"A Novel" (continued 9)

“Nothing.”

“Humph!” ejaculated the old man. “Close as an oyster, or else she doesn’t know anything.”

“That is what I think,” said Madelaine eagerly.

“Ah, well, we are only wasting time,” said Uncle Luke testily. “So now, Leslie, business. First thing we have to do is to go up to London. No; first thing, Maddy, is to run on to your house, and tell them what we are going to do. You’ll have to stay here, my dear, and look after those two. Comfort George all you can; drive him with that silken thread rein of yours, and keep a good tight curb over Margaret. There, you’ll manage them.”

“Yes. Tell them at home I think it better to stay here now,” said Madelaine earnestly. “You will send me every scrap of news?”

“Leslie and I are going to secure the wire and run ourselves in telegrams. Ready, Miner?”

“Yes.”

“Then come on.”

Madelaine caught Leslie’s extended hand, and leaned towards him.

“My life on it,” she whispered. “Louise is true.”

He wrung her hand and hurried away.

“Good-bye, Uncle Luke. Be happy about them here; and, mind, we are dying for news.”

“Ah! yes; I know,” he said testily; and he walked away—turned back, and caught Madelaine to his breast. “Good-bye, Dutch doll. God bless you, my darling,” he said huskily. “If I could only bring back poor Harry too!”

Madelaine stood wiping the tears from her eyes as the old man hurried off after Leslie, but she wiped another tear away as well, one which rested on her cheek, a big salt tear that ought almost to have been a fossil globule of crystallised water and salt. It was the first Uncle Luke had shed for fifty years.

Chapter Fifty Six.

Hard Test.

“Harry, dear Harry!” said Louise, as they stood together in a shabbily furnished room in one of the streets off Tottenham Court Road, “I feel at times as if it would drive me mad. Pray, pray let me write!”

“Not yet, I tell you; not yet,” he said angrily. “Wait till we are across the Channel, and then you shall.”

“But—”

“Louy!” he half shouted at her, “have some patience.”

“Patience, dear? Think of our father’s agony of mind. He loves us.”

“Then the joy of finding we are both alive and well must compensate for what he suffers now.”

“But you do not realise what must be thought of me.”

“Oh, yes, I do,” he said bitterly; “but you do not realise what would be thought of me, if it were known that I was alive. I shiver every time I meet a policeman. Can’t you see how I am placed?”

“Yes—yes,” said Louise wearily; “but at times I can only think of our father—of Madelaine—of Uncle Luke.”

“Hush?” he cried with an irritable stamp of the foot. “Have patience. Once we are on the Continent I shall feel as if I could breathe; but this wretched dilatory way of getting money worries me to death.”

“Then why not sell the jewels, and let us go?”

“That’s talking like a woman again. It’s very easy to talk about selling the jewels, and it is easy to sell them if you go to some blackguard who will take advantage of your needs, and give you next to nothing for them. But, as Pradelle says—”

“Pradelle!” ejaculated Louise, with a look of dislike crossing her face.

“Yes, Pradelle. That’s right, speak ill of the only friend we have. Why, we owe everything to him. What could we have done? Where could we have gone if it had not been for him, and my finding out where he was through asking at the old meeting-place?”

“I do not like Mr Pradelle,” said Louise firmly. “Then you ought to,” said Harry, as he walked up and down the room like some caged animal. “As he says, if you go to sell the things at a respectable place they’ll ask all manner of questions that it is not convenient to answer, and we must not risk detection by doing that.”

“Risk detection?” said Louise, clasping her hands about one knee as she gazed straight before her.

“The people here are as suspicious of us as can be, and the landlady seems ready to ask questions every time we meet on the stairs.”

“Yes,” said Louise in a sad, weary way; “she is always asking questions.”

“But you do not answer them?”

“I—I hardly know what I have said, Harry. She is so pertinacious.”

“We must leave here,” said the young man excitedly. “Why don’t Pradelle come?”

“Do you expect him to-night?”

“Expect him? Yes. I have only half-a-crown left, and he has your gold chain to pledge, he is to bring the money to-night. I expected him before.”

“Harry, dear.”

“Well?”

“Do you think Mr Pradelle is trustworthy?”

“As trustworthy as most people,” said the young man carelessly. “Yes, of course. He is obliged to be.”

“But could you not pledge the things yourself instead of trusting him?”

“No,” he cried, with an impatient stamp. “You know how I tried, and how the assistant began to question and stare at me, till I snatched the thing out of his hands and hurried out of the shop. I’d sooner beg than try to do it again.”

Louise was silent for a few moments, and sat gazing thoughtfully before her.

“Let me write, Harry, telling everything, and asking my father to send us money.”

“Send for the police at once. There, open the windows, and call the first one up that you see pass. It will be the shortest way.”

“But I am sure, dear—”

“Once more, so am I. At the present moment I am free. Let me have my liberty to begin life over again honestly, repentantly, and with the earnest desire to redeem the past. Will you let me have that?”

“Of course—of course, dear.”

“Then say no more to me about communicating with home.”

Louise was silent gain, beaten once more by her brother’s arguments in her desire to see him redeem the past.

“Harry,” she said at last, after her brother had been standing with his cheek pressed against the window pane, looking down the street in search of the expected visitor.

“Well?”

“Has it ever occurred to you that Mr Pradelle is trying to keep us here?”

“Absurd!”

“No; I feel sure it is so, and that he does not want us to go away. Let me take my bracelets and necklet to one of those places where they buy jewellery or lend money.”

“You?”

“Yes. Why not?”

“Are you mad?”

“No. Why should I not sell what is my own?”

“Can you not understand?” cried Harry, whose voice sounded harsh from the mental irritation which had given him the look of one in constant dread of arrest.

“No, dear, I cannot. I want to help you. I want to get away from here—to remove you from the influence of this man, so that we may, if it must be so, get abroad and then set them at rest.”

“Now you are bringing that up again,” he cried angrily.

“I must, Harry, I must. I have been too weak as it is; but in the excitement of all that trouble I seemed to be influenced by you in all I did.”

“There, there, little sis,” he said more gently. “I ought not to speak so crossly, but I am always on thorns, held back as I am for want of a few paltry pounds.”

“Then let me go and dispose of these things.”

“It is impossible.”

“No, dear, you think of the degradation I should not be ashamed. We have made a false step, Harry, but if we must go on, let me do what I can to help you. Let me go.”

“But the beggarly disgrace. You don’t know what you are going to undertake.”

She looked at him with her frank, clear eyes.

“I am going to help you. There can be no disgrace in disposing of these trinkets for you to escape.”

“Ah! at last!” cried Harry, leaving the window to hurry to the door, regardless of the look of dislike which came into his sister’s face.

“Is that Mr Pradelle?” she said shrinkingly.

“Yes, at last. No, Louy, I’m bad enough, but I’m not going to send you to the pawnbroker’s while I stop hiding here, and it’s all right now.”

“Ah, Harry! Day, Miss Louy,” said Pradelle, entering, very fashionably dressed, and with a rose in his buttonhole. “Nice weather, isn’t it?”

“Look here, Vic,” cried Harry, catching him by the arm. “How much did you get?”

“Get?”

“Yes; for the chain?”

“Oh, for the chain,” said Pradelle, who kept his eyes fixed on Louise. “Nothing, old fellow.”

“Nothing?”

“Haven’t taken it to the right place, yet.”

“And you promised to. Look here, what do you mean?”

“What do I mean? Well, I like that. Hear him, Miss Louy? What a fellow he is! Here have I got him into decent apartments, where he is safe as the bank, when if he had depended upon himself he would have taken you to some slum where you would have been stopped and the police have found you out.”

“You promised to pledge those things for me.”

“Of course I did, and so I will. Why, if you had been left to yourself, who would have taken you in without a reference?”

“Never mind that,” said Harry, so angrily that Louise rose, went to his side, and laid her hand upon his arm. “If you don’t want to help me, say so.”

“If I don’t want to help you! Why, look here, Miss Louy, I appeal to you. Haven’t I helped him again and again? Haven’t I lent him money, and acted as a friend should?”

“Why haven’t you pledged that chain?” said Harry.

“Because people are so suspicious, and I was afraid. There you have the truth.”

“I don’t believe it,” cried Harry, excitedly.

“Well then, don’t. Your sister will. If you want me to bring the police on your track, say so.”

In a furtive way, he noted Harry’s start of dread, and went on.

“Take the chain or a watch yourself, and if the pawnbroker is suspicious, he’ll either detain it till you can give a good account of how you came by it, or send for a policeman to follow you to you lodgings.”

“But I am quite penniless!” cried Harry.

“Then why didn’t you say so, old fellow? Long as I’ve got a pound you’re welcome to it, and always were. I’m not a fine-weather friend, you know that. There you are, two halves. That’ll keep you going for a week.”

“But I don’t want to keep borrowing of you,” said Harry. “We have enough to do what I want. A sovereign will do little more than pay for these lodgings.”

“Enough for a day or two, old fellow, and do, for goodness’ sake, have a little more faith in a man you have proved.”

“I have faith in you, Vic, and I’m very grateful; but this existence maddens me. I want enough to get us across the Channel. I must and will go.”

“Right into the arms of those who are searching for you. What a baby you are, Harry! Do you want to be told again that every boat which starts for the Continent will be watched?”

Harry made a despairing gesture, and his haggard countenance told plainly of the agony he suffered.

“My dear Miss Louy,” continued Pradelle, “do pray help me to bring him to reason. You must see that you are both safe here, and that it is the wisest thing to wait patiently till the worst of the pursuit is over.”

“We do not know that there is any pursuit, Mr Pradelle,” said Louise coldly.

“Come, I like that!” cried Pradelle, in an ill-used tone. “I thought I told you that they were searching for you both. If you like to believe that you can leave your home as you did without your people making any search, why you have a right to.”

