George Manville Fenn (continued 3)

“Only me, sir. I was coming down to close that window.”

“You startled me, Denton, going about like a ghost. Good-night.”

“Good-night, sir.”

Then first one door closed, then another, and one door opened, that of the study, from which the occupant’s face appeared for a few moments with an intent listening air upon the stern features.

Then the door was closed again, the cabinet opened, and the cash-box taken from one of the drawers, over which the young man sat for quite half an hour, counting notes and calculating, before replacing the contents.

“I don’t like to leave it here,” he said thoughtfully. “It has been safe so far, but thieves might break through and steal, and that would be awkward. Let’s think it out over a cigar.”

He took the spirit-stand from the closet again, poured out a goodly portion of whiskey into a Venice glass, and after mildly lowering its strength with water, took a deep draught before lighting a choice cigar, whose pleasant perfume soon pervaded the room.

“Notes, notes. Gold so much better, but awkward to carry,” he muttered, and then burst into an unpleasant laugh.

“Shall I—shan’t I? Ten thousand safe, better than a hundred thousand doubtful, and who knows what Master Saul might do.”

A strange silence fell upon the place—a silence which seemed painful, for as a rule the low hollow rumble of market-wagons echoed from the high brick wall of The Mynns the night through.

That silence was broken by the smoker’s voice, as he said in a low, angry whisper:

“Saul Harrington is a coward and a cur. He dares nothing—nothing. A snarling dog who fears to bite. Why, if I had been in his place—

“Well, never mind,” he said after a pause. “But about this money—a bird in the hand is worth too in the bush, even if one is Gertrude—a pretty little innocent. Yes, that will be the best plan after all.”

He rose hastily, took a Bradshaw from the shelf, and rapidly turned over the leaves; but as he did so the lamp went out.

Chapter Twenty.

The Master is Late.

“Hadn’t we better begin breakfast. Mr Hampton?” said Gertrude.

“Oh, don’t hurry, my dear. Mr Hampton is not going to town by the early train. What a lovely morning! Perhaps he has gone for a walk.” The ladies walked to the window and Mr Hampton turned his newspaper and coughed loudly, as he glanced at the breakfast-table, afterwards making a wry face as he felt sundry twinges suggestive of Nature’s demands for food.

A quarter of an hour slipped by, and then the old housekeeper, who kept to the same simple old fashion adopted by her late master, whose household had consisted of Denton, a housemaid, cook, and gardener, entered the dining-room.

“Shall I bring up the ham, Miss Gertrude?”

“Perhaps you had better go and knock at Mr Harrington’s door. He may have dropped asleep again.”

The old woman went out, and at the end of five minutes she came back, looking pale and scared.

“I—I can’t make him hear, miss,” she said. “Do you think he is ill?”

“Gone for a walk,” said the old lawyer sharply.

“I—I don’t think he has gone out, sir,” faltered the old lady. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind going up to his room.”

“And be told to mind my own business—eh? Thanks; no.”

He gave the newspaper a vicious shake, and a blow in the middle to double it up for a fresh reading.

“Shall I go up, Gertrude, my dear?” said Mrs Hampton.

“If you would not mind. He may, perhaps, be a little unwell.”

“To be sure, my dear. I’ll go.”

The lawyer’s wife left the room, and without a moment’s hesitation walked along the passage to the study, entered and looked round.

“Yes,” she said to herself, as she took up the whiskey decanter, and held it at arm’s length. “How temperate and self-denying we are. Essence of sick headache, and he has drunk every drop.”

To give colour to Mrs Hampton’s theory, besides the empty condition of the decanter, a peculiar odour of spirits filled the room, causing the old lady’s nostrils to dilate, and the corners of her lips to go down as she hurried out.

“And they hardly ever will open a window,” she muttered, as she stood in the hall, hesitating. “But I said I would go up,” she continued, and ascending quickly she paused before the door of the bedroom she sought.

“Mr Harrington!” she cried, as she gave a few sharp raps with her bony knuckles.

No answer.

“Mr Harrington!”

The taps were louder, but there was no reply.

“I thought as much,” she muttered. “Broken out again, and in a regular drunkard’s sleep. No; it’s an insult to sober people’s rest to call it sleep—stupor. Oh, my poor girl, my poor girl! If I could only save you from being this dreadful man’s wife.”

“Mr Harrington!” she cried again, after a pause; but all was still. Then the taps she had previously given upon the door became heavy thumps. “Mr Harrington, are you coming down to breakfast?”

“Is anything the matter, ma’am?” said the old housekeeper coming slowly up the stairs.

“Yes, Mrs Denton; no, Mrs Denton; yes, Mrs Denton. I mean nothing serious, but it’s very dreadful.”

The old housekeeper shook her head; and the tears stood in her eyes as she walked to the end of the wide passage, and descended to the embayed window looking upon the garden, where she used her apron to flick off some white powdery dust from the sill.

“Yes, ma’am,” she said, “it is very dreadful. I know what you mean. Poor dear master liked his two or three glasses of port after his dinner, but that was all. Unless any one was ill you never saw a drop of spirits about the place, while now it’s brandy and whiskey, and soda and seltzer, as is a pair of shams, not to make the spirits weaker, but to coax people on to drink more.”

“You think the same as I do then, Denton?” whispered Mrs Hampton.

“It don’t take any thinking, ma’am. Look at his nose and his cheeks. People don’t have those public-house signs on their fronts without going very often into the cellar. Oh, my dear ma’am; you’re a woman—I mean a lady.”

“Only a woman like yourself, Denton.”

“Then don’t—pray don’t stand by with your hands crossed and see that poor darling child sold into such a bondage as this.”

“What do you mean, Denton?”

“Well, there, ma’am, if you’re offended, you must be, but I shall speak the honest truth.”

“Go on, Denton.”

“I mean letting poor Miss Gertrude be married to such a man as Master George.”

“What am I to do, Denton?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. I’ve been down upon my bended knees to her, but she turns away. She don’t like him—that’s the wonder of it—and yet she will have him.”

“Yes, Denton; that’s the wonder of it. She’s little and weak, and yet she’s stronger than all of us put together with poor old Mr Harrington’s wishes at her back.”

“But you, ma’am—she believes in and likes you. Many a time she’s come to me, years ago, and told me how you’ve scolded and found fault with her about her manners, and when I’ve said you were very cantankerous—”

“Oh, you said that of me, did you, Denton?”

“Yes, ma’am, to speak the truth, I have said so; but she always spoke up for you, and said you talked to her like a mother.”

“Yes, Denton; I tried to.”

“Then,” cried the old woman fiercely, “why don’t you talk to her like a mother now, and save the poor child from such a terrible fate.”

“You think it will be a terrible fate, Denton?”

“Do you believe in young men who can’t keep from the drink now, and who make the poor old house smell of whiskey from top to bottom, mending because they’ve got pretty young wives?”

“I want to be charitable, Denton.”

“Then prove it, ma’am, by saving my poor dear young lady from being the wife of a sot.”

“Is anything the matter, Mrs Hampton?” said Gertrude.

“No, my dear, only that wicked, idle man is so fast asleep that we cannot wake him.”

“Never mind,” said the old lawyer, who had followed Gertrude out into the hall. “Better let him have his sleep out. Come, my dear, and have pity on me.”

“Yes, Mr Hampton, we will not wait any longer. Denton, pray see that some fresh breakfast is ready on a tray, to bring up directly your master comes down.”

“Yes, miss, I will,” said the old woman; and then in an undertone to Mrs Hampton, as the old lawyer said something to Gertrude: “Do, do, pray, ma’am, try and stop it. I’d sooner help to lay the poor dear out for her last sleep than help to dress her to go to church with Master George.”

Mrs Hampton went down the flight of stairs to the breakfast-table, looking exceedingly comic.

Hers was a peculiar face at the best of times; and now it was at its worst, for her spirit was greatly troubled on Gertrude’s behalf, and she was trying to smile and look cheerful.

Her husband saw it and made matters worse.

“Gertrude, my dear,” he said in a whisper his wife could hear, “for goodness’ sake give her a cup of tea; she’s bubbling over with acidity.”

“No, I am not, Hampton, and don’t be absurd.”

“Certainly not, my dear. Excuse me, Miss Gertie, may I begin?”

He was already placing a slice of ham upon his plate with a delicately cooked egg reposing in its midst, but he recollected himself and passed it across to his wife.

“Thanks, no,” she said with quite a hoarse croak. “Dry toast.”

Gertrude was of the same way of thinking. Only the lawyer made a hearty breakfast hastily, and then started for town.

“No, no, don’t you ladies move,” he said. “Finish your breakfasts. Apologise to George Harrington for me. Back in good time.”

He did not realise that the other occupants of the breakfast-table had been forcing themselves to swallow a few morsels, so as to keep up appearances; and as the door closed their eyes met, and Gertrude could contain herself no longer, but burst into a passion of tears.

“Hush, hush, my darling?” whispered Mrs Hampton, taking her to her breast. “Don’t take on about it. There, there, there; I want to play a mother’s part to you, and I’m only a clumsy imitation; but, indeed, Gertie, I want to advise you for the best.”

“Yes, I know you do,” whispered the poor girl, as she struggled hard to be composed. “But tell me you don’t think there is any reason for George being so late.”

For answer Mrs Hampton kissed her on the brow.

“You do not speak. It is cruel of you to be silent.”

“Do you wish me to speak out?”

“Yes, even if I do not agree with you,” cried Gertrude, flushing up as if ready to defend her betrothed.

“Then, my dear, I do.”

“Tell me—what?”

“I am George Harrington’s guest, Gertrude; then I am the trusty friend of the girl I have known and loved ever since she was a child.”

“Yes, yes, indeed you are; I know that; only you are so bitter against George.”

