” cried Louise, paying no heed to Liza’s paradoxical declaration.

“No better, and no worse, miss; but it wasn’t about that. I leaves you this day month, miss; and as much sooner as you can suit yourself.”

“Very well, Liza. That will do.”

“No, miss!” cried the girl excitedly, “it won’t do. ’Cusing people o’ being thiefs when it was nothing but a bit of a bundle o’ old rags and things I saved, as might ha’ been burnt, and they bought ’em of me, and I bought the ribbons o’ them.”

“I do not wish to hear anymore about that transaction, Liza; but I am glad to hear you can explain it away. You should have been frank at first.”

“So ought other people, miss, if you’ll excuse me; and not go taking away a poor servant’s character by alluding to money left on no chimley-pieces as I never took.”

“Liza!”

“Yes, miss; I know, and thinking o’ sending for the police.”

“I had too much feeling for you, Eliza, and for your future character. I did not even send you away.”

“I should think not indeed, miss. Mother and me’s as honest as the day; and if you want police send for ’em for them as has been picking and stealing.”

“My good girl, what do you mean?”

“Oh, you don’t know, o’ course, miss; but you very soon will. And him with his fine airs, and his boots never shiny enough. He’ll find out the difference now; and as to me staying in a home like this where one of us is a thief, I’ve got my character to look after, and—”

There was a sharp knock and ring, and from force of habit, Liza turned.

“In a month, miss, if you please; and now you’re going to hear what come an hour ago, and is all over the town by now.”

Louise caught at the table to steady herself, and her lips parted to question the girl, but she had hurried out of the room. The door was opened, a deep male voice was heard, and directly after Duncan Leslie hurried in.

“It is no time for ceremony,” he gasped, breathlessly. “Where is your father?”

“At—Mr Van Heldre’s,” panted Louise as she turned to him with extended hands. “Mr Leslie, pray—pray tell me—what is wrong?”

“Fell you?” he cried, catching her almost in his arms, and holding her firmly; and his voice sounded deep, hoarse and full of commiseration. “How am I to dare to tell you, Louise?”

“Mr Leslie!”

She half struggled from him, but he retained her hands. “Tell me,” he cried; “what shall I say? Am I to speak out?”

“Yes, quick! You torture me.”

“Torture you, whom I would die to save from pain!” She trembled and flushed, and turned pale by turns.

“I must tell you,” he said; “there is no time to spare. I have—try and bear it, my child, like the true, brave heart you are. Your brother—”

“Yes; quick! what do you mean?” Leslie stood looking at her for a few moments, his mind dragged two ways, and shrinking from giving his news as he gazed into her dilated eyes.

“Why do you not speak?” she said passionately. “Do you not see the pain you give me?”

“I must speak,” he groaned. “Where is your brother? There is a horrible rumour in the town. Mr Crampton—”

“Crampton!”

“Accuses your brother of having robbed and struck down Mr Van Heldre.”

“It is a lie!” she cried fiercely, as she snatched away her hands, gazing at him with flashing eyes and burning cheeks. “My brother a thief—almost a murderer! Oh!”

“It cannot be true,” said Leslie; “but—”

“Weak and reckless and foolish; but—oh, why have you come up to say these things?”

“Because I love you!” he cried passionately; and he caught her hands in his, and held them tightly. “Because I knew that the horrible charge must soon reach your ears, and that it would be better that it should come from me—when you were in trouble—when you wanted help.”

“It is not true—it is not true!” cried Louise, excitedly.

“Where is he? Let me see him. I may be able to advise and help. Louise, dear Louise, let this terrible time of trial be that which brings us together. Let me prove to you how I love you by being your counsellor, your aid in this time of need.”

She heard his words, uttered with an earnestness which told their truth; but their effect was merely to arouse her indignation. How dared he take advantage of her agony and weakness at a time like this, and insult her with professions! It was an outrage.

“Don’t shrink from me,” he whispered. “I will say no more now. Forgive my clumsy blundering out of the words I have for months been longing to speak. Only let me feel that you understand me—that I may love; and then you will turn to me for help in this time of trouble.”

For answer she pointed to the door.

“It is false,” she cried; “my brother a common thief!”

“It must be false,” he echoed, against his own belief; “but the charge has been made, and he must be warned in time.”

“Warned in time?” she cried. “And you who profess to be our friend stood by and heard this charge made, and did not strike down the villain who made it.”

“Miss Vine—Louise, you are hasty. The shock I know is terrible, but we must be prepared to meet it. He must not be taken unawares.”

“My brother can meet such a charge as a gentleman should. It is not the first time that so foul an attack has been made against an innocent man.”

“You are too hard upon me,” he pleaded. “How could I, loving you as I do—”

“Loving!” she cried, scornfully.

“What have I done?” he groaned. “I ran up here directly to try and be of service. In my excitement, I spoke words that I should have kept back for a time, but they would have vent, and—No, I am not ashamed of what I have said,” he cried, drawing himself up. “Louise Vine, I love you, and I must help you and your brother in this terrible strait.”

“Then go back to the town, and tell all who have dared to say my brother committed this crime that what they say is false, and that his father, his sister will prove his innocence. Go!”

“Yes, go,” said a shrill, hard voice. “Louise, go to your room and let me speak to this man.”

“Aunt, you have heard?”

“Yes, from the servants. And I heard his last insulting words. Go to your room, child.”

She threw open the room, and, accustomed to obey from her childhood, Louise moved slowly towards the hall; but as she turned slightly to dart a last indignant look at the man who had set her heart beating wildly as he at the same time roused her indignation, she saw such a look of agony that her courage failed, a strange sense of pity stole through her, and she stepped back and took her aunt’s arm.

“Hush, aunt dear,” she said, “there is no need to say more. Mr Leslie has made a great mistake in bringing up that cruel report, and he will go now and contradict it for my brother’s sake.”

“And apologise for his insult,” cried Aunt Marguerite fiercely. “Child, I bade you go to your room.”

“Yes, aunt. I am going.”

“I must speak to this man alone.”

“Aunt, dear—”

“Pray go, Miss Vine,” said Leslie, approaching and taking her hand.

She yielded, and he led her to the door.

“Nothing your aunt can say will change my feelings towards you. When you are calm you will forgive me. Believe me, I will do everything to clear your brother from this charge.”

She looked at him wildly, and still hesitated to obey her aunt’s words. Finally, she gave way, Leslie held the door open till she was on the stairs, and then closed it, his manner completely changing as he turned and faced Aunt Marguerite, who stood with her head thrown back, and an indignant look of anger in her keen eyes.

“So, sir,” she exclaimed, “you, in your common ignorance of everything connected with the social life of such a family as ours, dare to come up as a tale-bearer—as one of our servants did a few minutes back—and tell this pitiful story about my nephew.”

“I grieved greatly, Miss Vine,” said Leslie in quiet business-like tones.

“You grieved!” she cried. “A theft! Do you know that a des Vignes would prefer death to dishonour?”

“No, madam; but I am very glad to hear it, for that being the case Harry Vine must be innocent.”