Harry began pacing the room, while Pradelle went on in a low, pleading way.

“Ever since Harry came to me, I thought I had done all that a friend could, but if I can do more, Miss Louy, you’ve only got to tell me what, and it shall be done.”

“You’ve done your best, Prad,” said Harry.

“Yes, but you don’t think it. I could go and do all kinds of rash things; but I’ve been working to throw them off the scent, and I don’t think, so far, I’ve done amiss. You’re not taken yet.”

Harry drew a long breath and glanced at door and window, as if for a way of escape.

“Come, that’s better,” cried Pradelle. “Take a more cheerful view of things. You want change, Harry. You’ve been shut up too much. Have a cigar,” he continued, drawing out his case. “No? I beg your pardon, Miss Louy. Oughtn’t to ask him to smoke here.”

Harry shook his head impatiently.

“Yes; have one, old fellow. They’re good. Take two or three; and, look here; go and have a walk up and down for an hour. It’s getting dusk now.”

Louise gave her brother an excited look, which did not escape Pradelle. “Let’s all go,” he said. “We might go along the back streets as far as the park. Do you both good.”

“No, no,” said Harry sharply. “I shall not go out.”

“Go together, then,” said Pradelle, half mockingly. “I don’t want to intrude; but for goodness’ sake, man, try and have a little change; it would make life move different, and you’d be more ready to take a friend’s advice.”

“What advice?”

“To settle down here. London’s the best place in the world for hiding yourself.”

“Don’t talk to me any more, old fellow,” said Harry. “I’m out of temper. I can’t help it.”

“All right, lad. I’ll go now; and you get him out, Miss Louy, do. It’s the best thing for him.”

Harry made an impatient gesture, and threw himself in a chair.

“You shall do as you like, and I’ll raise all the money for you that I can,” said Pradelle, rising to go; “but take things more coolly. Good-bye, old boy.”

“Good-bye,” said Harry, shaking hands limply.

“Good-bye,” said Pradelle, as Harry turned away to rest his aching head upon his hand.

“Miss Louy!”

He gave his head a jerk towards the door, and Louise rose and followed him.

“Come outside,” he whispered. “I want to speak to you.”

“Mr Pradelle can say what he has to say here.”

“But it’s about him.”

“Well, Mr Pradelle?”

“Well, Miss Louy, I only wanted to say that some day you’ll find out who is your true friend. I want to help you both. I do, on my honour.”

“Your honour!” thought Louise.

“Have a little more confidence in a man if you can. I do want to help you. Good-bye.”

He held out his hand, and she felt constrained to give him hers, which he held, and, after glancing hastily at Harry, raised to his lips; but the kiss he imprinted was on the yielding air, for the hand was snatched indignantly away.

“You’ll know me better by-and-by,” said Pradelle; and giving her a peculiar look, he left the room.

Louise stood for a few minutes gazing after him, her brow knit and her eyes thoughtful. Then, going back to where her brother sat with his head resting upon his hand, she laid hers upon his shoulder.

“Harry, dear,” she said firmly, “that man is fighting against us.”

“Rubbish,” he cried impatiently. “You never liked Pradelle.”

“Better for you if you had hated him. Harry, he is striving to keep us here.”

“Nonsense! Don’t talk to me now.”

“I must, Harry. You must act, and decisively.”

“What do you mean?”

“Either you must raise money at once, and go right from here—”

He looked up sharply.

“No, I do not mean that,” she said sadly. “I will not leave you till you are fit to leave; but you must either act as I advise at once, or I shall do what I think best.”

“What do you mean?”

“Write to our father to come and help us, for you are too weak and broken down to protect me.”

“Louy!” he cried excitedly; “I am not so weak as you think. I will act; I will take your advice.”

“And get rid of this Mr Pradelle?”

“Anything you like, Louy, only don’t let them know at home—yet, and don’t leave me. If you did I should break down at once.”

“Then will you be guided by me?”

“Yes.”

“And take these jewels yourself and raise money?”

“Yes; but it is too late now.”

Louise glanced at the window, and in her ignorance of such matters half felt the truth of his words.

“Then to-morrow you will do as I wish?”

“Yes, to-morrow,” he said wearily.

“Put not off until to-morrow—” said Louise softly to herself; and she stood watching her brother as he sat with bended head, weak, broken, and despairing, in the gathering gloom.

Chapter Fifty Seven.

An Old Friend—or Enemy?

“Where shall we stay? I’ll show you,” said Uncle Luke, after giving instructions to the cabman. “My old hotel in Surrey street. Comfortable, motherly woman. No nonsense.”

“And what do you propose doing?”

“Let’s hear first what you propose,” shouted the old man, so as to make his voice heard above the rattle of the cab windows—four-wheelers Jehu’s enemies, which lose him many a fare.

“I have nothing to propose,” said Leslie sadly; “only to find her.”

“And I’ve given you twenty-four hours to think it out, including last night at Plymouth.”

“My head is in a whirl, sir; I am in no condition to think. Pray suggest something.”

“Hah! The old folks are useful, then, after all. Well, then, you would like to hear my plans?”

Leslie nodded.

“First, then, there is a good tea, with some meat; and while we are having that I shall send off a messenger.”

“To find them?”

“No. Wait.”

Leslie had found out that the best way to deal with Uncle Luke was to treat him like a conger-eel, such as they caught among the rocks about Hakemouth. Once hooked, if the fisher dragged at the line, the snaky monster pulled and fought till the line cut into the holder’s hands, and sometimes was broken or the hook torn out: whereas, if, instead of pulling, the creature had its head given, it began to swim up rapidly, and placed itself within reach of the gaff. So, in spite of his fretful irritation of mind he allowed the old man to have his own way.

The result was, that before they sat down to their meal at the quiet hotel, Uncle Luke wrote a letter, which was dispatched by special messenger, after which he ate heartily; while Leslie played with a cup of tea and a piece of dry toast.

“Not the way to do work,” said Uncle Luke grimly. “Eat, man; eat. Coal and coke to make the human engine get up steam.”

Leslie made an effort to obey, but everything seemed distasteful, and he took refuge behind a paper till the waiter entered with a card.

“Hah! yes; show him in,” said Uncle Luke. “Here he is, Leslie,” he continued.

“Here who is?”

“Parkins.”

“Parkins?”

“Sergeant Parkins. You remember?”

Leslie had forgotten the name, but directly after the whole scene of the search for Harry came back as the quiet, decisive-looking detective officer entered the room, nodded shortly to both, and after taking the seat indicated, looked inquiringly at Uncle Luke.

“At your service, sir,” he said. “You’ve brought me some news about that affair down yonder?”

“No,” said Uncle Luke. “I have come to see if you can help us in another way;” and he told him the object of his visit.

“Hah!” ejaculated their visitor. “Yes, that’s different, sir;” and taking out a note-book, he began to ask question after question on points which seemed to him likely to be useful, till he had gained all the information he thought necessary, when he closed the book with a snap, and buttoned it up in his breast.

“Rather curious fact, sir,” he said, looking at both in turn; “but I’ve been thinking about Hakemouth a good deal this last day or two.”

“Why?” asked Uncle Luke shortly.

“I’ve been away all over the Continent for some time—forgery case, and that Hakemouth business has gone no farther. As soon as I got back, and was free, I wanted something to do, so I said to myself that I’d take it on again, and I have.”

“Oh, never mind that now,” said Leslie angrily. “Can you help us here?”

“I don’t know, sir. I shall try; but I might mention to you that we think we have obtained a clue to the gentleman who escaped.”

“Yes, yes,” said Leslie impatiently; “but can you help us here?”

“Give me time, sir, and I’ll do my best,” said the sergeant. “Not an easy task, sir, you know. A needle is hard to find in a bundle of hay, and all the clue you give me is that a lady left your neighbourhood with a French gentleman. Fortunately I did see the lady, and should know her again. Good morning.”

“But what are we to do?” said Leslie eagerly.

“You, sir?” said the sergeant quietly, and with a suspicion of contempt in his tone. “Oh, you’d better wait.”

“Wait!” cried Leslie in a voice full of suppressed rage.

“And practise patience,” muttered the man. “One moment, sir,” he said aloud. “You saw this French gentleman?”

“I saw him, but not his face. Mr Vine here told you; the light was overturned.”

“But you saw his figure, the man’s shape?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And you heard his voice?”

“Yes.”

“Broken French?”

“Yes.”

“Now, sir, just think a moment. I have a slight idea. French name—spoke—”

“We mentioned no name.”

“One minute, sir. Spoke French—brother’s fellow-clerk and intimate—gentleman who went off—been staying at the house—long time in the lady’s society. What do you say now to its being this Mr Pradelle?”

Uncle Luke gave the table a thump which made the tea-things rattle, and Leslie started from his seat, gazing wildly at the officer, who smiled rather triumphantly.

“Great Heavens!” faltered Leslie, as if a new light had flashed into his darkened mind.

“Of course, sir, this is only a suggestion,” said the sergeant. “It is all new to me; but seems likely.”

“No,” said Uncle Luke emphatically, “no. She would never have gone off with him.”

“Very good, gentlemen. I’ll see what I can do at once.”

“One moment,” said Leslie as he slipped some notes into the man’s hand. “You will spare neither time nor money.”

“I will not, sir.”

“Tell me one thing. What shall you do first?”

“Just the opposite to what you’ve done, gentlemen,” said the officer.

“What do you mean?”

“Go down to Hakemouth by to-night’s mail, and work back to town.”

“I feel certain,” said Leslie, “that he brought her to London to take tickets for France.”

“I don’t, sir, yet. But even if I did, it’s a long bridge from here to Cornwall, and I might find them resting in one of the recesses. You leave it to me, sir. Good-day.

“Humph!” he added as he went out; “plain as a pikestaff. Women are womanly, and I have known instances of a woman sticking to a man for no reason whatever, except that he was a scamp, and sometimes the greater the scamp the tighter the tie. Pradelle’s my man, and I think I can put my thumb upon him before long.”

