doubleline
singleline
"Nowthe question is," said George, as the train rattled along, "what am I going to do when I get to London?"
"You'll have a nice restful time," said Cattermole.
"I'm not so sure of it," said George, whose respect for the energy and ingenuity of Gray and his companions was much greater now than it had been. "Those blood-suckers won't leave me till they've got what they're after. I'm a peaceable man, and I don't want to spend the rest of my days playing follow my leader about the country. I suppose we go to Brunswick Terrace; is that the scheme?"
"No, this is the scheme," said Cattermole; "we get out here. Put your bandage on."
"Sevenoaks," said George, taking a hurried glance through the window as they pulled up.
"We break the journey here," said Cattermole, "and put 'em off the scent. You'll have to keep on doing that until you've struck the wonderful idea that is going to leave you in possession of the money without risk."
"Then the sooner I strike it, the better."
Cattermole led his invalid friend into the waiting-room and ordered a porter to fetch a cab. Half a dozen passengers looked on sympathetically as the two men entered the vehicle and the cabman closed the door softly.
"You can't dodge those fellows so easily," said George, doubtfully, as the cab went off at a walking pace. "They'll find out we've come here and follow us."
"It's all right," said Cattermole. "I took tickets to London, and broke the journey here because you were too ill to go further. They won't find you."
After a slow drive up an interminably long hill the cab stopped before an inn of countrified appearance where the two men met with a cordial welcome.
"My friend is an invalid," Cattermole explained, "and we've come here because I'm told it's quiet."
The landlord informed him that it was the quietest spot in the neighbourhood. It was especially fortunate too that there were no other visitors.
"I shall have to leave you for a bit now," said Cattermole, when they had done justice to a good hot meal and were safely out of earshot in the long garden. "Shop'll be going to the dogs if I don't get back to-day."
"How long are you going for?" asked George, anxiously.
"Not long," said Cattermole; "back to-morrow night. In the mean time you can think the business over."
Before departing he called the waitress aside and gave her explicit directions about taking care of the invalid, emphasizing his remarks with a gift of five shillings.
George sat in the garden and thought the matter over till the dutiful waitress led him in to tea. Then he sat in the deserted smoking-room and thought it over again till he was led away to dinner, after which he thought it over till bed-time. Secure in his bedroom, with the blinds drawn, he lit a cigar and did the rest of his thinking with his eyes open.
"Three days of this," he said to his image in the glass, "would about do for me. It's the slowest game I ever took on. I'd sooner be fighting station-masters and climbing trees. We'll get out of this and try something else when Catty comes back."
The attention bestowed upon George by the waitress was quite pathetic. She waited on him at breakfast-time, cut up his bacon and eggs and sugared his coffee to her own taste. Each of these little services was accompanied by a cheerful flow of conversation such as people are wont to indulge in for their own gratification when attending sick children and babies.
"Come along," she said cheerfully, when breakfast was over; "now we'll give you a nice seat by the drawing-room fire, because it's cold and damp outside. There now, isn't that nice and comfortable?" as George was settled in a big armchair with his feet on a stool. Receiving no reply, and expecting none, she poked the fire into a blaze, and then brought the cook to look at the visitor. That lady, being of a sentimental turn of mind, gazed sorrowfully at George's good-looking features, and whispered her sympathy to the waitress.
"You can speak out, Mrs. Baily," said the girl; "he can't hear a word."
"Bless my 'eart now," said the cook; "pore young feller! My nephew 'Arry was just the same. Reg'lar handsome, and deaf as a brazen image."
"He's blind, too," said the girl; "isn't it a shame?"
"Ah," sighed the cook; "p'raps,"—looking meaningly at the rosy features of the waitress—"p'raps it's as well for some people."
The waitress blushed, and told the cook she was a caution.
"Them chins," said the cook, significantly, taking stock of George's features, "are a sign of a flirt. Baily had that sort of chin."
"I like brown hair in a man," observed the waitress, sentimentally; "especially with blue eyes."
"I s'pose his are blue?" said the cook.
"How should I know?" said the girl, flushing.
"I adore blue eyes," the cook said curiously; "'ave a look."
"You romantic old thing!" cried the waitress, laughing and approaching George. To obtain a good view of his eyes it was necessary to kneel on the hearthrug and peer under the green shade. She did so, and the intelligent look that met her was most confusing.
"They're blue, ain't they?" said the cook.
"I—I can't see properly," replied the girl; "I think they're brown."
She took another peep and looked straight into George Early's eyes. As she did so George closed one eye in a manner that made the waitress scramble to her feet with a red face.
"Are they brown?" asked the cook.