“Gertie, my dear,” said the old lady, leading her to the couch and sitting down with old Harrington’s face seeming to smile down upon them, “if I feel bitter against George Harrington it is from love for you.”

“Yes, yes; but try not to be unjust. Think of the life he has been forced to lead.”

“I can think only of my little girl’s life that she will have to lead.”

“Why do you speak like this?” panted Gertrude, who looked like some frightened bird, ready to struggle to escape.

“I may be hard and unjust, my child, but I judge by what I see.”

“See! What have you seen this morning?”

“I have been in the study. It smells as a room does where men have passed the night drinking.”

“But after the change—after the promises.”

“The whiskey decanter was empty. I know it was full yesterday morning, for I saw Mrs Denton carry it in.”

“Ah!” sighed Gertrude.

“And this morning the man you have promised to marry is lying in a drunken sleep.”

“You do not know that,” cried Gertrude excitedly.

“I know enough to make me say once more—Gertrude, I am a childless old woman, and I love you as Mr Hampton loves you in his peculiar way, which is a good deal like mine—rough and clumsy, but very honest and true.”

“Dearest Mrs Hampton!” cried Gertrude, throwing her arms about the old lady’s neck; “as if I did not know how good, and kind, and loving you have always been.”

“Then listen to me once more, my darling, before it is too late. I do not look like the sort of woman who can talk about love, but I can, and I know what love is.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” faltered Gertrude.

“And I know that you do not love George Harrington.”

A pause.

“And George Harrington does not love you.”

“He told me he did—very dearly, Mrs Hampton, and if—if—I do not love him as I ought to do, I shall try so very, very hard to make him a true and loving wife.”

“Trying is no use, my dear. Love comes and goes of itself. You may make yourself friends with any one, but you cannot make yourself love.”

“Not when he loves me?” cried Gertrude.

“So much, my child, that only a short time before he is married to you, he goes and plays the swine.”

“Mrs Hampton!” cried Gertrude indignantly.

“Very well, then, my dear, I will not speak like that. It is too blunt and strong. He goes then—after promising everybody, and in disobedience to Doctor Lawrence’s orders, and quite soon after a dangerous attack of delirium tremens, brought on by drink—and takes that which has compelled him to keep his bed this morning.”

“But he may be ill, Mrs Hampton.”

“He is ill, my dear, and with an illness which brings on a craving he cannot control.”

“Oh?” sighed Gertrude, covering her face with her hands.

“He madly goes and makes himself the slave of a terrible master, who will ruin health, and pocket—destroy him utterly.”

“You are too severe, Mrs Hampton,” faltered Gertrude.

“Not a bit, my dear.”

“He said he would not take more than Mr Hampton might, or you.”

“That will not do, my dear,” said the old lady calmly. “My husband treats wine and spirits as his slaves, and makes them obey him. I do the same. George Harrington sets what the teetotallers call the great God Alcohol up on a pedestal, and grovels before it in his insane worship.”

“But he is growing so much better, Mrs Hampton.”

“No, my dear. He is only professing to do so. He is the slave and he will go lower and lower. I say then, even with the great wealth he has inherited, is this man the suitable partner of your future?”

“I want to defend him,” sighed Gertrude to herself, “but she masters me—she masters me.”

“Then listen to me, my dear, before it is too late. Do one of two things—come to us, where you shall be as our child, or, if you prefer it, set up a little simple home of your own, with poor old Denton, who would gladly accept this plan; you will not be well off, but you will be happy—yes, I say happy,” cried the old lady, looking up defiantly at the portrait, which had caught her eye, and seemed to be gazing searchingly at her. “Ah, you may look, but you are only canvas and paint; and if you were alive you would not throw this poor child into the arms of a drunken man.”

“Mrs Hampton, what are you saying?” cried Gertrude, looking up and shivering, as she realised that the old lady was addressing the picture on the wall.

“The plain, honest, simple truth, my dear. Come, come, be advised by me.”

“No, no; it is impossible,” murmured Gertrude.

“Not a bit of it, my child. Think of your future. He will not reform.”

“He will—he will.”

“He will not. He can’t. He hasn’t it in him. Gertie, my dear, you may fight for him, but he is a shifty bad man, and I don’t believe in him a bit.”

“This is too cruel.”

“It is kindness though it gives you pain, my dear. Some men might repent and alter, but I have studied George Harrington from the day he came to the house, and I cannot find the stuff in him to make a better man.”

“I should make him a better man, Mrs Hampton,” said Gertrude proudly.

“You would worry yourself into your grave, Gertrude, and if you marry him, I shall order my mourning at once, for you do not, and never will love him.”

“Now you are laughing at me,” said Gertrude, brightening up, and taking the old lady’s withered hands in her soft, plump little palms. “It is impossible to follow out your proposal, and I shall marry George Harrington for my dear uncle’s sake.”

“And be a wretched woman for life.”

“No, Mrs Hampton; even at the worst, I shall have the happy consciousness of having done my duty; but there will be no worse. I shall win.”

Mrs Hampton shook her head.

“Yes,” repeated Gertrude; “I shall win, and bring him to the right way. He cannot refuse to listen to me. Surely a weak trusting woman has power over even the strongest man.”

“In novels, and poems, and plays, my dear, more than in real life, I am afraid,” said Mrs Hampton, with a sigh of resignation; “but remember this, my dear, when in the future you recall all I have said—No, no, no, my darling; I can’t stoop to talk to you like that. Gertie, my child, I am very sorry, but I am going to help you carry out your noble resolve with all my heart.”

“Mrs Hampton?” cried Gertrude joyously.

“Yes, my dear; and if women can win, we’ll make a hero of George Harrington—good Heavens! what’s that?”

The two women started from the sofa, and gazed in a startled way toward the hall.

Chapter Twenty One.

Bruno Gets into a Scrape.

The sound that startled them was a faint scratching noise at the door, and Gertrude hurried across the room to open and admit the dog Bruno, who was lying on the sheepskin mat, and who raised his head, gazed in his mistress’s face, uttered a low whine, and then dropped his head between his paws.

“Why, Bruno, Bruno? what’s the matter?”

“Shall I go up and knock at master’s door again, Miss Gertie?” said the housekeeper, who came along the passage just then. “Why, what’s the matter with the dog?”

“I don’t know, Denton; he seems ill. Oh! His head is covered with blood.”

“Ugh! So it is,” cried the old woman. “I haven’t seen him before this morning, miss. He has been fighting. Go down, sir, directly. Bad dog!”

Bruno did not move, but lay blinking at his mistress, and whined uneasily.

“He has been fighting with some one who had a big stick then,” said Mrs Hampton shortly. “Look the poor dog’s head is all swollen up, and there’s a great cut here.”

“My poor old Bruno?” cried Gertrude, going on her knees beside the dog, and taking one of his paws, when the brute whined feebly, and made a faint effort to lick her hand.

“Yes, he has a bad cut upon his head,” said Denton, as she closely examined the place; “and it has been bleeding terribly. Poor fellow! I’ll call cook to help carry him away, and we’ll bathe it.”

“No,” said Gertrude decisively; “he was dear uncle’s favourite, and he shall be treated as a friend. Let him stop here, Denton. Draw the mat into this corner, and put another thick mat beside it.”

This was done, the mat slipping easily over the smooth floor, with its load; and after submitting patiently to the domestic surgery of his mistress and the old housekeeper, Bruno once more tried to lick the former’s hand and closed his eyes in sleep.

“There,” said Gertrude, with business-like cheerfulness, as the basin, sponge, and towels used were removed. “Now, Denton, I think you really ought to go and waken your master.”

“Yes, miss,” said the old lady, after giving Mrs Hampton an inquiring look, responded to by a shake of the head.

The old housekeeper seemed to catch that shake of the head, and she went upstairs while Gertrude led the way back to the dining-room, and looked carefully over the table to see that the maid had removed all that was untidy, and left the place attractive-looking for her master, when he should come down.

“Labour in vain, my dear,” said Mrs Hampton, with a quaint smile. “He’ll want nothing but a cup of the strongest tea; and don’t let him have any spirits in it if he asks.”

“Miss Gertrude? Miss Gertrude?” came from the stairs; and upon their going to the door, it was to see the old housekeeper hurrying down. “Master’s not in his room, my dear.”

“What?”

“I knocked till I grew nervous, thinking he might be in a fit, and then I turned the handle, and went in.”

“And he is not there,” cried Gertrude. “Now, Mrs Hampton,” she added, as she turned triumphantly on her old friend, “now what have you to say for yourself. Yes! Look!” she cried, as she ran to the hat stand. “We might have known—hat and stick not here. I felt sure he must have gone for a long morning stroll.”

“Well, I’m glad I am wrong,” said Mrs Hampton sharply. “Then we have been fidgeting ourselves for nothing. Eh, Denton? Yes? What is it?”

She had suddenly caught sight of the old housekeeper making signs to her, and screwing up her face in a most mysterious way!

“Yes, Denton, what is it? Why don’t you speak?” cried Gertrude, as she caught sight of the old woman’s action.

“I—I—nothing, my dear, only he is not there,” said Denton hesitatingly.

“What are you keeping back?” said Gertrude firmly.

“N-othing, my dear.”

“Denton!”

“Don’t ask me, my dear, please,” faltered the old woman.

“I desire you to speak,” cried Gertrude imperatively.

“Then I will, my dear, for it’s only another reason why you should not go and do what you are thinking about doing,” cried the old woman angrily. “I don’t care, you may send me away if you like, but I shall have done my duty by you, and I shan’t have that on my mind.”

“Have the goodness to remember what you are, Denton,” said Gertrude, speaking coldly, and turning very pale.

“Yes, miss, only your poor old servant, but I can’t see you going headlong to destruction without trying to stop you. I say you oughtn’t to marry a gentleman who can’t keep from the drink, and goes out spending the night after everybody else has gone to bed.”