“No, Leslie, no. Louy wouldn’t look at him. That’s not the clue,” said Uncle Luke.

Chapter Fifty Eight.

The Needle in a Bundle of Hay.

A week of anxiety, with the breaks in it of interviews with Sergeant Parkins, who had very little to communicate; but still that little was cogent.

He had been down to Hakemouth, and by careful inquiry had tracked the missing pair to Plymouth, where he had missed them. But, after the fashion of a huntsman, he made long casts round and picked up the clue at Exeter, where a porter remembered them from what sounded like an altercation in a second-class compartment, where a dark young lady was in tears, and the “gent” who was with her said something to her sharply in a foreign tongue. Pressed as to what it was like, he said it sounded as if the gent said “Taisey.”

There the sergeant had lost the clue; but he had learned enough to satisfy himself that the fugitives had been making for London, unless they had branched off at Bristol, which was hardly likely.

“Come up to London,” said Leslie. “Well, that is what we surmised before we applied to you.”

“Exactly, sir; but I have nearly made your surmise a certainty.”

“Yes, nearly,” said Leslie bitterly.

“We must have time, sir. A hunter does not secure his game by rushing at it. He stalks it.”

“Yes,” said Uncle Luke in assent, “and of course you must be certain. This is not a criminal matter.”

“No, sir, of course not,” said the sergeant drily, and with a meaning in his tone which the others did not detect.

“If you are successful in finding their whereabouts, mind that your task ends there. You will give us due notice, and we will see to the rest.”

“Certainly, sir; and I have men on the look-out. The bundle of hay is being pretty well tossed over, and some day I hope to see the shine of the needle among the puzzling dry strands. Good morning.”

“Is that man a humbug, sir, or in earnest?”

“Earnest,” replied Uncle Luke. “He proved that before.”

If the occupants of the hotel room, which seemed to Leslie like a prison, could have read Sergeant Parkins’ mind as he went away, they would have thought him in deadly earnest.

“Not a criminal case, gentlemen, eh?” he said to himself. “If it is as I think, it is very criminal indeed, and Mr Pradelle will find it so before he is much older. I haven’t forgotten the night on Hakemouth Pier, and that poor boy’s death, and I shan’t feel very happy till I’ve squared accounts with him, for if he was not the starter of all that trouble I am no judge of men.”

Chapter Fifty Nine.

Pradelle is Pricked.

Seeing more and more that if an alteration was to be made in their present position, the change must come from her urging, Louise attacked her brother soon after breakfast the next morning. She was fully convinced that Pradelle was determined to keep them in London for reasons of his own—reasons the bare thought of which brought an indignant flush into her cheek; and it was evident that he was gaining greater influence over his old companion, who was just now in the stage when it would be easy for one of strong mind to gain the mastery. This being so, Louise determined that hers should be the strong will, not Pradelle’s. To this end she took three or four of the most likely of her jewels, making a point of carefully wrapping them up, and dwelling upon the task till she caught her brother’s attention.

“What are you doing there?” he said.

“Getting ready some things upon which to raise money.”

He uttered an impatient ejaculation.

“Leave them till Pradelle comes.”

“No, Harry; either you or I must part with these. Who is it to be?”

“Let Pradelle take them.”

“No,” she said firmly. “It is time that we acted for ourselves. Will you go, or shall I?”

“But you heard what he said yesterday?”

“Yes, and I do not believe it. Come, Harry, for your own sake, for mine.”

“Yes, yes; but wait.”

“You forced me into this compromising position to help you escape from England.”

“I could not help it.”

“I am not blaming you; I only say act, or let me.”

He started from his chair, and stood there swayed by the various passions which pervaded his spirit.

“Harry.”

“I cannot do it.”

“Then let me go.”

“No, no, no!” he cried. “I am not so lost to all manly feeling as that. Here, give them to me, and let us get away.”

“Yes,” she said eagerly, “at once. You will go, Harry, and let us cross to-night.”

He nodded his head, and without another word swept the jewels into his pocket, and made towards the door. As he laid his hand upon the lock he turned sharply and came back.

“I’m like a curse to you. Louy,” he said kissing her; “but I’m going to try, and you shall guide me now.”

She clung to him for a few moments, and then loosened her grasp.

“I shall be ready when you come back,” she said. “We can pay these people, and it will be like breathing afresh to get away.”

“Yes,” he said. “But Pradelle?”

“Is our enemy, Harry. Your evil genius.”

“No, no; he has been very kind.”

“For his own ends. There, go.”

He went off without a word; and after making the few trilling preparations necessary, Louise put on her hat and cloak, and waited impatiently for her brother’s return. An hour passed, which seemed like two, and then the blood mounted to her pale cheek, and she crossed towards the door ready to admit her brother, for there was a step upon the stair. She glanced round to see if she had forgotten anything, but there was nothing to do, save to pay the landlady, and then they would be free. She threw open the door as the step paused on the landing, and then she ran back with her lips apart, and a look of repugnance and dread in her eyes.

“Mr Pradelle!”

“Yes, Miss Louy, me it is, and you don’t look best pleased to see me.”

As she fell back he entered and closed the door.

“My brother is out, Mr Pradelle.”

He nodded, and stood smiling at her.

“You can leave any message you wish for him.”

“And go? Exactly. Hah! I should like to make you think differently of me, Miss Louy. You know I always loved—”

“Mr Pradelle, I am alone here, and this visit is an intrusion.”

“Intrusion? Ah, how hard you do keep on me; but I’m patient as a man can be. What a welcome to one who has come to serve you! I am only your brother’s messenger, Miss Louy. He has been and done that business.”

“You know?”

“Of course I know. Harry is not so hard upon me as you are. I have seen him, and he sent me on here with a cab. He wants you to join him.”

“To join him?”

“Yes, at the station. He says it is not safe to come back here, and you are to join him at the waiting-room.”

“He sent that message by you?”

“Yes. It’s all nonsense, of course, for I think he has not so much cause to be alarmed. There is a risk, but he magnifies it. You are ready, so let’s go on at once.”

“Why did not my brother return? There is the landlady to pay.”

“He has commissioned me to do that. I am going to see you both off, and if you’ll only say a kind word to me, Miss Louy, I don’t know but what I’ll come with you.”

“Did my brother send that message to me, Mr Pradelle?” said Louise, looking at him fixedly.

“Yes, and the cab’s waiting at the door.”

“It is not true,” said Louise firmly.

“What?”

“I say, sir, it is not true. After what has passed between us this morning, my brother would not send such a message by you.”

“Well, if ever man had cause to be hurt I have,” cried Pradelle. “Why, you’ll tell me next that he didn’t go out to pawn some of your jewels.”

Louise hesitated.

“There, you see, I am right. He has taken quite a scare, and daren’t come back. Perhaps you won’t believe that. There, come along; we’re wasting time.”

“It is not true.”

“How can you be so foolish! I tell you I was to bring you along, and you must come now. Hush! don’t talk, but come.”

He caught her hand and drew it through his arm so suddenly that, hesitating between faith and doubt, she made no resistance; and, ready to blame herself now for her want of trust, she was accompanying him towards the door when it was opened quickly, and their way was blocked by Leslie and Uncle Luke.

Pradelle uttered an angry ejaculation, and Louise shrank back speechless, her eyes dilated, her lips apart, and a bewildering sense of confusion robbing her of the power of speech, as she realised to the full her position in the sight of those who had sought her out.

“Then he was right, Leslie,” said Uncle Luke slowly, as he looked from his niece to Pradelle, and back.

“Uncle!” she cried in agony, “what are you thinking?”

“That you are my niece—a woman,” said the old man coldly; “and that this is Mr Pradelle.”

“Uncle, dear uncle, let me explain,” cried Louise wildly, as she shivered at the look of contempt cast upon her by Leslie.

“The situation needs no explanation,” said Uncle Luke coldly.

“Not a bit,” said Pradelle with a half laugh. “Well, gentlemen, what do you want? This lady is under my protection. Please to let us pass.”

“Yes,” said Uncle Luke in the same coldly sarcastic tone of voice, “you can pass, but, in spite of everything, the lady stays with me.”

“No, sir, she goes with me,” said Pradelle in a blustering tone. “Come on,” he whispered, “for Harry’s sake.”

“No,” said Uncle Luke. “I think we will spare her the pain of seeing you arrested. Mr Pradelle, the police are on the stairs.”

Chapter Sixty.

The Dog Bites.

Pradelle started back as if he had been stung. “Police?” he said. “What do you mean?”

“What a man does mean, you scoundrel, when he talks about them—to give you into custody.”

“It is not a criminal offence to elope with a lady,” said Pradelle with a malicious look at Leslie, who stood before the door with his hands clenched.

“Uncle!” cried Louise, whose pale face now flamed up as she glanced at Leslie, and saw that he avoided her eyes.

“You wait,” he said. “I’ll finish with this fellow first, and end by taking you home.”

“But, uncle, let me explain.”

“You’ll hold your tongue!” cried Pradelle sharply. “Think what you are going to do.”

“Yes, she can hold her tongue,” cried Uncle Luke, “while I settle our little business, sir. Let me see. Ah! I was always sure of that.”

Pradelle had thrust himself forward offensively, and in a threatening manner so near that the old man had only to dart out one hand to seize him by the throat; and quick as lightning had drawn an old gold ring from the scarf the young man wore.

“What are you doing?” roared Pradelle, clenching his fist.

“Taking possession of my own. Look here, Leslie, my old signet ring that scoundrel took from a nail over my chimney-piece.”

“It’s a lie, it’s—”

“My crest, and enough by itself to justify the police being called up.”

“A trick, a trumped-up charge,” cried Pradelle.

“You must prove that at the same time you clear yourself of robbing Van Heldre.”