"I don't know," said the girl, hastily. "I must get on with my work: I'm all behind."
The cook went back to her kitchen very reluctantly, and the waitress busied herself in clearing the breakfast-table.
It was unfortunate for George Early that the train conveying his enemies to London should stop for several minutes at Sevenoaks till an express had overtaken it and rushed on ahead. During that time, an interesting conversation between a porter and a local drayman drifted into the carriage where Gray and his companion sat.
"Young feller, he was," said the porter, "and his head all bandaged and a shade on his eyes. I arst 'im for 'is ticket, and the doctor, 'e says, 'Don't talk to 'im,' 'e says; ''e's deaf, and blind too,' 'e says."
Gray got up, and leaned out of the window.
"Funny thing is," continued the porter, "that when the cab went off, I 'eard the two of 'em talking. Now, if 'e was deaf, 'ow——"
The guard's whistle blew suddenly, and the engine hooted.
"Come on," said Gray, quickly, turning to the others; "get out here; we're on their track."
He jumped on to the platform.
"Look here——" began Busby.
"Make up y' mind there," yelled the station-master, getting out of temper.
Parrott and Busby scrambled out together, and fell over a truck.
"Don't know where you want to go to, some of you, I should think," said the station-master.
He slammed the door, and commented volubly on the indecision of people who caused the company's trains to be late, and then blamed it on to the officials.
"We must find the cabman," said Gray, when they got outside the station.
The cabman was easily found, and for a small consideration he was able to recall exactly where he went on the day previous. Armed with the fullest information, the three men made their way to the inn on the hill.
The waitress was just clearing away the breakfast things when they arrived. George heard the well-known voice of Gray, and started in his chair. A cold perspiration broke out over him, but he remained as the waitress had left him, resting in the armchair with his feet on a stool.
"The gentleman's here," said the girl, ushering the three men into George's presence; "but he can't hear a word you say, he's stone deaf, and blind too," she added.
"What a pity!" said Gray, in an unfeeling voice.
"You'd better wait till his friend the doctor comes," said the girl. "He'll be back this evening."
"Perhaps he'll know me if I speak loudly," said Gray. He walked across the room, and bellowed "George!" into the ear of his late master.
Beyond a slightly perceptible shiver, there was no indication that the man in the chair had heard.
"Take the shade off his eyes," said Busby.
"You musn't," protested the girl; "he——"
But Gray did so, and found George Early with his eyes closed. A shake made him open them, but, as they looked vacantly at the opposite wall, there was no sign of recognition in them.
"He can't see anything," said the waitress.
"Perhaps he don't want to," said Gray.
"It's a shame to say that," cried the girl, indignantly. "You—you ought to be sorry for him."
"So we are," said Gray; "we're all sorry for him. We're old friends of his, and we've come to see him. Tell the cook we're going to stay to lunch; we'll all have lunch with our old friend George."
"I can't allow you to be with him here," said the girl, "because he's left in my charge, and he must be kept quiet."
"Of course he must," said Gray; "the less you say to him the better he'll like it. We'll leave him alone now, but we shan't be far away."
This last was uttered in a tone that the girl considered unnecessarily loud. Having seen her charge left unmolested, she went off, and consulted the cook on the question of luncheon.
Gray and his friends had no intention of being outwitted this time, and they kept a watchful eye on the room where George sat, one of their number having first despatched a telegram to "Caroli, London."
With the prospect of lively proceedings before him, the master of Fairbrothers' kept to his arm-chair by the fire, swearing softly to himself as he vainly endeavoured to think out a way of escape. With good fortune, and the waitress's help, he might manage to keep even with his opponents until Cattermole came, but they would not lose sight of him afterwards, he was sure of that.
The luncheon hour passed without further trouble, but no new idea had presented itself. Experience had taught Gray and his colleagues to exercise the greatest vigilance with so slippery a customer as their old employer, and they were careful to do so.
George looked round the old-fashioned room in which he sat, and deplored the fact that it lacked those useful secret exits so convenient in old days to a man in a tight corner. Such an aid would have enabled him to vanish cleverly. There was not even a panel or a family picture to swing generously forward and disclose a yawning hole.
A fanlight of modern construction gaped in one corner, but it was doubtful if a grown man could have squeezed himself through this. It looked into a small parlour, where the landlord's buxom wife sat and superintended the affairs of the household.
Despairing of escape in that direction, George settled himself down in gloomy meditation, evolving all kinds of schemes for outwitting his wily enemies, every one of which proved unworkable.
His train of thought was in due course interrupted by the sound of voices from the next room. Somebody was in conference with the landlady, and the few words that fell distinctly upon the ears of George Early drove any further cogitation for the moment clean out of his head. He gave his whole attention to the conversation. One of the speakers was Gray.