“What do you mean, Denton?”

“That we’ve been wherritting ourselves about him all the morning, and he’s never been to bed all night.”

“Denton!”

“Well, miss, come up and look. The bed’s just as I turned it down, and the pillows all of a puff.”

“That will do,” said Gertrude gravely. “Your master is not bound to consult anybody if he chooses to go out.”

“No, miss.”

“Mrs Hampton, shall we go into the drawing-room?” said Gertrude quietly, “or would you like a walk?”

“I think we will stay in, my dear,” was the reply; and they went into the drawing-room, where after closing the door they stood looking in each other’s eyes.

“Gertie,” said Mrs Hampton at last, and she took her young companion’s hand.

“No, no,” said Gertrude, shrinking.

“I was not going to preach, my dear—only help,” said Mrs Hampton, smiling cheerfully. “Are you thinking what I am?”

“I feel that I must be,” cried Gertrude. “You think that George has repented of what he said to Saul Harrington, and has joined him, or followed him to Paris.”

“Exactly. That is what I do think.”

“Well,” said Gertrude slowly, “he might have told us. Stop,” she added quickly, “he must have left a note for us in the study.”

“Of course,” cried Mrs Hampton; and they went quickly into the little library, which the new master had affected as soon as he took possession of the place.

A particular odour of spirits and some drug attacked their nostrils as soon as they entered the little room, and their eyes met in an anxious look, but only to be averted as each sought for a letter.

“No,” said Gertrude sadly, “he has not written.”

“It was a sudden thought, my dear, and we shall have one, or a telegram, before long. He is sure to send.”

“He is sure to send,” said Gertrude involuntarily, as a curious chill ran through her, and she turned ghastly pale; for at that moment there came the long, low howl of a dog as if from a great distance, though they felt and knew that it was the faint cry of the wounded beast, and from close at hand—the mournfully strange howl uttered by a dog when it displays that mysterious knowledge of impending or neighbouring death.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Kitchen Opinions.

The cry was so peculiar, and impressed its hearers so painfully, that they stood looking at each other, Gertrude with blanched cheeks, and Mrs Hampton, who had not outgrown the superstitious dread common to most natures suffering from a nervous tremor that she had not felt for years.

She was the first to speak with assumed cheerfulness.

“Why, it’s that dog,” she said. “I declare for the moment it quite startled me?”

“Yes,” said Gertrude, with her voice sounding husky and strange, “it was the dog.”

But neither moved to do what was most natural under the circumstances: to go and pat and pacify the poor animal, neither did they discuss the possibility of how it was injured, but stood listening for its next cry, and both started violently as the door was opened and Mrs Denton, white and trembling, hurried into the room.

“Did—did you hear that, Miss Gertrude?” she said in an awe-stricken whisper.

“Do you mean poor Bruno’s howl?”

“Yes, miss,” said the old woman in the same low tone of voice.

“The poor thing is in pain, I suppose.”

“No, miss, it isn’t that,” said Denton slowly. “If he was hurt, he would yelp sharply. He has got something on his mind.”

“Don’t be such a ridiculous old woman, Denton!” cried Mrs Hampton impatiently, to cover her own dread. “Dogs have no minds. They howl sometimes because it’s their nature to.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the old housekeeper respectfully, but speaking in a very slow, impressive tone; “because it is their nature to howl when they know there’s death on the way.”

“Gertrude, my dear, for goodness’ sake don’t you be superstitious. It’s absurd. It is what you have just heard—an old woman’s tale. Why, if dogs howled because there was death about, they’d pass their days doing nothing else, and wouldn’t have time even to wag their tails.”

“Denton, you are old enough to know better.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m seventy years and three months old, and I suppose I ought to know better, but I don’t.”

“There is nothing to mind, Denton,” said Gertrude gently. “Poor Bruno quite startled me for the moment, but he has settled down now, and—”

She stopped short, for the dog again uttered the same long, low howl—a cry which sounded more impressive than the one they had heard before.

Gertrude’s face looked ghastly, and for a moment she reeled and caught at Mrs Hampton’s trembling hand, while the old housekeeper sank upon her knees and buried her face in her apron.

Gertrude was the first to recover her presence of mind.

“How childish!” she said, as she crossed to the old woman where she knelt. “Denton, dear, don’t think so seriously of such a trifle. There is no truth in these old superstitious ideas.”

“No truth, my dear?” said the old woman, taking and kissing the hand laid upon her shoulder. “Was there no truth in my shutting poor Bruno up in the shed, and his getting out by tearing his way under the side, and howling in the garden the night poor dear master died? I know what you will both say to me, that I am a silly old woman; but I have seen and heard strange things in my time, and I hope, with all my heart, that this is not a sign of ill having come to some one we know, whether it’s to young master or Mr Saul. But, mark my words, we shall hear something terrible, and before long.”

“Yes, we shall all hear bad news, Denton, if we live long enough,” said Mrs Hampton, who was quite herself again. “Let’s go and see how your patient is, Gertrude, my dear.”

She crossed to the door, and Gertrude followed her quickly, leaving the old housekeeper hesitating as to whether to go or stay, and ending by slowly following the others into the hall.

Bruno had not moved from where he had been left, but lay with his head between his paws, and eyes closed, apparently asleep, till Gertrude stood over him, when he half opened his eyes and looked up at her.

“Poor old dog, then!” she said gently, as she went down on one knee and softly stroked his neck.

The dog closed his eyes and responded to her caress by giving a few raps upon the floor with his tail, after which he lay perfectly still, as if asleep.

“I wonder how he was hurt,” said Gertrude gently.

“Some brute must have struck him, and he ought to be punished.”

“Bruno would not hurt anyone except those he hates,” said Mrs Denton slowly, as she came and stood close by them.

“Poor thing!” said Mrs Hampton. “Well, we can do no more. He will soon get better. Come, Gertrude.”

The girl was giving the dog a final pat on the neck, when it suddenly raised its head, opened its eyes wildly and stared right away, uttering a long, low howl, ending in a mournful whine.

“Really,” exclaimed Mrs Hampton, “he must not do that or you must have him moved, Gertrude.”

The dog seemed to sink into an uneasy sleep, and Gertrude followed Mrs Hampton into the drawing-room.

“Ought we to take any steps about George?” said Gertrude, after a pause; “to find out whether he has gone with Saul Harrington?”

“No, my dear, certainly not. He has a perfect right to do as he pleases. He will, as I said before, no doubt write.”

Gertrude was silent, and crossed to a writing-table to busy herself over sundry domestic accounts, while Mrs Hampton took out her knitting and glanced at her from time to time, as her needles clicked and flashed in their rapid plying.

“And a good thing if he has gone,” she said to herself. “If I could do as I liked, he’d have his money and go to Jericho or any other place, so long as he did not come and worry her.”

By this time Gertrude’s attention was taken up by her accounts, and her countenance looked comparatively calm and peaceful.

“Love him?” said Mrs Hampton. “She does not even like him, only fights hard to do what she has been told.”

The day passed quietly enough in the drawing-room, but the sudden departure of the owner of The Mynns formed a topic of conversation among the servants. John Season, the gardener, came in for what he called “just a snack” about twelve o’clock, the said snack being termed lunch; but as John, a dry-looking gentleman with a countenance like a piece of ruddy bark, did not dine at quality hours, the snack served as dinner and saved him from going home, beside being an economy, as cook was not particular about his making a sandwich to wrap in his red cotton pocket-handkerchief “again he felt a bit peckish.” Not that he ever did feel a bit peckish after the hearty snack, for his sandwich was pecked by the four young Seasons at home.

John’s making of that sandwich was artistic and exact, for the slices of cold beef were always fitted on to the bottom slice of bread with the regularity to be expected of a man who kept a garden tidy. The top slice, as if from absence of mind, was also covered with slices to the same degree of exactness, and then after a liberal sprinkling of the sanitary salt, and spreading of the mordant mustard, these two slices were placed close together at the cut edge.

Now, to some unpractised hands a difficulty would here have arisen—how to get those two slices together without letting the beef get out of place.

But John Season was not unpractised.

Some people would have solved the problem by cutting two more slices of bread, and clapping them on the top. But that would have looked grasping. John was allowed by cook to cut himself a sandwich. That would have looked like cutting two sandwiches. True, there was the beef for two sandwiches there; but then it did not appear to be so to the casual observer, and as bread was fairly plentiful at home, while beef was not, John got over the difficulty in a way which salved his conscience and the cook’s.

On this particular morning, John had been very busy eating, with his mouth so full that he did not care to talk. The beef was sirloin, and the prime thick, streaked, juicy undercut, with its marrowy fat, had been untouched. The knife was sharp, and John had eaten and carved his sandwich till he had laid down the keen blade with a sigh, gazing at his work, and then at the glass of beer freshly drawn for his use.

“Yes?” he said to the cook and housemaid, to take up a thread of conversation which had been lying untouched for twenty minutes; “he came home with his head queer, did he?”

“Yes, and bleeding,” said the housemaid. “I dunno where he’d been.”

“I do,” said John, altering the position of one of his beef-laden slices, so that it should be exactly parallel with the other, and one inch away.

“You do, John?” said the cook, with her eyes wide open.

“Yes. Under the laurels half asleep. I see him.”

“But he hadn’t been out?” said the housemaid.

“Not he.”

“Then how did he get that cut on the head?” said the housemaid.

“I know,” cried cook triumphantly.

“How?”

“Climbing the wall after a cat, and then he tumbled off on to the bricks.”

“Oh!” ejaculated the housemaid, snatching at the explanation.

“Wrong,” said John Season, untying and retying his blue serge apron, as a necessity after his hearty meal.