“I—I rob Van Heldre! I swear I never had a shilling of his money.”

“You were not coming away when I knocked you down with old Crampton’s ruler, eh?”

Pradelle shrank from the upraised stick, and with an involuntary movement clapped his hand to his head.

“See that, Leslie!” cried the old man with a sneering laugh. “Yes, that was the place. I hit as hard as I could.”

“A trick, a trap! Bah! I’m not scared by your threats. You stand aside, and let us pass!” cried Pradelle in a loud, bullying way, as he tried to draw Louise toward the door; but she freed herself from his grasp.

“No, no!” she cried widely, as with her ears and eyes on the strain she glanced at window and door, and caught her uncle’s arm.

“Hah! glad you have so much good sense left. Nice scoundrel this to choose, my girl!”

“Uncle!” she whispered, “you shall let me explain.”

“I don’t want to hear any explanation,” cried the old man angrily. “I know quite enough. Will you come home with me?”

“Yes!” she cried eagerly, and Leslie drew a breath full of relief. “No!”

The negative came like a cry of agony.

“I cannot, uncle, I cannot.”

“I’ll see about that,” cried the old man. “Now, Leslie, ask Sergeant Parkins to step up here.”

“Let him if he dares!” cried Pradelle fiercely.

“Oh, he dares,” said Uncle Luke, smiling. “Call him up, for it is a criminal case, after all.”

“Stop!” cried Pradelle, as Leslie laid his hand upon the door.

“Yes, stop—pray, pray stop!” cried Louise in agony; and with a wild look of horror, which stung Leslie with jealous rage. “Uncle, you must not do this.”

“I’d do it if it was ten times as hard?” cried the old man.

“What shall I say—what shall I do?” moaned Louise.

“Uncle, uncle, pray don’t do this. You must not send for the police. Give me time to explain—to set you right.”

“Shame upon you!” cried the old man fiercely. “Defending such a scoundrel as that!”

“No, no, uncle, I do not defend this man. Listen to me; you do not know what you are doing.”

“Not know what I am doing? Ah!”

He turned from her in disgust, and with a look of agony that thrilled him, she caught Leslie’s arm.

“You will listen to me, Mr Leslie. You must not, you shall not, call in the police.”

He did not speak for the moment, but stood hesitating as if yielding to her prayer; but the frown deepened upon his brow as he loosened her grasp upon his arm.

“It is for your good,” he said coldly, “to save you from a man like that.”

“I must speak, I must speak!” cried Louise, and then she uttered a wail of horror, and shrank to her uncle’s side.

For as she clung to Leslie, Pradelle, with a bullying look, planted himself before the door to arrest Leslie’s progress, and then shrank back as he saw the grim smile of satisfaction upon the young Scot’s face.

It was the work of moments, and the action seemed like to that of one of his own country deer hounds, as Leslie dashed at him; there was the dull sound of a heavy blow, and Pradelle went down with a crash in one corner of the room.

“Mr Leslie! Mr Leslie! for pity’s sake stay!” cried Louise as she made for the door; but Uncle Luke caught her hand, and retained it as the door swung to.

“Uncle, uncle!” she moaned, “what have you done?”

“Done!” he cried. “You mad, infatuated girl! My duty to my brother and to you.”

“All right,” said Pradelle, rising slowly. “Let’s have in the police then. I can clear myself, I daresay.”

“Mr Pradelle, if you have a spark of manliness in you, pray say no more,” cried Louise, as, snatching herself free, she ran to him now.

“Oh, I’m not going to be made a scapegoat!” he cried savagely; but as his eyes met hers full of piteous appeal, his whole manner changed, and he caught her hands in his.

“Yes, I will,” he whispered. “I’ll bear it all. It can’t be for long, and I may get off. Promise me—”

He said the rest of the words with his lips close to her ear.

“Your wife?” she faltered as she shrank away and crossed to her uncle. “No, no, no!”

There was a sharp rap on the panel, the door yielded, and Sergeant Parkins stepped in.

“Mr Pradelle, eh?” he said with a grim smile. “Glad to make your acquaintance, sir, at last. You’ll come quietly?”

“Oh, yes, I’ll come,” said Pradelle. “I’ve got an answer to the charge.”

“Of course you have, sir. Glad to hear it. Sorry to put a stop to your pleasant little game. Shall I?”

“There’s no need,” said Pradelle in answer to a meaning gesticulation toward his wrists. “I know how to behave like a gentleman.”

“That’s right,” said the sergeant, who with a display of delicacy hardly to have been expected in his triumph at having, as he felt, had his prognostication fulfilled, carefully abstained from even glancing at the trembling girl, who stood there with agony and despair painted on her face.

“It ain’t too late yet, Miss Louy,” said Pradelle crossing toward her.

“Keep that scoundrel back, Parkins,” cried Uncle Luke.

“Right sir. Now, Mr Pradelle.”

“Stop a moment, can’t you?” shouted the prisoner. “Miss Louy—to save him you’ll promise, and I’ll be dumb. I swear I will.”

Louise drew herself up as a piteous sigh escaped her breast.

“No,” she said firmly. “I cannot promise that, Uncle dear. I have tried to save him to the last. I can do no more.”

“No,” said the old man. “You can do no more.”

“Mr Pradelle,” she cried, “you will not be so base?”

“Will you promise?” he cried.

“No.”

“Then—here, just a minute. You, Mr Luke Vine, will you give me a word?”

“No,” roared Uncle Luke. “Take him away.”

“Then the sergeant here will,” cried Pradelle savagely. “Look here, sit down and wait for a few minutes, and you can take Harry Vine as well.”

“What do you mean?” cried the sergeant roughly.

“Only that he has gone out to raise the money for a bolt to France, and he’ll be back directly. Two birds with one stone.”

“Only a trick, sir,” said the sergeant grimly. “Now, Mr Pradelle, hansom or four-wheeler? I give you your choice.”

“Four-wheeler,” said Pradelle, with a sneering laugh.

“My poor brother!” moaned Louise, as she made a clutch at the air, and then sank fainting in her uncle’s arms.

“You scoundrel! to speak like that,” cried Uncle Luke fiercely.

“Here, what do you mean?” said the sergeant.

“What I said. He wasn’t drowned. Harry was too clever for that.”

Click—Click!

A pair of handcuffs were fastened to his wrists with marvellous celerity, and he was swung into a chair.

“I don’t know whether this is a bit of gammon, Mr Pradelle,” said the sergeant sharply, “but I never lose a chance.”

He paid not the slightest heed to the other occupants of the room, but ran to the window, threw it open, and called to some one below but only his last words were heard by those inside.

“Quick! first one you see, and I’ll give you a shilling.”

The sergeant closed the window and crossed to Pradelle.

“If it’s a trick it will do you no good. You see, to begin with, it has brought you those.”

“I don’t care,” said Pradelle, glowering at Uncle Luke. “It will take some of the pride out of him, and I shan’t go alone.”

“It is a trick, sergeant. Take the scoundrel away.”

“Must make sure, sir. Sorry for the lady, but she may have been deceived that horrible night, and there’s more in this than I can understand. Your friend be long, sir?”

“Mr Leslie? I expected him back with you.”

“Mr Leslie went on out into the street, sir. Here, I have it. He has been in hiding down your way, and came up with the lady there.”

“That’s it, sergeant, you’re a ’cute one,” said Pradelle with a laugh.

“Who has been in hiding?”

“Your nephew, sir. I see it all now. What a fool I’ve been.”

“My nephew!—Not dead?”

“Harry—brother!” moaned Louise. “I could do no more. Ah!”

Uncle Luke fell a-trembling as he caught the half-insensible girl’s hand, gazing wildly at the sergeant the while.

“Look here, Pradelle, no more nonsense. Will he come back?”

“If you keep quiet of course. Not if he sees you.”

“Ah!” ejaculated the sergeant, crossing to the door as he heard a step; and hurrying out he returned directly with a constable in uniform.

“Stop!” he said shortly, and he nodded to the prisoner. “Very sorry, Mr Vine, sir,” he then said; “but you must stay here for a bit. I am going down to wait outside.”

“But Parkins!” cried Uncle Luke, agitatedly, “I cannot. If this is true—that poor boy—no, no, he must not be taken now.”

“Too late, sir, to talk like that,” cried the sergeant. “You stop there.”

“Yes,” said Pradelle, as the door closed on the sergeant’s retiring figure; “pleasant for you. I always hated you for a sneering old crab. It’s your time to feel now.”

“Silence, you scoundrel!” cried Uncle Luke, fiercely. “She’s coming to.”

Uncle Luke was wrong, for Louise only moaned slightly, and then relapsed into insensibility, from which a doctor who was fetched did not seem to recall her, and hour after hour of patient watching followed, but Harry did not return.

“The bird has been scared, sir,” said Parkins, entering the room at last. “I can’t ask you to stay longer. There’s a cab at the door to take the lady to your hotel.”

“But are you sure—that—my poor boy lives?”

“Certain, sir, now. I’ve had his description from the people down below. I shall have him before to-night.”

“L’homme propose, mais—”

Five minutes later Louise, quite insensible, was being borne to the hotel; Mr Pradelle, to an establishment offering similar advantages as to bed and board, but with the freedom of ingress and egress left out.

Chapter Sixty One.

Diogenes Discovers.

“Blame you, my dear? No, no, of course not. Then you knew nothing about it till that night when he came to the window?”

“Oh, no, uncle, dear.”

Louise started up excitedly from the couch at the hotel upon which she was lying, while the old man trotted up and down the room.

“Now, now, now,” he cried piteously, but with exceeding tenderness as he laid his hand upon her brow, and pressed her back till her head rested on the pillow. “Your head’s getting hot again, and the doctor said you were not to be excited in any way. There, let’s talk about fishing, or sea-anemones, or something else.”