"The fact is," George heard that gentleman say, "he isn't quite right—a bit touched in the upper story. You know what I mean. We didn't want to mention it, but I thought it best to let you know the facts."
"Deary me, now," said the landlady in a hushed voice; "to think o' that. Well, I can sympathize, for, believe me, nobody knows better—and the gentleman that brought him didn't mention a word——"
"That man," interrupted Gray, "means no good to him. I want to get him away before they come in contact again. If they meet to-night——"
"He won't be here," said the landlady. "He telegraphed to my good man, saying he couldn't get down till to-morrow."
"Damn!" said George, under his breath.
"As I was saying," she proceeded; "if anybody knows what that trouble is—meaning his head being wrong—if anybody knows, it's my own blessed self. A boy o' mine was just the same, a twin o' that young fellow there"—evidently indicating somebody in the same room.
"Dreadful affliction!" said Gray. "Sometimes, when I look at—at George, and think of it, it makes me that sorry for him I don't know what to do."
"Ah, I can well believe that! I was the same with little Ernest. He wouldn't have nobody touch him but me. He knew his own mother. Sometimes I used to say as he wasn't so mad after all."
"Bad thing to have meddlers," said Gray. "That's why I want to get him away. You see, we're—we're his keepers, and we want to get him back quietly to—to the asylum. Already his mind has been set against us, and if he's left much longer, we shan't get control of him. Now, if your husband could lend me a trap, we'd get off almost at once."
"I dare say that could be done."
"Much the best thing for everybody," said Gray, in pleased tones. "Much the best."
"Yes," said the landlady, going back to her light-headed son. "Many's the time he's sat in that very chair you're a-sitting in now, a-playin' with his little Billy-Gee—his little wooden horse—and a-sayin' 'Erny good boy,' all the time. Dear little feller; only seven, too. Such a one for names! Moggles, he used to call me. Deary me, to think of it!"
"Very sad," said Gray. "Very sad."
"Yes, indeed, and that's why I always feel for any one like that. I suppose it's memories."
"They're better off—better off where they are. I dare say it was a blow at the time, but as the years go along——"
"That's true," said the landlady, jumping up to give directions to a maid. "They say time softens the blow. And yet," she added, as Gray got up to go, "it's nice to really know. My little Erny was lost, and from that day to this we never knew if he lived or died. Not but what it's pretty certain he did die, for he wouldn't have lived without me. Well, I suppose I musn't worry you with my troubles. I'll speak to my husband about the trap."
George returned to his seat by the fire, and marvelled at the impudence of Gray in his newrôleof lunatic attendant.
"It would serve them right if I turned mad for a bit," he said spitefully, "and did a little damage all round. There's no accounting for what mad people will do."
He turned this idea over thoughtfully in his mind, wondering if it couldn't be put to account in some way.
His reflections were disturbed afresh by the sound of the landlady's voice. This time it came from the hotel hall. Somebody opened the door of George's room.
"Come in," said the voice of Gray. "He's perfectly harmless. It's a sad case. He thinks that his eyes are bad, and that he can't talk or hear."
"Deary me!" said the landlady; "and does it take three of you to look after him?"
Gray was about to reply, when George started to his feet, and began to tremble visibly.
"What is it?" asked the landlady, in a loud whisper.
"Don't be afraid; it's only one of his tricks."
But George had turned towards the landlady, and was holding out his arms. It was as if a chord in his memory, long dormant, had suddenly been struck when he heard her voice.
"He won't hurt you," said Parrott and Busby in one chant.
Then George electrified the landlady. It was simply done. He stood there, turned towards her, and spoke.
"Moggles!" he said, in an awful voice.
The landlady gasped. A chord in her memory had been touched, too.
"Moggles!" said George again.
"Don't mind him," said Gray, "he goes off like that sometimes."
"That voice," said the landlady, now beginning to tremble again. "Can it be——"
"Moggles!"
"My boy!" The landlady cried out with a half-shriek. "It must be. Let me see him."
Gray saw through the trick at once, and laughed out loud.
"Don't you be deceived, ma'am," he said, tearing the shade away from George Early's eyes. "It's a game he's playing. Look at him; that's not your boy."
George blinked his eyes, and looked as foolish as he could.
"I don't know," said the landlady, excitedly. "He's about the right size."
"Erny good boy," said George, smiling vacantly.
The landlady shrieked again. "It is!" she cried, "it is! I'll fetch my husband."
In the interval, George Early had a rough time with the three men, being threatened and sworn at without mercy.
"It's my move," said George. "Don't you worry."