“Then, pray how was it, Mr Clever?” said cook.

“He’d been interfering with master in the dark. Didn’t know him, I s’pose; and master give him a polt with a stick.”

“Oh!” ejaculated the housemaid.

“But why should he interfere with master?” said cook, who felt annoyed at her solution being so ruthlessly set aside.

“Because he was a good dog,” said John, taking a sip from his glass, and moving his chair a little, as he thought, with a sigh, about the big piece of lawn he had to sweep in the hot sun.

“A good dog to fly at his master!” exclaimed cook, rolling her arms in her apron.

“He’s only a new master that he don’t know well, and don’t much like,” said John sententiously; “and he sees him coming out of the window in the middle of the night.”

“Oh!” ejaculated the housemaid again.

“‘Burglars!’ says Bruno. If you remember, his bark always sounds like saying burglars.”

“Yes; I’ve always noticed that,” said the housemaid, emphasising the last word.

“Fiddle!” said cook contemptuously.

“Ah, you may say fiddle,” said John, taking out his red handkerchief, and slowly spreading it upon his knees, “but that’s it. Sees him coming down from the stairkiss window, and goes at him; master gives him one on the head, and Bruno feels sick, and goes and lies down among the laurels.”

“And who says master went out of the stairkiss window,” said cook with a snort, “when there’s a front door to the house as well as a back?”

“I did, my dear, and you needn’t be cross.”

“Enough to make any one cross to hear folks talk rubbidge. Pray, how do you know he went out that way?”

“Ah!” exclaimed the housemaid, as much as to say “that’s a poser.”

“Because I had to take the rake and smooth out the footmarks, as was a eyesore to a gardener who takes a pride in his place,” said John with a satisfied smile.

“You did, John?” said cook, giving way directly, and lowering her voice as she drew nearer the speaker, and poured him out another glass of ale.

“Thankye, my dear. Yes; same as I’ve done before.”

“But why should he get out of the window on the sly like that?”

“Larks!” said John Season, giving one eye a peculiar cock. “Why do young men get out of other windows o’ nights, eh?”

“Well, of all!” exclaimed the housemaid.

“Then he ought to be ashamed of himself,” exclaimed cook; “and for two pins I’d go and tell Miss Gertrude myself.”

No one offered the two pins, and as the reward was not forthcoming, cook seemed to consider her proposition off.

“It’s no business of our’n, cook,” said John Season, slowly extending his hands on either side of the waiting sandwich; then with one sudden and dexterous movement he shut it up, as any one might have closed an open book, and so quickly that not so much as a bit of fat had time to fall.

The next moment it was folded in the handkerchief and thrust in John Season’s pocket.

“There were footprints under the stairkiss window, then,” whispered cook.

“That’s so, under the stairkiss window,” said the gardener.

“Under the stairkiss window!” said the housemaid. “My?”

Then John Season rose and took a basket from the floor,

“But how could he get up and down from the stairkiss window?” said cook excitedly.

“Oh, it’s easy enough to any one as knows what he’s about,” said the gardener. “Off course he’d drop down.”

“And no bars to the window,” exclaimed cook indignantly. “Well, I always said so; we shall all be murdered in our beds some night.”

“Not you, cook. Burglars don’t know,” said John, “and higgerance is stronger than iron bars.”

“But shan’t you tell Miss Gertrude?” said the housemaid.

“What! that master likes to do as he pleases; and upset her, poor little lass? Not likely.”

“No,” said cook, who seemed to have repented of her own proposition; “a still tongue maketh a wise head.”

This shot proverbial was fired at the gardener, cook looking at him fixedly, as if to let him know that he did not possess all the wisdom at The Mynns.

“Well, here’s luck,” said John Season, before tossing off the remaining half glass of ale; and thrusting his arm under the handle of the basket, he went off, repeating his orders to himself, as given by cook for the late dinner: “Onions, taters, beans, peas, parsley, lettuce, and a beet.”

Chapter Twenty Three.

A Visit to the Wine Bins.

Punctual to his time Mr Hampton came down the road from the station, with the Globe in his hand, the Pall Mall under his arm, and the Evening Standard in his pocket.

As he came in sight of the house, he was aware of the tall, gaunt figure of Mrs Hampton standing at the drawing-room window, forming a kit-cat picture in a frame, which, as he drew nearer, and the high brick wall interposed, gradually became a half length, then a quarter, then a head, the lace of a cap, and nothing at all.

The old lady was at the top of the steps, sour-looking and frowning, as he neared the entrance, but full of interest in him and sympathy.

“You look tired, dear,” she said.

“Eh? No. Pretty comfortable. How’s Gertrude?”

“In trouble.”

“Eh? What about?”

“George Harrington went out last night on the sly, and hasn’t come back.”

The old lawyer uttered a grunt.

“Not been near you?”

“No, no!”

“Nor written?”

“Not he!”

“Nor sent a telegram?”

“No, my dear, no.”

“Then, all I can say is that it’s very disgraceful.”

“Out all night, and of course poor Gertrude as anxious—”

“As if she was his wife,” added the lawyer, hanging up his hat and light overcoat.

“More,” said Mrs Hampton. “You would not find a wife so anxious if a husband behaved like that.”

“No, my dear, of course not. There, I’ll go up and dress. I say, you will not wait dinner for him, as you would breakfast?” said the old lawyer, who looked upon his dinner as the most important event of the twenty-four hours.

“Indeed, if I have any influence with Gertrude we shall not,” said Mrs Hampton sternly. “I have hardly had a morsel to-day.”

“Where’s Gertrude?”

“Gone up to her room to dress,” said Mrs Hampton; and as soon as they were in their own apartment, she related the whole of the day’s discoveries, and her theory about George Harrington having gone off to join Saul.

“Humph! hardly likely,” said the old man thoughtfully. “So you waited all that time, and then found out that he had not been to bed?”

“Yes.”

“How does Gertrude take it?”

“Like a lamb apparently. Ready to defend him quite indignantly if I say a word.”

“Then don’t say one. I’m very glad he has gone out.”

“Glad?”

“Yes. The more he shows the cloven hoof the better.”

“My dear?”

“For Gertrude. She may have her eyes so opened that she will refuse to marry him, throw him over completely, and then, my dear, we shall once more get home to peace and quietness.”

“If it would turn out like that,” said Mrs Hampton thoughtfully, “I would not mind. But come now, speak out.”

No answer.

“What are you thinking about, Hampton?”

“I was thinking, my dear, that this accounts for the way the money goes. I’m glad I’ve got a clue to that, not that it matters to us.”

“What do you think it is—gambling?”

“May be.”

“Then you don’t think so, Hampton? Now speak out.”

“No, my dear, you don’t need telling. Not surprising after the life he has led in the West.”

“Yes, sir, it is very surprising, when he is engaged to the sweetest girl in the world.”

“Yes. Did the dog howl much?”

“Not a great deal, but very strangely; and don’t turn from one subject to another so abruptly.”

“Enough to make him, with his head cut open, poor brute!”

Ten minutes after they descended to the drawing-room, where, in spite of her cheerful looks and animated manner of addressing the old lawyer, it was plain to see that Gertrude had been crying, and the tears rose to her eyes again as she noted the tenderly sympathetic manner towards her of her two friends.

“I have ordered the dinner to be taken in at the usual time,” she said eagerly.

“Oh, no, my dear, not for us,” said Mrs Hampton after a desperate effort to master herself.

“Yes, I am sure that George—who, I feel sure, has gone to join Saul Harrington—would wish us to go on as usual. Yes, Denton? Dinner?”

“No, miss; I only came to say that there is no wine up.”

“No wine, Denton?”

“No, miss; but if you get out the keys I could go down and fetch it from the cellar.”

“Yes, yes; of course,” said Gertrude. “I’ll go with you.”

“No, no, my dear,” cried Mrs Hampton; “we take so little, and I am sure Mr Hampton will not mind to-day.”

The old lawyer’s face was a study, and he took out his handkerchief and blew quite a blast.

“My beloved wife,” he said, “I am quite willing to forego a good many things, but my glass of sherry with my dinner, and my glass of port afterwards, are little matters which have grown so customary that—”

“Now, I’m sure, Hampton,” began the old lady.

“Yes, my love, and so am I,” he said decisively. “Gertrude, my dear, if you will give Denton the keys, I’ll go myself, and get the wine, and—Bless me, what a howl!”

The dog, which had been silent for hours, suddenly sent forth one of its long, low, mournful cries, which seemed to fill the place with the doleful sound.

Mrs Denton shook her head, and gazed inquiringly at the old lawyer, but beyond looking upon the cry as a temporary nuisance, whose effect only lasted the length of the sound, it seemed to make not the slightest impression upon him.

Gertrude led the way to the study, and, opening the glass door of the cabinet, took from the little drawer the cellar keys; everyone connected with the important parts of the house having, for many years past, had its resting-place in one of those drawers.

“Are you coming, too?” said Mr Hampton, smiling.

“Oh, yes,” replied Gertrude; “I used often to go with dear uncle and carry the basket when I was quite a little child. I know the different bins well, and can show you which port and which sherry he used to get out for you and Dr Lawrence.”

“Yes, and splendid wines they were,” said the old lawyer, smiling. “No, no, Gertie, my dear, you must not cut off my glass of wine.”

“I have the basket and a light, sir,” said the old housekeeper, appearing at the door.

“Thank you, Denton. You need not come. I’ll carry—”

“The light,” said the old lawyer, smiling. “Give me the basket, Mrs Denton. Now then, Gertie, my dear; if a stranger came and saw me now, he’d say: ‘What a shabby-looking old butler they have at The Mynns.’”

Gertrude took the candle and led the way to the cellar door, which the old lawyer opened, and the girl went first. Then the second door was opened, and they went on over the sawdust-covered floor, inhaling the mingled odour of damp wood, mildew, and wine.