“No, no, uncle dear, I must talk about this, or I shall be worse.”

“Then for goodness’ sake let’s talk about it,” he said eagerly, as he took a chair by her side and held her hand.

“You don’t blame me then—very much.”

“Well, say not very much; but it’s not very pleasant to have a nephew who makes one believe he’s dead, and a niece who pretends that she has bolted with a scampish Frenchman.”

“Uncle, uncle,” she cried piteously, “You see it has been a terrible upset for me, while as to your poor father—”

“But, uncle, dear, what could I do?”

“Well, when you were writing, you might have said a little more.”

“I wrote what poor Harry forced me to write. What else could I say?”

“You see, it has upset us all so terribly. George—I mean your father—will never forgive you.”

“But you do not put yourself in my place, uncle. Think of how Harry was situated; think of his horror of being taken. Indeed, he was half mad.”

“No; quite, Louy; and you seem to have caught the complaint.”

“I hardly knew what I did. It was like some terrible dream. Harry frightened me then.”

“Enough to frighten any one, appearing like a ghost at the window when we believed he was dead.”

“I did not mean that, uncle. I mean that he was in a terrible state of fever, and hardly seemed accountable for his actions. I think I should have felt obliged to go with him, even if he had not been so determined.”

“Ah! well, you’ve talked about it quite enough.”

“No, no; I must talk about it—about Harry. Oh! uncle! uncle! after all this suffering for him to be taken after all! The horror! the shame! the disgrace! You must—you shall save him!”

“I’m going to try all I know, my darling; but when once you have started the police it’s hard work to keep them back.”

“How could you do it?”

“How could I do it?” cried the old man testily. “I didn’t do it to find him, of course; but to try and run you to earth. How could I know that Harry was alive?”

“But you will not let him be imprisoned. Has he not suffered enough?”

“Not more than he deserves to suffer, my child; but we must stop all that judge and jury business somehow. Get Van Heldre not to prosecute.”

“I will go down on my knees to him, and stay at his feet till he promises to spare him—poor foolish boy! But, uncle, what are you going to do? You will not send word down?”

“Not send word? Why, I sent to Madelaine a couple of hours ago, while you lay there insensible.”

“You sent?”

“Yes, a long telegram.”

“Uncle, what have you done?”

“What I ought to do, my child, and bade her tell her father and mother, and then go and break it gently to my brother.”

“Uncle!”

“There, there, my dear, you said I ought to put myself in your place; suppose you put yourself in mine.”

“Yes, yes, uncle, dear; I see now; I see.”

“Then try and be calm. You know how these difficulties sometimes settle themselves.”

“Not such difficulties as these, uncle. Harry! my brother! my poor brother!”

“Louy, my dear child!” said the old man, with a comical look of perplexity in his face, “have some pity on me.”

“My dearest uncle,” she sobbed, as she drew his face down to hers.

“Yes,” he said, kissing her; “that’s all very well, and affectionate, and nice; but do look here. You know how I live, and why I live as I do.”

“Yes, uncle.”

“To save myself from worry and anxiety. I am saving myself from trouble, am I not? Here, let go of my hand, and I’ll send off another message to hasten your father up, so as to set me free.”

“No, uncle, dear, you will not leave me,” she said, with a pleading look in his eyes.

“There you go?” he cried. “I wish you wouldn’t have so much faith in me, Louy. You ought to know better; but you always would believe in me.”

“Yes, uncle, always,” said Louise, as she placed his hand upon her pillow, and her cheek in his palm.

“Well, all I can say is that it’s a great nuisance for me. But I’m glad I’ve found you, my dear, all the same.”

“After believing all manner of evil of me, uncle.”

“No, no, not quite so bad as that. There; never mind what I thought. I found you out, and just in the nick of time. I say, where the dickens can Leslie be?”

“Mr Leslie!”

Louise raised her face, with an excited look in her eyes.

“Well, why are you looking like that?”

“Tell me, uncle—was he very much hurt, that night?”

“Nearly killed,” said the old man grimly, and with a furtive look at his niece.

“Uncle!”

“Well, what of it? He’s nothing to you. Good enough sort of fellow, but there are thousands of better men in the world.”

Louise’s brow grew puckered, and a red spot burned in each of her cheeks.

“Been very good and helped me to find you; paid the detective to hunt you out.”

“Uncle! surely you will not let Mr Leslie pay.”

“Not let him? I did let him. He has plenty of money, and I have none—handy.”

“But, uncle!”

“Oh! it pleased him to pay. I don’t know why, though, unless, like all young men, he wanted to make ducks and drakes of his cash.”

Louise’s brow seemed to grow more contracted.

“Bit of a change for him to run up to town. I suppose that’s what made him come,” continued the old man; “and now I’ve found you, I suppose he feels free to go about where he likes. I never liked him.”

If Uncle Luke expected his niece to make some reply he was mistaken, for Louise lay back with her eyes half-closed, apparently thinking deeply, till there was a tap at the door.

“Hah! that’s Leslie,” cried the old man, rising.

“You will come back and tell me if there is any news of Harry, uncle,” whispered Louise. Then, with an agonised look up at him as she clung to his hands, “He will not help them?”

“What, to capture that poor boy? No, no. Leslie must feel bitter against the man who struck him down, but not so bad as that.”

The knock was repeated before he could free his hands and cross the room.

“Yes, what is it?”

“That gentleman who has been to see you before, sir,” said the waiter, in a low voice.

“Not Mr Leslie? He has not returned?”

“No, sir.”

“I’ll come directly. Where is he?”

“In the coffee-room, sir.”

Uncle Luke closed the door and recrossed the room, to where Louise had half risen and was gazing at him wildly.

“News of Harry, uncle?”

“Don’t know, my dear.”

“You are keeping it from me. That man has taken him, and all this agony of suffering has been in vain.”

“I’d give something if Madelaine were here,” said Uncle Luke. “No, no; I am not keeping back anything. I don’t know anything; I only came back to beg of you to be calm. There, I promise you that you shall know all.”

“Even the worst?”

“Even the worst.”

Louise sank back, and the old man descended to the coffee-room, to find Parkins impatiently walking up and down.

“Well?”

“No, sir; no luck yet,” said that officer.

“What do you mean with your no luck?” cried Uncle Luke angrily. “You don’t suppose I want him found?”

“Perhaps not, sir, but I do. I never like to undertake a job without carrying it through, and I feel over this that I have been regularly tricked.”

“What’s that to me, sir?”

“Nothing, sir; but to a man in my position, with his character as a keen officer at stake; a great deal. Mr Leslie, sir. Has he been back?”

“There, once for all, it’s of no use for you to come and question me, Parkins. I engaged you to track out my niece; you have succeeded, and you may draw what I promised you, and five-and-twenty guineas besides for the sharp way in which you carried it out. You have done your task, and I discharge you. I belong to the enemy now.”

“Yes, sir; but I have the other job to finish, in which you did not instruct me.”

“Look here, Parkins,” said Uncle Luke, taking him by the lapel of his coat, “never mind about the other business.”

“But I do, sir. Every man has some pride, and mine is to succeed in every job I take in hand.”

“Ah! well, look here; you shall succeed. You did your best over it, and we’ll consider it was the last act of the drama when my foolish nephew jumped into the sea.”

“Oh, no, sir. I—”

“Wait a minute. What a hurry you men are in. Now look here, Parkins. I’m only a poor quiet country person, and I should be sorry for you to think I tried to bribe you; but you’ve done your duty. Now go no farther in this matter, and I’ll sell out stock to a hundred pounds, and you shall transfer it to your name in the bank.”

Parkins shook his head and frowned.

“For a nest egg, man.”

“No, sir.”

“Then look here, my man; this is a painful family scandal, and I don’t want it to go any farther, for the sake of those who are suffering. I’ll make it two hundred.”

“No, sir; no.”

“Then two hundred and fifty; all clean money, Parkins.”

“Dirty money, sir, you mean,” said the sergeant quietly. “Look here, Mr Luke Vine, you are, as you say, a quiet country gentleman, so I won’t be angry with you. You’ll give me five hundred pounds to stop this business and let your nephew get right away?”

Uncle Luke drew a long breath.

“Five hundred!” he muttered. “Well, it will come out of what I meant to leave him, and I suppose he’ll be very glad to give it to escape.”

“Do you understand me, sir? You’ll give me five hundred pounds to stop this search?”

Uncle Luke drew another long breath.

“You’re a dreadful scoundrel, Parkins, and too much for me; but yes, you shall have the money.”

“No, sir, I’m not a dreadful scoundrel, or I should make you pay me a thousand pounds.”

“I wouldn’t pay it—not a penny more than five hundred.”

“Yes, you would, sir; you’d pay me a thousand for the sake of that sweet young lady up-stairs. You’d pay me every shilling you’ve got if I worked you, and in spite of your shabby looks I believe you’re pretty warm.”

“Never you mind my looks, sir, or my warmth,” cried Uncle Luke indignantly. “That matter is settled, then? Five hundred pounds?”

“Thousand would be a nice bit of money for a man like me to have put away against the day I get a crack on the head or am shot by some scoundrel. Nice thing for the wife and my girl. Just about the same age as your niece, sir.”

“That will do; that will do,” said Uncle Luke stiffly. “The business is settled, then.”

“No, sir; not yet. I won’t be gruff with you, sir, because your motive’s honest, and I’m sorry to have to be hard at a time like this.”

“You dog!” snarled Uncle Luke; “you have me down. Go on, worry me. There, out with it. I haven’t long to live. Tell me what I am to give you, and you shall have it.”

“Your—hand, sir,” cried the sergeant; and as it was unwillingly extended he gripped it with tremendous force. “Your hand, sir, for that of a fine, true-hearted English gentleman. No, sir; I’m not to be bought at any price. If I could do it I would, for the sake of that poor broken-hearted girl; but it isn’t to be done. I will not insult you, though, by coming here to get information. Good-day, sir; and you can write to me. Good-bye.”