“Ha!” sighed the old man, as he looked to right and left at the stacked-up bottles: “It’s a weakness and a vain longing, no doubt, Gertrude, my dear; but there is one thing at The Mynns I do look upon with envy, and that is the cellar. Bless my heart! is that dog going to howl like that all night?”

“No, no,” said Gertrude, with an involuntary shiver, as the low mournful cry penetrated to where they stood. “Poor Bruno! he has been sadly hurt. There, Mr Hampton, that is the sherry,” she continued, pointing to a bin which had only been lowered about a fourth.

“Then we’ll have a bottle of you,” said the old man, carefully taking one by the neck from its sawdust bed.

“And that is the port,” continued Gertrude, holding up the light, to point to the other side of the cellar.

“Ha!” ejaculated the old man, with all the enjoyment of a connoisseur, as he again carefully lifted a bottle with its lime-wash mark across the end. “No, no, Mrs Hampton, you must not have it all your own way. Gertie, my dear, if I stand that up I shall spoil it. Would you mind carrying this bottle by the neck?”

“Oh, no; I’ll carry it,” she said hastily, as if eager to get out of the crypt-like place. “I have it. Oh, Bruno, Bruno!” she exclaimed, as another low, deep howl, from apparently close at hand, reached their ears. “You had better take a bottle of the old Burgundy, too, Mr Hampton.”

“Well, yes; perhaps I might as well, Gertie; but I shall use you as a buttress against Mrs Hampton’s wrath.”

“Oh, yes,” cried Gertrude laughingly, “I’ll defend you. That’s the bin—the Chambertin.”

“Prince of wines,” muttered the old man, crossing to the bin his companion had pointed out, while his shadow cast by the candle she held was thrown upon ceiling and wall in a peculiarly grotesque fashion, as if he were the goblin of the cave.

“Now,” he said, as he carefully placed the bottle in the basket, “we shall be all right, even if George comes back. Bless my soul! what’s that?”

For Gertrude uttered a wild shriek, there was a crash, and they were in utter darkness.

Chapter Twenty Four.

A Gentleman to See Gertrude.

“Great Heavens! my child, what is the matter?”

“Nothing, nothing, Mr Hampton,” cried Gertrude. “Something touched my hand. Oh, Bruno, you bad dog, how you frightened me!”

The cry brought Mrs Denton to the door, and she hurried away directly to return with a light, just as the dog set up another mournful howl which echoed dismally in the gloomy ranges of cellars.

As the light shone in, the old woman holding it high above her head, Gertrude was clinging to the old lawyer’s arm, and the dog was crouched in the sawdust close to the broken bottle of port, whose rich contents had made a broad stain upon the floor.

“Well,” said the old man, “I must not scold you, my dear, for being startled, but you made me jump. Come along.”

“No, no,” said Gertrude hastily. “You must reach down another bottle of port.”

“What, after we have wasted one!” Gertrude responded by taking the candle from Mrs Denton’s hand, and fetching another bottle from the bin, the dog following her uneasily, whining and tottering on his legs, and showing great unwillingness to follow, till Gertrude coaxed him back to his bed in the corner of the hall, after the cellar had been duly locked up, and the keys replaced in the cabinet drawer.

“I suppose we must blame George Harrington for upsetting us, and making us so nervous,” said Mrs Hampton, with a forced laugh, as Gertrude re-entered the drawing-room; “but, good gracious, child! there’s a dress! You look as if you had been committing a murder.”

Gertrude turned ghastly pale, and looked down at her soft, light dress, which was splashed and stained in great patches with the wine.

“Mrs Hampton!”

“What a stupid thing to say, my dear,” cried the old lady excitedly. “Don’t take any notice of it. There, let’s go to dinner.”

That meal was not a success, for every one seemed troubled and nervous, one infecting the other, but no allusion was made to the absentee, till they were seated alone over dessert, when, as the old lawyer sipped his claret, he said suddenly:

“You are right. I’ve been thinking it over. Saul Harrington’s invitation was too much for him. He repented of his refusal, and has gone off after him.”

“Yes,” said Mrs Hampton, “that’s it.”

Gertrude was silent. Her thoughts seemed to enchain the power of speech.

“Don’t look so troubled about it, my dear. He is a bachelor yet, and is making use of his last few days or weeks of freedom. We shall be having a letter from him soon. Con—bless that dog! Are you going to keep him in the house all night, my dear?”

“I did mean to, Mr Hampton,” said Gertrude, as a low, piteous, moan-like howl came from the hall.

“Like my impudence to speak,” muttered the old lawyer; “seemed to think I was at home.”

“He shall be taken to the stables, poor fellow,” said Gertrude, rising. “Mrs Hampton, shall we go to the drawing-room?”

“To be sure, my dear. And Hampton, don’t stop long.”

“No, my love,” said the old man gallantly, holding open the door; “and when I come up I hope we are to have some music.”

This was promised, and the lawyer returned to his seat, filled his glass, held it up brow high, looked full at the portrait of his old client, and nodded gravely.

“Your health, Harrington, old friend,” he said; and he half emptied his glass, and set it down.

“Absurd thing to wish a dead man health,” he continued, as he gazed full at the portrait. “Ought to have said welfare. Hallo! What’s that?”

He turned his face to the door, and sat listening to a faint whining, and the pattering of claw-armed feet on the floor.

“Humph! Poor brute, getting him to the stables, I suppose. Better there.”

Then, as silence once more reigned in the place, he sat back, and gazed up at the portrait.

“You meant well, old friend,” he said, “but you understood the care of money better than the workings of human nature. James Harrington, you understood laying down good wine, too; but, between ourselves, you made as bad a will as ever I helped to draw up.”

“Ah,” he continued, after a pause, “you may look as stern as you please; you know I’m telling the truth, and I shall do everything I can to upset your plans.”

He nodded, and sat sipping his wine.

“A scamp!” he said. “But one might have expected some good in him, perhaps, such as tempted him to send the old man money, but an utter, reckless scoundrel at heart. I loathe him, and he must not be allowed to marry our poor little girl. It would be too cruel.”

There was another sip or two of wine taken, as the old man gazed thoughtfully before him.

“No; he has not gone with Saul Harrington, but on some expedition of his own. Well, I can do nothing in that direction—I wish I could; but the money is his, and he has a right to spend it as he pleases. A pity, though—a pity. Eh?”

“Coffee, sir.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Denton. Yes; thank you.”

The old man helped himself to sugar and milk, before taking the cup from the tray, when he found the housekeeper’s eyes fixed upon him pleadingly.

“Yes, Denton; you wanted to say something.”

“Oh, yes, sir—so much. You knew master so well and he trusted in you.”

“Not so much as I could have wished, Denton, but what is it?”

“Can’t you do something, sir?”

“Something, Denton?”

“Something to persuade my poor dear young mistress; to alter her mind. There, sir,” cried the old woman, changing her tone from one of pleading to one of anger and dislike, “I’d sooner see the poor child in her grave than Master George’s wife.”

The old lawyer looked at her gravely for a few moments, and was about to speak out as he felt, but directly after, with the cultivated caution of his profession, he said slowly: “We must see, Mrs Denton—we must see.”

Then, swallowing his coffee at a draught, he set down the cup, and placing his hands behind him, as if to preserve his balance, he left the room.

Denton stood looking after him till he was gone, and then turned, and gazed up at the portrait.

“Oh, master,” she half sobbed, “you ought to have known better—you ought to have known better. She’ll marry him unless something is done, and all to please you.”

Tea was on the way soon after, and, forgetful of the coffee he had just swallowed, the old lawyer took a cup, and wandered all over the room with it, pausing thoughtfully to stir it in different corners, his brain busy the while.

At last he laid the spoon in the saucer, and was raising the cup to sip the half-cold contents, when there was a sharp ring at the great gate-bell.

“A letter,” said Mrs Hampton sharply.

“Or a telegram,” said the old lawyer.

Then there was a pause, in the midst of which the iron gate was heard to clang, and footsteps sounded on the gravel.

“A visitor—so late!” said Gertrude in a trembling voice.

“George Harrington come back,” said the old lawyer shortly.

His words had a strange effect upon Gertrude, who sank back in her seat, and half closed her eyes, while a faint shudder ran through her.

“Not much like a lover,” muttered Mrs Hampton, watching her in a sidelong way, as her eyes closed more and more, and a long-drawn sigh escaped her breast.

Meanwhile, the front door was heard to close, and there were steps in the hall, as if some one was being shown into the study.

“It is not Mr Harrington,” said Gertrude, starting up; and, as the remembrance of the old housekeeper’s ominous declarations came back, she caught at Mrs Hampton’s outstretched hand.

“Be calm, my dear.”

“But it is some bad news,” whispered Gertrude; and the feeling gained strength as the old housekeeper tapped at the door, and entered, looking wild and scared.

The old lawyer grasped in an instant that something was wrong, and he came forward.

“Leave it to me, my dear,” he said with quick firmness. “Now, Mrs Denton, what is it?”

“A gentleman, sir.”

“To see me?”

“No, sir; he asked to see Miss Gertrude.”

“Well, what does he want? Did he send in a card?”

“No, sir.”

“Then who is he?”

“If you please, sir,” stammered the old woman, “he said he was Master George.”

Chapter Twenty Five.

A Difficult Mission.

Every one in the room uttered an ejaculation at the housekeeper’s announcement, but the old lawyer remained calm.

“I’ll come and speak to him,” he said. “Don’t be alarmed,” he turned and whispered to Mrs Hampton. “Some mistake of the old woman’s. Try and keep her calm. A messenger, I think.”

As he reached the door, the old woman laid her hand upon his arm, and whispered to him: “But it is not Mr George, sir.”