He gave Uncle Luke’s hand a final wring, and then, with a short nod, left the room.

“Diogenes the second,” said Uncle Luke, with a dry, harsh laugh; “and I’ve beaten Diogenes the first, for he took a lantern to find his honest man, and didn’t find him. I have found one without a light.”

Chapter Sixty Two.

Uncle Luke Turns Prophet.

“Why doesn’t Leslie come?” said Uncle Luke impatiently, as he rose from a nearly untasted breakfast the next morning to go to the window of his private room in the hotel, and try to look up and down the street. “It’s too bad of him. Here, what in the world have I done to be condemned to such a life as this?”

“Life?” he exclaimed after a contemptuous stare at the grimy houses across the street. “Life? I don’t call this life! What an existence! Prison would be preferable.”

He winced as the word prison occurred to him, and began to think of Harry.

“I can’t understand it. Well, he’s clever enough at hiding, but it seems very cowardly to leave his sister in the lurch. Thought she was with me, I hope. Confound it, why don’t Leslie come?”

“Bah! want of pluck!” he cried, after another glance from the window. “Tide must be about right this week, and the bass playing in that eddy off the point. Could have fished there again now. Never seemed to fancy it when I thought poor Harry was drowned off it. Confound poor Harry! He has always been a nuisance. Now, I wonder whether it would be possible to get communication with him unknown to these police?”

He took a walk up and down the room for a few minutes.

“Now that’s where Leslie would be so useful; and he keeps away. Because of Louy, I suppose. Well, what is it? Why have you brought the breakfast back?”

“The young lady said she was coming down, sir,” said the chambermaid, who had entered with a tray.

“Stuff and nonsense!” cried the old man angrily. “Go up and tell her she is not to get up till the doctor has seen her, and not then unless he gives her leave.”

The maid gave her shoulders a slight shrug, and turned to go, when the door opened, and, looking very pale and hollow-eyed, Louise entered.

Uncle Luke gave his foot an impatient stamp.

“That’s right,” he cried; “do all you can to make yourself ill, and keep me a prisoner in this black hole. No, no, my darling, I didn’t mean that. So you didn’t like having your breakfast alone? That’ll do; set it down.”

The maid left the room, and Louise stood, with her head resting on the old man’s breast.

“Now, tell me, uncle, dear,” she said in a low voice, and without looking up, “has poor Harry been taken?”

“No.”

“Hah!”

A long sigh of relief.

“And Mr Leslie? What does he say?”

“I don’t know. He has not been here since he left with me yesterday.”

“And he calls himself our friend!” cried Louise, looking up with flushing face. “Uncle, why does he not try to save Harry instead of joining the cowardly pack who are hunting him down?”

“Come, I like that!” cried Uncle Luke. “I’d rather see you in a passion than down as you were last night.”

“I—I cannot help it, uncle; I can think of only one thing—Harry.”

“And Mr Leslie, and accuse him of hunting Harry down.”

“Well, did he not do so? Did he not come with that dreadful man?”

“To try and save you from the French scoundrel with whom he thought you had eloped.”

“Oh, hush, uncle, dear. Now tell me, what do you propose doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Uncle!”

“That’s the best policy. There, my darling, I have done all I could this morning to help the poor boy, but—I must be plain—the police are in hot pursuit, and if I move a step I am certain to be watched. Look there!”

He pointed down into the street.

“That man on the other side is watching this house, I’m sure and if I go away I shall be followed.”

“But while we are doing nothing, who knows what may happen, dear?”

“Don’t let’s imagine things. Harry is clever enough perhaps to get away, and now he knows that we have found out the truth, you will see that he is not long before he writes. I want Leslie now. Depend upon it the poor fellow felt that he would be de trop, and has gone straight back home.”

Louise uttered a sigh full of relief.

“You scared him away, my dear, and perhaps it’s for the best. He’s a very stupid fellow, and as obstinate—well, as a Scot.”

“But knowing Harry as he does, uncle, and being so much younger than you are, would it not be better if he were working with you? We must try and save poor Harry from that dreadful fate.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Uncle Luke slowly. “There, have some tea.”

Then rising from his seat, he rang, and going to the writing-table sat down; and while Louise made a miserable pretence of sipping her tea, the old man wrote down something and gave it to the waiter who entered.

“Directly,” he said; and the man left the room.

“Yes, on second thoughts you are quite right, my dear.”

Louise looked up at him inquiringly.

“So I have telegraphed down to Hakemouth for Leslie to come up directly.”

Louise’s eyes dilated, and she caught his arm.

“No, no,” she whispered, “don’t do that. No; you and I will do what is to be done. Don’t send to him, uncle, pray.”

“Too late, my dear; the deed is done.”

Just then the waiter re-entered.

“Telegram, sir.”

Louise turned if possible more pale.

“Tut—tut!” whispered Uncle Luke. “It can’t be an answer back. Hah! from Madelaine.”

“Your news seems too great to be true. Mr George Vine started for town by the first train this morning. My father regrets his helplessness.”

“Hah! Come. That’s very business-like of George,” said the old man. “Louy, my dear, I’m going to turn prophet. All this trouble is certain to turn in the right direction after all. Why, my child?”

She had sunk back in her chair with the cold, dank dew of suffering gathering upon her forehead, and a piteous look of agony in her eyes.

“How can I meet him now!”

The terrible hours of agony that had been hers during the past month had so shattered the poor girl’s nerves, that even this meeting seemed more than she could bear, and it called forth all the old man’s efforts to convince her that she had nothing to fear, but rather everything to desire.

It was a weary and a painful time though before Louise was set at rest.

She was seated in the darkening room, holding tightly by the old man’s hand, as a frightened child might in dread of punishment. As the hours had passed she had been starting at every sound, trembling as the hollow rumbling of cab-wheels came along the street, and when by chance a carriage stopped at the hotel her aspect was pitiable.

“I cannot help it,” she whispered. “All through these terrible troubles I seem to have been strong, while now I am so weak and unstrung—uncle, I shall never be myself again.”

“Yes, and stronger than ever. Come, little woman, how often have you heard or read of people suffering from nervous reaction and—thank God!” he muttered, as he saw the door softly open behind his niece’s chair, and his brother stand in the doorway.

“I did not catch what you said, dear,” said Louise feebly, as she lay back with her eyes closed.

Uncle Luke gave his brother a meaning look, and laid his niece’s hand back upon her knees.

“No; it’s very hard to make one’s self heard in this noisy place. I was only saying, my dear, that your nerves have been terribly upset, and that you are suffering from the shock. You feel now afraid to meet your father lest he should reproach you, and you can only think of him as being bitter and angry against you for going away, as you did; but when he thoroughly grasps the situation, and how you acted as you did to save your brother from arrest, and all as it were in the wild excitement of that time, and under pressure—”

“Don’t leave me, uncle.”

“No, no, my dear. Only going to walk up and down,” said the old man as he left his chair. “When he grasps all this, and your dread of Harry’s arrest, and that it was all nonsense—there, lie back still, it is more restful so. That’s better,” he said, kissing her, and drawing away. “When, I say, he fully knows that it was all nonsense due to confounded Aunt Margaret and her noble Frenchmen, and that instead of an elopement with some scoundrel, you were only performing a sisterly duty, he’ll take you in his arms—”

Uncle Luke was on the far side of the room now, and in obedience to his signs, and trembling violently, George Vine had gone slowly towards the vacated seat.

“You think he will, uncle, and forgive me?” she faltered, as she lay back still with her eyes closed.

“Think, my darling? I’m sure of it. Yes, he’ll take you in his arms.”

A quiet sigh.

“And say—”

George Vine sank trembling into the empty chair.

“Forgive me, my child, for ever doubting you.”

“Oh, no, uncle.”

“And I say, yes; and thank God for giving me my darling back once more.”

“Forgive me! Thank God for giving me my darling back once more! Louise!”

“Father!”

A wild, sobbing cry, as the two were locked in each other’s arms.

At that moment the door was closed softly, and Uncle Luke stood blowing his nose outside upon the mat.

“Nearly seventy, and sobbing like a child,” he muttered softly. “Dear me, what an old fool I am.”

Chapter Sixty Three.

Leslie Makes an Announcement.

It was a week before the London doctor said that Louise Vine might undertake the journey down home; but when it was talked of, she looked up at her father in a troubled way.

“It would be better, my darling,” he whispered. “You shrink from going back to the old place. Why should you, where there will be nothing but love and commiseration?”

“It is not that,” she said sadly. “Harry!”

“Yes! But we can do no more by staying here.”

“Not a bit,” said Uncle Luke. “Let’s get down to the old sea shore again, Louy. If we stop here much longer I shall die. Harry’s safe enough somewhere. Let’s go home.”

Louise made no more opposition, and it was decided that they should start at once, but the journey had to be deferred on account of business connected with Pradelle’s examination.

This was not talked of at the hotel, and Louise remained in ignorance of a great deal of what took place before they were free to depart.

That journey down was full of painful memories for Louise, and it was all she could do to restrain her tears as the train stopped at the station, which was associated in her mind with her brother, and again and again she seemed to see opposite to her, shrinking back in the corner by the window nearest the platform, the wild, haggard eyes and the frightened furtive look at every passenger that entered the carriage.

The journey seemed interminable, and even when Plymouth had been reached, there was still the long slow ride over the great wooden bridges with the gurgling streams far down in the little rock ravines.

“Hah!” said Uncle Luke cheerily, “one begins to breathe now. Look.”

He pointed to the shadow of the railway train plainly seen against the woods, for the full round moon was rising slowly.

“This is better than a gas-lamp shadow, eh, and you don’t get such a moon as that in town. I’ve lost count, George. How are the tides this week?”

Vine shook his head.