“No, of course not, woman. A message from him. Where is the gentleman?”

“The dining-room things were not all cleared away, sir, and I showed him into the study.”

Mr Hampton nodded, and in a quiet, business-like way went out, and crossed the hall to the study, where the visitor, a tall, deeply sun-browned, frank-looking young man, who looked hollow-cheeked, as if from some long illness, rose from his seat.

The lawyer bowed.

“I want to see Miss Gertrude Bellwood,” said the visitor.

“I am her nearest friend, sir; and, I may say, I am deputed to hear your business. You come from Mr George Harrington, I presume?”

“Well, no, sir. I only reached Liverpool yesterday, London this afternoon. I am George Harrington.”

“What?”

“You seem surprised. I received letters from my grandfather, asking me, urgently, to return to England. I had made my preparations for returning, when I met with—an accident, and I have been dangerously ill. When I recovered and reached San Francisco, I found another letter announcing my grandfather’s death, and I came on at once.”

The old man looked at his visitor curiously.

“May I ask to whom I am speaking?” continued the young man.

“My name is Hampton, sir. I was the late Mr Harrington’s confidential legal adviser and executor.”

“Oh, indeed. Then that makes matters easy for me. You know everything, then?”

“Yes, I know everything,” said the lawyer, with a very searching look.

“Then my cousin, sir—she has always been spoken of in letters as my cousin, though no relation.”

The lawyer raised his eyebrows a little.

“I am, of course, under the circumstances, anxious to meet her.”

“May I ask under what circumstances, sir?”

“I understood you to say you knew everything, sir. We are betrothed—Miss Gertrude Bellwood is to be my wife.”

Both started, for at that moment Gertrude, whom Mrs Hampton had been unable to restrain, stood in the doorway, with the old lady at her elbow.

She took a couple of steps forward, gazing wildly in the frank, handsome face before her—a face which lit up with satisfaction as it encountered the earnest gaze of the young girl.

“Are you Gertrude?” he exclaimed, advancing with extended hands.

“Stop?” said the old lawyer, interposing, as he tried to master the difficulties of his position. “You will excuse me, sir, but you come here an utter stranger. You are, you say, Mr George Harrington.”

“Certainly. Who doubts it?”

“We will not discuss that matter now, sir. Recollect we live in days when impositions are practised.”

“Oh, I see. Of course. Quite right, my dear sir. As my grandfather’s executor, you are bound to be careful. Pray go on.”

“Mrs Hampton,” faltered Gertrude.

“Hush, my child; be calm,” whispered the old lady.

“Then, perhaps, sir, you will give me some proof that you are the gentleman you say.”

“Proofs? Are any needed?” said the young man laughingly, as if it was absurd that his word should be doubted. “Oh, well, then, first and foremost here I am, George Harrington, my father’s son, happily in the flesh, though I have had a very narrow escape from death.”

“Very good, sir; now some other proof. Gertrude, my child, had you not better retire?”

“No, Mr Hampton,” said Gertrude firmly.

“That’s quite right,” said the young man, giving her a keen, earnest look, so full of pleased admiration that Gertrude trembled, and her eyes fell. There was something so new in that look. “If any one ought to stay here, Miss Bellwood, it should be you. Well, Mr Hampton, you want proofs?”

“Yes, sir—the letters, for instance.”

“I have only the one I received. The others were stolen from me.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, sir, with everything of value that I possessed. Hang it all, man, don’t look so sceptical.”

“I beg pardon, sir. Go on. Of course you see I must have proof that you are the gentleman you represent yourself to be.”

“Well, let me see. I disposed of everything I had before I went upon a hunting expedition, all but a few necessaries, and bought other things suitable for my expedition. These, I regret to say, I have lost, and but for the kindness of some people in the West, I should not have been able to get here.”

“Then you have nothing you can show?” said the old lawyer.

Gertrude looked wildly and inquiringly at their visitor, for vaguely it seemed as if some one had been holding out to her a hand to save her from a fate from which she shrank more and more as the hours glided by, but that, after all, this stretched-out hand was only a delusion and a snare.

“Well, no,” said their visitor, with his broad brow puckering up with perplexity. “You see,”—and he gave all a frank, half-smiling look, which won upon Mrs Hampton, though she received it in the most stony way—“I came here to-night all eager, and expecting to be received with open arms, and you all look like ice, and treat me as if I were an impostor. No, sir, I have no proofs; and, for the moment, I don’t know how to establish my identity. Of course it will be all right. I can only say now that I am George Harrington.”

Gertrude, in spite of herself, gave him a pitying glance, to which he responded by one so bold and masterful that he felt for the moment as if held, and the colour, which had been absent from her cheeks for weeks, slowly began to mantle there.

“Here, stop a bit, sir. This is The Mynns. I came and stayed here once.”

“Ah!” said the lawyer slowly; “then you recollect all about the place?”

“No,” said the young man thoughtfully, “I was such a little kidling. No; I don’t recollect anything. I don’t know, though; have you any portrait of the old man? I might remember him.”

“Was that anything like him?” said the lawyer, pointing to an oil painting of Gertrude’s father, which was over the mantelpiece.

“No; not a bit,” said the young man shortly. “Not a bit.”

Gertrude’s spirits rose a little, as in secret she began to wish that their visitor’s words were true, though she did not doubt it herself.

“Shall we walk into the dining-room?” said the lawyer; “there are several portraits there.”

“By all means. I want to clear my character, ladies. Rather hard on a man to be taken for a trickster and a cheat.”

“No one accuses you, sir, of being either,” said the old lawyer gravely. “I am one of the executors of Mr Harrington’s will, and I have a duty, greater than you realise, to perform.”

He led the way to the dining-room, where their visitor immediately fixed his eyes on the portrait of the late owner of The Mynns, to the exclusion of three other portraits on the walls.

“That’s more like what I should have taken the old man to be; but no, no, no. It would be a contemptible sham for me to pretend to recognise him, so I give that up at once. Look here, sir, can’t you—or can’t you, Miss Gertrude, cross-examine me a bit about my father and mother, and our family history?”

“Yes,” said the old lawyer; and he put a series of questions, all of which were instantly answered.

“This is all very satisfactory, sir, but I want more proof. Let me see; the late Mr Harrington gave you a watch, did he not?”

The question was asked in a slow, peculiar way, and Gertrude darted a searching look at the unmoved countenance before her.

“A watch? Gave me a watch, sir? No. The boot was on the other foot.”

Gertrude’s face lighted up again. She hardly dared to confess it, but she wanted, more and more, for this one to prove that he was the true George Harrington whom she was to love and honour.

“Oh! You gave him a watch, I am to understand?”

“Yes, with a chain made out of nuggets. The case was made of gold I found. I sent it because the old man always girded at my father for gold-hunting, and it was to show him what we could do. But will you not sit down, ladies?” he added, with a rather rough, but natural courtesy.

“Perhaps you will take a seat, too, sir,” said the old lawyer, who was impressed favourably by his visitor’s manner, and felt a lingering hope that his tale might be true, though all the while upon his guard against imposition.

“I will with pleasure, for I am tired. Stop a moment?” he cried excitedly; “I recollect that old girl. She used to take lumps of sugar, melt them in a wax-candle, and let yellow drops of the sweet fall on a piece of writing-paper. You ask her presently. By Jove!” he cried laughingly, “think of my remembering that.”

Gertrude’s heart gave a great throb, and she dared not meet the frank, merry eyes directed at her.

“Humph?” ejaculated the lawyer, scanning the face before him narrowly, and always to be met by a frank, manly look. “I find I am supposed to be wrong, then, about the watch?”

“Oh, yes, sir, you were wrong there. Why, by Jove! the old man wrote and told me he should leave me that watch.”

“There was the series of remittances then, sir,” continued the lawyer. “You will allow, then, that the late Mr Harrington made you an allowance?”

“I agree that this is a trap, Mr Lawyer,” said the young man; “but that was a thoroughly confidential matter, upon which we will not speak. Yes; have it your way if you like—the old man used to keep me.”

“Humph! I wish my co-executor was here,” said the lawyer, after a pause.

“So do I, sir, if it would simplify matters. All this is very unpleasant, of course.”

“More so, sir, than you imagine.”

“Well, pray tell me what to do. Here have I come to claim my heritage and my—I beg pardon,” he said quickly, with an admiring look at Gertrude, “my wife and my heritage, and the lady does not so much as shake hands with me.”

Gertrude, in spite of herself, gave him an apologetic look.

“And you treat me as if I were a scoundrel.”

“I am compelled to look upon your claim, sir, with suspicion.”

“Well, sir, you are a lawyer; perhaps you will let me retain your services on my behalf.”

“Certainly not, sir. You are attacking, I am for the defence.”

“Very well then, sir, I must get another advocate, I suppose, and oust you from your position.”

He paused for a few moments, and looked fixedly at Gertrude, and his gaze intensified, not in boldness, but in respectful ardour, as he slowly rose, and, with a sigh of satisfaction, held out his hand to her.

“Gertrude Bellwood,” he said, “I am a rough man; I have lived a wild pioneering life where, for the most part, I have rarely seen woman, but I inherited from my sweet, dear mother’s teaching a feeling of veneration for her, as one whom it is our duty to look upon with chivalrous respect. Frankly, I came here to-night, ready to claim the property my grandfather has bequeathed me, and to set the lady he wished me to wed quite free to follow her own bent. I feel it is my duty to do this, but I shall wait a while; meantime, I venture to think that you do not look upon me as an impostor. I am George Harrington, and though I now offer you my hand, it is only for the first friendly clasp. You will shake hands with me?”

Gertrude’s eyes were fixed on his, and held there as if fascinated. She did not speak, but looked at him wildly. But at last slowly, and in the midst of an utter silence, she said faintly:

“I don’t know what to think—you do not know. Mr Hampton, why do you not explain?”

Then gathering strength and firmness, she raised her hand and placed it in the firm, strong palm which closed upon it with a pressure that was painful, though it sent a thrill of pleasure through her, such as she had never felt before.

“No,” she said; “no one who was an impostor could look and speak like this.”

“God bless you, my darling!” he cried warmly, as the tears started to his eyes; “and none but a true, sweet woman would have spoken like this.”

“Stop!” said the old lawyer, coming between them, and holding them apart. “You have, sir, to make your pretensions good. Mr George Harrington is here in England, has claimed his own, and is this young lady’s betrothed.”

“What? Then where is he? Bring us face to face.”

Chapter Twenty Six.

A Thrilling Narrative.

“Oh, this is absurd!” cried the new-comer as soon as he had recovered somewhat from his surprise. “I am George Harrington. What does it mean—some subterfuge on your part, sir, to make me take fresh steps to prove my identity? If so, pray speak out.”

The lawyer made a deprecatory movement.

“I beg your pardon, ladies, for speaking out so abruptly, but it was a natural feeling of indignation.”

“It is quite excusable, sir, and this is no subterfuge.”

“But in Heaven’s name give me some explanation.”

“My dear Gertrude, Mrs Hampton,” said the lawyer with dignity, “perhaps it would be better for you to leave us. This gentleman and I will discuss the matter together.”

Gertrude looked at him almost resentfully, and then there was quite an air of sympathy in her manner, as she turned to their visitor, who said gravely:

“Yes, Miss Bellwood, I quite agree with this gentleman, it would, perhaps, be better that we should discuss the question alone. Indeed, till I have proved that I am no impostor, I am no fit company for ladies.”

He crossed to the door, held it open, and bowed gravely, as without a word they passed out, and then as soon as they were gone, he turned fiercely upon the old man.

“Now, sir, if you please, I am waiting for an explanation,” he said in a low, angry voice.

“Yet,” said Mr Hampton, throwing himself back in his chair, thrusting up his glasses, and fixing his calm, cold eyes upon the visitor as he continued, “I do not grant that you have any right, sir, to demand this explanation. Your position should be that, if you consider you have a just claim, you should instruct a solicitor, and he would place himself in communication with me.”

“Hang all solicitors, sir!” cried the young man angrily, and his eyes seemed to flash with indignation.

The old man made a gesture.

“I beg your pardon, Mr Hampton. I believe you said you were a solicitor,” he added quickly.

“Go on, sir; I am not offended. On the contrary I rather like your display of anger. It makes me feel that you may be honest instead of an extremely clever pretender.”

“Honest, sir! Good Heavens! Put yourself in my place. Now, between man and man what does this mean?”

“Simply what I have told you; but sit down, sir. This is a question for calm consideration, and you are walking up and down like—”

“A wild beast in a cage. Yes, I know it; but who can be calm at a time like this? Pray excuse me and go on.”

“I have very little to tell you, sir. Perhaps, as the solicitor of the party in possession, I ought to make no admissions. I can merely tell you that nearly four months ago Mr George Harrington came over from America with indubitable proofs of his identity, and, as soon as the proper legal forms could be gone though, took possession.”

“Nearly four months ago? Here, stop a moment, sir. Was he a man about my height?”

“Yes.”

“Rather darker?”

The old lawyer bowed, and scrutinised the speaker carefully.

“He had a quick, sharp way of speaking, and a habit of looking behind him as if in search of danger.”

“Exactly. You are describing Mr George Harrington most carefully.”

“The villain! The hound! And I thought it was for robbery only. Well, one knows how to treat a man like that when we meet.”

He showed his regular white teeth, as his brow puckered up, and there was a look of fierce determination in his eyes as startling as his next act, which was to slip his hand behind him, and draw a small heavy-looking revolver from his pocket. This he examined quickly as he tried the lock.

“Put that away, sir,” cried Mr Hampton sternly. “You are not in the Far West now but in civilised England. Give me that pistol instantly.”

The young man handed the weapon without a moment’s hesitation.

“I beg your pardon, Mr Hampton,” he said. “Temper, got the better of me.”

He threw himself into a chair.

“Will you let me speak out quietly and calmly?”

“Go on, sir,” said the lawyer.

There was a pause, during which the young man seemed to be collecting himself, and then he said in a deep, clear voice:

“You are quite right, sir. This is a question for calm settlement, and as I have right on my side I can afford to wait.”

“That’s talking like a reasonable man, sir.”

“You must excuse me. Much of my life has been passed on ranches and upon the mountains, among desperadoes and rough fellows, who do not place much value upon a man’s life. Then I have had long dealings with Indians and bears, and altogether I am not much of a drawing-room man.”

The lawyer bowed and glanced at the pistol on the table at his side.

“During my last year in the West, I picked up for companion a clever, shrewd fellow, named Portway—Daniel Portway. He was in terribly low water, and as it seemed to me undeservedly. He had been gold-prospecting, he told me, and had made some good finds; but ill-luck had dogged his steps. He was robbed by his companions twice over. He was attacked by Indians three or four times, and when I came upon him in Denver the poor wretch was down with fever. Well, to make the story short, I did what one Englishman would do by another if he found him out in a wild place dying. I couldn’t get a woman to attend him for love or money, so I had to do it myself, and a long and tedious job I had. I don’t know that I liked him, but I found he was a clever hunter, and knew the way about the mountains well, so we became companions, and I took him on my hunting expeditions. There, sir, honestly, I don’t think I could have behaved better to him if he had been a brother.”

There was a pause, and then in a voice husky with emotion he exclaimed:

“Hang it all! how can a man be such a brute? Well, sir, I suppose in chatting with him I let him know all my affairs, and at last read him my letters. He knew that I was coming to England as soon as I had ended that last expedition. There, I’m a frank sort of fellow, who would trust any man till I found out that he was a rogue. I suppose I began talking about my affairs, like a fool, to relieve the tedium of his illness. Thus it went on till he must have known all I knew.”

“This is a very plausible story, Mr Daniel Portway,” said the lawyer quietly; but he started, and laid his hand upon the revolver, so fierce was the bound the young man made to his feet.

But he sat down again directly.

“No, no; you don’t think that, sir. May I go on?”

“By all means.”

“Shall I take the cartridges out of the revolver, sir?” said the young man drily, “in case, I make a snatch at it.”

“No, no, no. Go on, sir; go on.”

There was a meaning smile on the young man’s lips as he went on again, and began telling of his last hunting-trip; but the smile soon died out, and he looked stern and relentless as he spoke of the weary tramp they had had, the midday sleep, and their journey afterwards till they were beside the great cañon, where he stepped forward to look about him.

“And then—I suppose it was a sudden temptation—the brute took a step or two forward, came close behind me, and before I could turn, for I felt paralysed with the horror of my position, he raised his rifle as high as he could reach, and struck me a crashing blow upon the back of the head.”

“How do you know if you were looking in another direction?”

“Because the evening sun cast his shadow upon the side of the cañon, where it seemed to me in that momentary flash that one giant was smiting down another. Then I fell headlong down, and for a few moments all was darkness.”

“Go on, sir,” said the old lawyer, who was deeply interested, for his vis-à-vis was talking in a slow, laboured way, as if the recollection of the terrible scene was more than he could bear and choked him with emotion.

“Then I came to myself, to lie helpless as if in a dream. I could not stir or make a sound; but I could hear distinctly, as I lay low down where I had fallen, the sounds made by some one lowering himself down the side of the cañon. Now twigs were breaking, and now stones kept falling; and after what seemed to be a long time, full of a dull sense of pain and drowsiness, I was conscious of a heavy breathing as of a wild beast.”

“A bear,” said the old lawyer involuntarily.

“No,” said the young man with a bitter smile; “a worse kind of wild beast than that: a man, sir—mine own familiar friend—Dan Portway.”

“Ah!”

“He was searching my pockets, and taking everything about me; my roughly-made, plain gold ring—pure gold from a pocket in the mountains—what letters I had; everything. Of course I had not much with me; nearly all I possessed was at my tent in the saddlebags miles away.”

“You felt all this?”

“And saw, though my eyes were nearly closed. And at last, as it seemed to me, he was about to finish his work by casting me down headlong into the profound depths of the great chasm, when a devilish thought entered his mind and seemed to flash into mine as he held me.”

There was another pause, and the young man’s voice sounded very husky, and he seemed to be suffering the bygone horror over again as he recommenced:

“I tell you I could not stir, but I could think, and feel, and see that devil’s satisfied grin as he must have said to himself:—

“‘Some day, perhaps, his body may be found, and then they will say he was last seen in my company, and it might prove awkward. They shall think he was killed by the Indians.’”

During the earlier part of this narrative the old lawyer had leaned back in his chair; but as he grew interested he sat up, then leaned forward, and now rested his hands upon the arms of his chair, and gazed full in the speaker’s face, so as not to lose a gesture, the slightest play of his countenance, or a word.

“Yes,” he continued; “go on.”

“It was as I thought, and for a moment I tried to shut out the horror, and to ask God to forgive all I had done wrong, and spare me the horrible agony I was to feel before I died.

“But I could only think a few of the words I wished to say, and then, as if every other sense grew more capable of taking in all that passed, I saw him draw his keen hunting-knife from his belt. He seized my hair, and the next moment the point was dividing the skin of my forehead, and I felt the resistance offered by the bone, the sharp pain, and the blood start and begin to trickle over my temples. Then there was a hideous yell; he let me fall, and fled.”

“Repentant?” said the old lawyer in an excited whisper.