“No, you never did know anything about the tides, George. Always did get cut off. Be drowned some day, shut in under a cliff; and you can’t climb.”

They rode on in silence for some time, watching the moonlight effect on the patches of wood in the dark hollows, the rocky hill slopes, and upon one or another of the gaunt deserted engine-houses looking like the towers of ruined churches high up on the hills, here black, and there glittering in the moonlight, as they stood out against she sky.

These traces of the peculiar industry of the district had a peculiar fascination for Louise, who found herself constantly comparing these buildings with one beyond their house overlooking the beautiful bay. There it seemed to stand out bold and picturesque, with the long shaft running snake-like up the steep hillside, to end in the perpendicular monument-like chimney that formed the landmark by which the sailors set vessels’ heads for the harbour.

But that place did not seem deserted as these. At any time when she looked she could picture the slowly moving beam of the huge engine, and the feathery plume of grey smoke which floated away on the western breeze. There was a bright look about the place, and always associated with it she seemed to see Duncan Leslie, now looking appealingly in her eyes, now bitter and stern as he looked on her that night when Harry beat him down and they fled, leaving him insensible upon the floor.

What might have been!

That was the theme upon which her busy brain toiled in spite of her efforts to divert the current of thought into another channel. And when in despair she conversed with father or uncle for a few minutes, and silence once more reigned, there still was Duncan Leslie’s home, and its owner gazing at her reproachfully.

“Impossible!” she always said to herself; and as often as she said this she felt that there would be a terrible battle with self, for imperceptibly there had grown to be a subtle advocate for Duncan Leslie in her heart.

“But it is impossible,” she always said, and emphasised it. “We are disgraced. With such a shadow over our house that could never be; and he doubted, he spoke so cruelly, his eyes flashed such jealous hatred. If he had loved me, he would have trusted, no matter what befel.”

But as she said all this to herself, the advocate was busy, and she felt the weakness of her case, but grew more determinedly obstinate all the same.

And the train glided on over the tall scaffold-like bridges, the treetops glistened in the silvery moonlight, and there was a restful feeling of calm in her spirit that she had not known for days.

“No place like home,” said Uncle Luke, breaking along silence as they glided away from the last station.

“No place like home,” echoed his brother, as he sought for and took his child’s hand. “You will stop with us to-night, Luke?”

“Hear him, Louy?” said the old man. “Now, is it likely?”

“But your place will be cheerless and bare to-night.”

“Cheerless? Bare! You don’t know what you are talking about. If you only knew the longing I have to be once more in my own bed, listening to wind and sea. No, thank you.”

“But, uncle, for to-night, do stay.”

“Now, that’s unkind, Louy, after all the time you’ve made me be away. Well, I will, as a reward to you for rousing yourself up a bit. One condition though; will you come down to-morrow and talk to me while I fish?”

She remained silent.

“Then I don’t stop to-night.”

“I will come to-morrow, uncle.”

“Then, I’ll stop.”

The train glided on as they watched in silence now for the lights of the little town. First, the ruddy glow of the great lamp on the cast pier of the harbour appeared; then glittering faintly like stars, there were the various lights of the town rising from the water’s edge right up to the high terrace level, with the old granite house—the erst peaceful, calm old home.

The lights glittered brightly, but they looked dim to Louise, seen as they were through a veil of tears, and now, as they rapidly neared, a strange feeling of agitation filled the brain of the returned wanderer.

It was home, but it could never be the same home again. All would be changed. A feeling of separation must arise between her and Madelaine. The two families must live apart, and a dark rift in her life grow wider as the time glided on, till she was farther and farther away from the bright days of youth, with little to look forward to but sorrow and the memory of the shadow hanging over their home.

“Here we are,” cried Uncle Luke, as the train glided slowly alongside the platform and then stopped. “Got all your traps? George, give me my stick. Now, then, you first.”

The station lamps were burning brightly as Louise gave her father her hand and stepped out. Then she felt blind and troubled with a strange feeling of dread, and for a few moments everything seemed to swim round as a strange singing filled her ears.

Then there was a faint ejaculation, two warm soft arms clasped her, and a well-known voice said, in a loving whisper:

“Louise—sister—at last?”

For one moment the dark veil over her eyes seemed to lift, and like a flash she realised that Madelaine was not in black, and that resting upon a stick there was a pale face which lit up with smiles as its owner clasped her to his breast in turn.

“My dearest child! welcome back. The place is not the same without you.”

“Louy, my darling!” in another pleasant voice, as kisses were rained upon her cheek, and there was another suggestion of rain which left its marks warm.

“He would come, George Vine;” and the giver of these last kisses and warm tears did battle for the possession of the returned truant. “Maddy, my dear,” she cried reproachfully, and in a loud parenthesis, “let me have one hand. He ought not to have left the house, but he is so determined. He would come.”

“Well, Dutch doll, don’t I deserve a kiss?” cried old Luke grimly.

“Dear Uncle Luke!”

“Hah, that’s better. George, I think I shall go home with the Van Heldres. I’m starving.”

“But you can’t,” cried the lady of that house in dismay; “we are all coming up to you. Ah, Mr Leslie, how do you do?”

“Quite well,” said that personage quietly; and Madelaine felt Louise’s hand close upon hers spasmodically.

“Leslie! you here?” said George Vine eagerly.

“Yes; I came down from town in the same train.”

“Too proud to be seen with us, eh?” said Uncle Luke sarcastically, as there was a warm salute from the Van Heldres to one as great a stranger as the Vines.

“I thought it would be more delicate to let you come down alone,” said Leslie gravely.

George Vine had by this time got hold of the young man’s hand.

“My boy—Harry?” he whispered, “have you any news?”

“Yes,” was whispered back. “Let me set your mind at rest. He is safe.”

“Cut where? For Heaven’s sake, man, speak!” panted the trembling father as he clung to him.

“Across the sea.”

Chapter Sixty Four.

Harry’s Message.

“Do you wish me to repeat it? Have you not heard from your father or your uncle?”

“Yes; but I want to hear it all again from you. Harry sent me some message.”

Leslie was silent.

“Why do you not speak? You are keeping something back.”

“Yes; he gave me a message for you, one I was to deliver.”

“Well,” said Louise quickly, “why do you not deliver it?”

“Because Harry is, in spite of his trouble, still young and thoughtless. It is a message that would make you more bitter against me than you are now.”

Louise rose from where she was seated in the dining-room, walked across to the bay window, looked out upon the sea, and then returned.

“I am not bitter against you, Mr Leslie. How could I be against one who has served us so well? But tell me my brother’s message now.”

He looked at her with so deep a sense of passionate longing in his eyes, that as she met his ardent gaze her eyes sank, and her colour began to heighten.

“No,” he said, “I cannot deliver the message now. Some day, when time has worked its changes, I will tell you word for word. Be satisfied when I assure you that your brother’s message will not affect his position in the least, and will be better told later on.”

She looked at him half wonderingly, and it seemed to him that there was doubt in her eyes.

“Can you not have faith in me?” he said quietly, “and believe when I tell you that it is better that I should not speak?”

“Yes,” she said softly, “I will have faith in you and wait.”

“I thank you,” he said gravely.

“Now tell me more about Harry.”

“There is very little to tell,” replied Leslie. “As I went down-stairs that day, I found him just about to enter the house. For a moment I was startled, but I am not a superstitious man, and I grasped at once how we had all been deceived, and who it was dealt me the blow and tripped me that night; and in the reaction which came upon me, I seized him, and dragged him to the first cab I could find.”

“I was half mad with delight,” continued Leslie, speaking, in spite of his burning words, in a slow, calm, respectful way. “I saw how I had been deceived that night, who had been your companion, and why you had kept silence. For the time I hardly knew what I did or said in my delirious joy, but I was brought to myself, as I sat holding your brother’s wrist tightly, by his saying slowly:—

“‘There, I’m sick of it. You can leave go. I shan’t try to get away. It’s all over now.’”

“He thought you had made him a prisoner?”

“Yes; and I thought him a messenger of peace, who had come to point out my folly, weakness, and want of faith.”

Louise covered her face with her hands, and he saw that she was sobbing gently.

“It was some time before I could speak,” continued Leslie. “I was still holding his wrist tightly, and it was not until he spoke again that I felt as if I could explain.”

“‘Where are you taking me?’ he said. ‘Is it necessary for Mr Leslie, my father’s friend, to play policeman in the case?’

“‘When will you learn to believe and trust in me, Harry Vine?’ I said.

“‘Never,’ he replied bitterly, and in the gladness of my heart I laughed, and could have taken him in my arms and embraced him as one would a lost brother just returned to us from the dead.

“‘You will repent that,’ I said; and I felt then that my course was marked out, and I could see my way.”

Louise let fall her hands, and sank into a chair, her eyes dilating as she gazed earnestly at the quiet, enduring man, who now narrated to her much that was new; and ever as he spoke something in her brain seemed to keep on repeating in a low and constant repetition:

“He loves me—he loves me—but it can never be.”

“‘Where am I taking you?’ I said,” continued Leslie. “‘To where you can make a fresh start in life.’” And as Louise gazed at him she saw that he was looking fixedly at the spot upon the carpet where her brother had last stood when he was in that room.

“‘Not to—’

“He stopped short there; and I—Yes, and I must stop short too. It is very absurd, Miss Vine, for me to be asked all this.”

“Go on—go on!” said Louise hoarsely.

Leslie glanced at her, and withdrew his eyes.

“‘Will you go abroad, Harry, and make a new beginning?’ I said.

“Poor lad! he was utterly broken down, and he would have thrown himself upon his knees to me if I had not forced him to keep his seat.”

“My brother!” sighed Louise.

“I asked him then if he would be willing to leave you all, and go right away; and I told him what I proposed—that I had a brother superintending some large tin mines north of Malacca. That I would give him such letters as would ensure a welcome, and telegraph his coming under an assumed name.”

“And he accepted?”

“Yes. There, I have nothing to add to all this. I went across with him to Paris, and, after securing a berth for him, we went south to Marseilles, where I saw him on board one of the Messageries Maritimes vessels bound for the East, and we parted. That is all.”

“But money; necessaries, Mr Leslie? He was penniless.”

“Oh, no,” said Leslie smiling; and Louise pressed her teeth upon her quivering lip.

“There,” said Leslie, “I would not have said all this, but you forced it from me; and now you know all, try to be at rest. As I told Mr Vine last night, I suppose it would mean trouble with the authorities if it were known, but I think I was justified in what I did. We understand Harry’s nature better than any judge, and our plan for bringing him back to his life as your brother is better than theirs. So,” he went on with a pleasant smile, “we will keep our secret about him. My brother Dick is one of the truest fellows that ever stepped, and Harry is sure to like him. The climate is not bad. It will be a complete change of existence, and some day when all this trouble is forgotten he can return.”

“My brother exiled; gone for ever.”

“My dear Miss Vine,” said Leslie quietly, “the world has so changed now that we can smile at all those old-fashioned ideas. Your brother is in Malacca. Well, I cannot speak exactly, but I believe I am justified in saying that you could send a message to him from this place in Cornwall, and get an answer by to-morrow morning at the farthest, perhaps to-night. You father at one time could not have obtained one from Exeter in the same space.”

“There,” he continued quietly, “you are agitated now, and I will say good-bye. Is not that Madelaine Van Heldre coming up the path? Yes, unmistakably. Now, let us bury the past and look forward to the future—a happier one for you, I hope and pray. Good-bye.”

He held out his hand, and she looked at him wonderingly.

“Good-bye?”

“Well, for a time. You are weak and ill. Perhaps you will go away for a change—perhaps I shall. Next time we meet time will have softened all this trouble, and you will have forgiven one whose wish was to serve you, all his weakness, all his doubts. God bless you, Louise Vine! Good-bye!”

He held out his hand again, but she did not take it. She only stood gazing wildly at him in a way that he dared not interpret, speechless, pale, and with her lips quivering.

He gave her one long, yearning look, and, turning quickly, he was at the door.

“Mr Leslie—stop!”

“You wished to say something,” he cried as he turned toward her and caught her outstretched hand to raise it passionately to his lips. “You do not, you cannot, say it? I will say it for you, then. Good-bye!”

“Stop!” she cried as she clung to his hand. “My brother’s message?”

“Some day—in the future. I dare not give it now. When you have forgiven my jealous doubts.”

“Forgiven you?” she whispered as she sank upon her knees and held the hand she clasped to her cheek—“forgive me.”

“Louise! my darling!” he cried hoarsely as he caught her up to his breast upon which she lay as one lies who feels at peace.

Seconds? minutes? Neither knew; but after a time, as she stood with her hands upon his shoulders gazing calmly in his eyes, she said softly—

“Tell me now; what did Harry say?”

Leslie was silent for a while. Then, clasping her more tightly to his breast, he said in a low, deep voice—

“Tell Louy I have found in you the truest brother that ever lived; ask her some day to make it so indeed.”

There was a long silence, during which the door was pressed slowly open; but they did not heed, and he who entered heard his child’s words come almost in a whisper.

“Some day,” she said; “some day when time has softened all these griefs. Your own words, Duncan.”

“Yes,” he said, “my own.”

“Hah!”

They did not start from their embrace as that long-drawn sigh fell upon their ears, but both asked the same question with their eyes.

“Yes,” said George Vine gravely as he took Leslie’s hand and bent down to kiss his child, “it has been a long dark night, but joy cometh in the morning.”

Chapter Sixty Five.

Uncle Luke has a Word.

John Van Heldre sat in his office chair at his table once more after a long and weary absence, and Crampton stood opposite scowling at him.

The old clerk had on one of his most sour looks when Van Heldre raised his eyes from the ledger he was scanning, and he made no remark; but looking up again he saw the scowl apparently intensified.

“What’s the matter, Crampton? Afraid I shall discover that you have been guilty of embezzlement?” said Van Heldre, smiling.

“Not a bit,” said the old clerk, “nor you aren’t either.”

“Then what is the meaning of the black look?”

“Oh, nothing—nothing!”

“Come, out with it, man. What’s the matter?”

“Well, if you must know, sir, I want to know why you can’t keep quiet and get quite well, instead of coming muddling here.”

“Crampton!”

“Well, I must speak, sir. I don’t want you to be laid up again.”

“No fear.”

“But there is fear, sir. You know I can keep things going all right.”

“Yes, Crampton, and show a better balance than I did.”

“Well then, sir, why don’t you let me go on? I can manage, and I will manage if you’ll take a holiday.”

“Holiday, man? why it has been nothing but one long painful holiday lately, and this does me good. Now, bring in the other book.”

Crampton grunted and went into the outer office to return with the cash-book, which he placed before his employer, and drew back into his old position, watching Van Heldre as he eagerly scanned the pages and marked their contents, till, apparently satisfied, he looked up to see that Crampton was smiling down at him.

“What now?”

“Eh?”

“I say what now? Why are you laughing?”

“Only smiling, sir.”

“Well, what have I done that is ridiculous?”

“Ridiculous? Why I was smiling because it seemed like the good old times to have you back busy with the books.”

“Crampton, we often say that my old friend is an eccentric character, but really I think Luke Vine must give place to you.”

“Dessay,” said Crampton sourly. “You go on with these accounts. Look half way down.”

Van Heldre did look half way down, and paused.

“Five hundred pounds on the credit side, per the cheque I wrote for Mr Luke Vine—why, what’s this?”

“Ah! that’s what you may well say, sir. Refused to take the money, sir. I’m sure I’m not so eccentric as that.”

“But you never mentioned it, Crampton?”

“Yes, I did, sir, with my pen. There it is in black and white. Better and plainer than sounding words: and, besides you weren’t here.”

“But this is absurd, Crampton.”

“That’s what I told him, sir.”

“Well, what did he say?”

“That I was an old fool, sir.”

“Tut—tut—tut!” ejaculated Van Heldre; “but he must be paid. I can’t let him lose the money.”

“What I told him, sir. I said we couldn’t let him lose the money.”

“What did he say to that?”

“Called me an old fool again much stronger, sir. Most ungentlemanly—used words, sir, that he must have picked up on the beach.”

“I hardly like to trouble him directly he is back; but would you mind sending up to Mr Luke Vine, with my compliments, and asking him to come here.”

“Send at once, sir?”

“At once.”

“Perhaps before I leave the office, sir, I might as well call your attention to a communication received this morning.”

Van Heldre looked enquiringly at his old clerk.

“It’s rather curious, sir,” he said, handing a letter, which he had been keeping back as a sort of bonne bouche for the last piece of business transacted that morning.

“Never presented yet?” said Van Heldre, nodding his head slowly.

“They must have known I stopped the notes directly,” said Crampton with a self-satisfied smile.

“I had hoped that the whole of that terrible business had been buried for good.”

“So it had, sir,” grunted Crampton; “but some one or another keeps digging it up again.”

Van Heldre made no reply, so Crampton left the office, sent off a messenger, and returned to find his employer seated with his face buried in his hands, thinking deeply, and heedless of his presence.

“Poor George!” he said aloud. “Poor misguided boy! I wish Crampton had been—”

“I’m back here,” said Crampton.

“Ah! Crampton,” said Van Heldre starting, “sent off the message?”

“Yes, sir, I’ve sent off the message,” said the old man sternly. “Pray finish what you were saying, sir. Never mind my feelings.”

“What I was saying, Crampton? I did not say anything.”

“Oh, yes, you did, sir; you wished Crampton had been—what, sir—buried too, like the trouble?”

“My good fellow—my dear old Crampton! surely I did not say that aloud.”

“How could I have heard it, sir, if you hadn’t? I only did my duty.”

“Yes, yes, of course, of course, Crampton. Really I am very, very sorry.”

“And only just before I left the room you were complaining about people digging up the old trouble.”

“Come, Crampton, I can deny that. I apologise for thinking aloud, but it was you who spoke of digging up the old trouble.”

“Ah! well, it doesn’t matter, sir. It was my birthday just as you were at your worst. Seventy-five, Mr Van Heldre, sir, and you can’t be troubled with such a blundering old clerk much longer.”

“My dear Crampton—”

“May I come in?” followed by three thumps with a heavy stick.

Crampton hurried to the outer office to confront Uncle Luke.

“Met your messenger just outside, and saved him from going up. How much did you give him? He ought to pay that back.”

“Oh, never mind that, Luke. How are you?”

“How am I?”

“Yes. Getting settled down again?”

“How am I? Well, a little better this morning. Do I smell of yellow soap?”

“No.”

“Wonder at it. I spent nearly all yesterday trying to get off the London dirt and smoke. Treat to get back to where there’s room to breathe.”

“Ah, you never did like London.”

“And London never liked me, so we’re even there. Well,” he continued after a pause filled up by a low muttering grunt, “what do you want? You didn’t send for me to come and tell you that I had caught a cold on my journey down, or got a rheumatic twinge.”

“No, no, Luke, of course not.”

“Nice one, ’pon my word!” muttered Crampton.

“Well, what is it?”

Crampton moved toward the door, his way lying by Uncle Luke; but just as he neared the opening, the visitor made a stab at the wall with his heavy stick, and, as it were, raised a bar before the old clerk, who started violently.

“Bless my heart, Mr Luke Vine!” he cried; “what are you about? Don’t do that.”

“Stop here, then. Who told you to go?”

“No one, sir, but—”

“How do I know what he wants. I may be glad of a witness.”

“Oh, yes! You need not go, Crampton,” said Van Heldre. “Sit down, Luke.”

“No, thankye. Sit too much for my health now. Come; out with it. What do you want? There is something?”