“You shall hear, sir. As my head struck the rock there was a heavy breathing, a rustling sound of undergrowth being thrust aside, and a heavy foot was planted upon my chest, as a huge bear rushed over me in full pursuit of my would-be murderer, and then I lay listening to the crackling of twigs and the falling of stones. By degrees this died away, and for a long time all was still, and I must have glided into a state of insensibility from which I was roused by a low, snuffling noise, and I felt hot breath upon my face, and the wet tongue of the great bear licking my forehead. Then I felt him paw at me, and turn me over on to my face.

“Then all was blank.

“When I could see again I was lying chest downward, perfectly helpless, but with my head so turned that I could see, a dozen yards away, the great grizzly bear busy feeding upon the fruit of one of the low shrubs which grew on the side of the cañon. Sometimes he crawled leisurely down, sometimes up, as the fruit was most abundant; and this seemed to satisfy him; for though during the next two days he came near me again and again, he never so much as snuffed about me.

“But it all seems, after I awoke that morning, dreamlike and strange. I told you it was two days, but I am not sure about that. I have a dim recollection of the sun burning me, and seeming to scorch my brain, of its being light and dark, and of a horrible sensation of thirst, and then of all being blank. Rather a ghastly tale for ladies’ ears, sir?”

“Yes, yes,” said the old lawyer. “And afterwards?”

“Afterwards, sir? Yes; the next thing I remember is lying upon a bison-skin in an Indian’s skin lodge, and of the dark, dirty, wild face of a squaw looking down into mine. Then of being held up while my head was bandaged, and then for a long period all seemed misty and wild. I was hunting and shooting in the Rockies. Then I was galloping after bison with which the plain seemed to be black. Then I was prospecting for gold, and finding rifts in the rocks full and waiting to be torn out, but I could never get the gold, never succeed in hunting or shooting. There was always something to interfere, till at last I found that I was as weak as a child, and with almost the thought and action of a helpless babe, living in the lodge of a roving party of Indians who camped just where it seemed to be good in their own eyes. They are savages, whom the white man has ousted from nearly all their own hunting grounds; they are filthy and abominable in their ways, false and treacherous, all that is bad some have learned, but they nursed me through a long fever and delirium into a sort of imbecile childhood, from which I slowly gained my manhood’s reason and strength, and then they gave me my rifle, and set me at liberty to join a party of gold-seekers across whom we came.”

“They found you there, lying half dead by the bear.”

“I suppose so, sir. All I know I found out by thinking the matter over. I recollect standing my rifle against a rock close to the track; and as my companion fled, I suppose they must have seen it in passing, hunted about for the owner and found me. I do not know for I could not understand the Indians, and they could not understand me.

“I have nearly done, sir,” said the young man speaking more briskly now. “I made my way to my old camping-place, but there was nothing there, and I was wondering whether Dan Portway had carried everything off, till I remembered seeing the bear charge him, and I went to the place, expecting, perhaps, to find his bones. But I made no discovery; and knowing what a hopeless task it would be to try and find the villain, I determined to come on here in obedience to the letter I had received before I went for my last trip, made my way to San Francisco, and there I learned of my grandfather’s death.”

“You made no effort then to find your assailant?” said the lawyer.

“No, sir, and it has proved to be the correct thing to do, for in coming here I have run him to earth.”

They sat gazing at each other for some moments in silence. Then Mr Hampton spoke.

“You have the scar, then, made by your enemy’s knife?”

“Yes, sir, here,” said the young man, slightly pressing back his hair, and bending forward so that the light of the shaded lamp fell upon a red line about half an inch from the roots.

“And the injury to your head?”

“Rather an ugly place still, sir. The skull was slightly fractured. Do you wish for that proof of my identity?”

“I should like that proof of the truth of your story, sir. I am a lawyer.”

“Give me your hand, then.”

He took the old man’s index finger, bent lower, and pressed it upon the back of his head.

The old man shuddered and drew back.

“And if you want any further proof that I am the man I say, I have one here that I had forgotten. When I was a child, for some freak, my father tattooed a heart and dart upon my breast. There they are.”

He tore open the flannel shirt he wore, and displayed the blue marks upon his clear white skin.

“There, sir; that is all I can tell you now. The next thing is to confront Mr Dan Portway.”

“You think, then, that your old companion—I mean you wish me to believe that your old companion took everything he could to prove his identity, and has come here, and traded upon the knowledge he won?”

“And come here and laid claim to the estate, sir. Yes, I could lay my life that is the case.”

At that moment there was a tap at the door.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

“It’s him; it’s him!”

“Come in.”

Mrs Denton entered timidly, looking nervously at the stranger, and then said deprecatingly:

“Mrs Hampton sent me, sir, to say she should be glad to speak to you, sir.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Well, sir, I have heard all you wanted to say?”

“No, not yet,” cried the young man excitedly. “I say, old lady, you remember me?”

The old woman looked at him wistfully, and shook her head.

“No, sir, no,” she said.

“Oh, yes, you do,” he cried merrily. “Don’t you remember washing me when I was a little chap in a sort of tin bath with spots on it, red spots, and the inside was white, with shiny places, where the paint had come off.”

The old woman gazed at him wildly.

“You remember? The bottom curved up and as I stood on it, gave way, and then came up again with a loud bump.”

She still gazed at him silently, while he seemed to be trying to evoke old memories.

“Yes, to be sure, and you put me to bed in a great four-post affair, with heavy tassels and bobs round the top, and they swung to and fro, and—to be sure, yes, you set a great night-shade full of round holes on the floor, with a tin cup of water in it, and a long thin rushlight in the middle. Oh, yes, I remember seeing those holes reflected on the wall.”

“Yes, my dear,” cried the old woman excitedly, “and it has never been used since. No, Mr Hampton, sir, there are no long rushlights now.”

“Come, sir,” cried the young man excitedly, “we are beginning to feel bottom after all.”

“But—but—” faltered the old woman, and then stopped.

“Why, my dear old lady,” cried the young man, taking her withered hands, “I can remember you holding my little palms together as I knelt on the bed, and teaching me to say a kind of prayer. Let me see, what was it—I’ve never heard it since—yes, that’s it:

“Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, God bless the bed that I lay on, Four corners to my bed, Six angels round me spread, Two at head, two at feet, And two to guard me while I sleep.”

The poor old woman’s jaw dropped, her eyes dilated, and her hands went up, as the speaker went on, and as he ended the simple, pious old doggerel, she burst into a hysterical fit of sobbing as she cried:

“Yes, yes, yes, it is—it is him, sir. Oh, my dear, dear boy; and you growed to be such a fine young man. It is you, Master George. Thank God! Thank God!”

She flung her arms about his neck, and he held her to his breast, kissing her withered old brow as he patted her cheek gently, ignorant of the fact that Mrs Hampton and Gertrude had followed to the open door, and were waiting impatiently for the old woman’s return.

“Come, old granny,” cried the young man, “this is more like coming home. Heaven bless all memories, say I.”

“Yes, my dear,” sobbed the old woman, looking at him proudly, as she laid her hands on his breast, and gazed in his face.

“And—Ha, ha, ha! The sugar drops you made me, and—by Jove, yes. What’s become of the old fruit-knife, and the white needle-case, and that bit of sweet root you used to keep in that big old pocket. Don’t you remember? You gave them to me to play with.”

The old woman uttered a little laugh full of childish delight as she bent sidewise, thrust one arm through an opening, raked about, and, as playfully as if she were dealing with a child, brought out by degrees the articles he had named, all preserved as old folk do preserve such things, and in addition a little square tin box, with grotesque heads stamped thereon.

“But you don’t recollect that?” she said playfully.

“Yes, I do,” he cried eagerly; “it’s the one out of which I spilt all the pins.”

“May we come in?” said Mrs Hampton, in her stern, harsh voice.

“Yes, yes, ma’am,” cried the old woman excitedly. “Miss Gertrude, my dear, oh, be quick! It’s him; it’s him; and me not to have known him directly I saw his face.”

A short, dry cough from the lawyer checked her, as, flushed and trembling with excitement, Gertrude stood once more in the room.

“Yes, yes, Denton,” said the old lawyer; “this is all very good evidence, but—”

“Oh, it’s him, sir! it’s him! Miss Gertrude, we’ve all been dreadfully cheated. It’s him; it’s him!”

“Mrs Denton, have the goodness to be silent,” said Mr Hampton sternly.

“Yes, yes, granny,” said the young man, laying his arm caressingly on her shoulder; “be quiet now and wait. By-and-bye I hope to convince all here as strongly as I have convinced you.”

“You shall have fair play, sir,” said the lawyer gravely. “I regret to be compelled to treat you as I do; and I regret also that I must withhold all confidence in what you have said. I can only say, sir, that you have impressed me most favourably.”

“And I’m sure you never drink, my dear?” cried Denton.

“Mrs Denton?”

“I beg pardon, sir; it’s only that I’m so glad to see his bonny face again.”

“I shall,” continued the old lawyer—

“Excuse me for interposing, sir,” said the young man excitedly, for he had flushed as he met Gertrude’s eyes fixed wonderingly, and yet with a pleased expression upon his. “You are a lawyer, and the ways of the law are said to be slow. The case is this—”

He spoke at the old lawyer, but he looked at Gertrude the while.

“I’m George Harrington, and during my illness the man I trusted has, believing me dead, come over and robbed me of my birthright. The first thing to be done is to bring us face to face.”

“Yes,” assented Mrs Hampton; “to bring them face to face.”

Gertrude drew a long breath, and it seemed as if a terrible load had been lifted from her breast.

“Without confronting the man who, I say, has imposed upon you all, and whom I believe to be Dan Portway, I have no means of proving who I am—save by the tattooed marks.”

“Which he possesses, too,” said the lawyer gravely.

“What! Oh, there must be an end to this. He claims to be George Harrington. I, George Harrington, say that he is a liar and impostor. Now, then, I am ready to confront him. Where is this man?”