When the buxom landlady returned with an equally buxom spouse, George had wriggled away from his captors, and was crouching in a corner.
"Want Moggles," he said, in a whining voice.
"There!" cried the landlady turning to her husband, who stood with open mouth, scratching his head. "Did you hear that?"
"It's his play," said Gray. "Come along,"—turning to the others. "We'd better see about getting him away."
"Erny good boy," said George.
"There!" cried the landlady again. "Now don't you think I'm right?"
The landlord nodded his head sagely.
"Blamed if I don't, too!"
"Come along," said Gray; "get his hat and coat. We must make a start."
"Stop a bit," said the landlady; "I believe that young man is my own long-lost son that I haven't seen since he was seven years old. Didn't you hear him call me 'Moggles'?"
Gray laughed again. "That's a trick," he said; "his name is George Early. You've made a mistake."
"Erny good boy," said George. "Three bad men take Erny away."
Urged by his wife, the landlord now promptly claimed George as his lost son, and said he should resist any attempt at removal. Gray and his colleagues carried on a wordy war, and offered all kinds of proof of their own avowals, while George sat and stroked the landlady's hand.
"I declare to you that his name is George Early," said Gray, vehemently.
"Want Billy-Gee," said George.
"That settles it," cried the innkeeper, suddenly. "There's no fraud about that. He's our boy right enough."
By the time that Caroli arrived George was safely settled in the landlord's best parlour, undergoing the ordeal of comparison with his twin-brother Albert, a sportive young man, full of strange oaths, and inclined to doubt the genuineness of his newly-found brother. George bore his ill nature with good humour, and played the lunatic quite successfully. If he could keep the protection of the landlord and his wife, he did not doubt that some avenue of escape would open before long. Fortunately, the obstreperous Albert was leaving early the next morning for a few weeks, and George would have the field to himself.
The four conspirators had engaged rooms in the inn for the night, but George managed to put his newly-found parents on their guard against any efforts at kidnapping.
"He can sleep in the little room next to Albert, and leave the door open," said the fond mother. "And then Albert can lock the door when he goes off in the morning."
"Thanks," said Albert, sourly.
"He's harmless enough, bless his heart," said the old lady, smiling at George. "It does seem funny that his hair has changed colour."
"Keep your eye on the cash-box," said Albert, "or you'll find that change colour before the morning."
George lay in bed with a peaceful smile on his face when the ungracious Albert lumbered upstairs; and complacently bore the candle-light scrutiny which the other bestowed on him for the space of two seconds.
Long after the noises of the house had ceased he lay awake searching his brain for the scheme that was to place his enemieshors de combat. It was all very well to outwit them for a day or two, but something lasting was needed. He could not go on dodging about the country in the fashion of the last few days.
As the church clock struck one he got out of bed and peered through the window which looked out on the roadway. He had a suspicion that Caroli and his assistants were taking every precaution to prevent his giving them the slip. Patient observation for half an hour rewarded his effort, a man that he recognized as Busby came out of the shadow of a gateway opposite, leisurely crossed the road, and disappeared at the side of the inn. Presently he as leisurely returned to the gateway, and was lost in the gloom.
George got back into bed and pondered while the clock struck two, and afterwards three. Then he got out again and walked to where the landlady's son lay wrapped in slumber. By his bed stood a clock, on a table. The alarm was set for half-past three. His new brother made it fifteen minutes later. Then having gathered up the slumbering man's clothes he carried them into his own room, transferred the contents of the pockets to his own, and made an exchange of suits; emptying Albert's match-box with great care into the water-jug.
When he got back into his bed his own gaudy check clothes lay in Albert's room.
"He'll be off before it's light," said George, snuggling between the sheets. "It's a chance in a hundred, but I can't afford to miss anything."
When the alarm went off there was a noise of yawning and grunting followed by a brief silence. Ten minutes passed, then a footstep bumped on the floor. By the sounds that followed George reckoned that Albert was bewailing the loss of his matches. Presently a figure in dishabille walked to the window of George's room and consulted a clock by a thin streak of light from an outdoor lamp. It was Albert; and as a result he swore volubly and hurried back to his own room.
A few minutes of hasty toilet interspersed with oaths, and somebody clattered down the stairs.
"He'll lose that train if he isn't careful," said George to himself. "And the wicked fellow hasn't locked my door."
A dull boom of a door closing.
"Now for it," said George, jumping out of bed and peering through the window.
He heard the footsteps of the retreating Albert going off at a trot. As they died away a man ran across the road, disappeared at the inn side, and reappeared again after an interval. It was Busby, and he started off down the road in pursuit of the landlady's son. A few minutes later and another figure followed him, to be followed shortly by two others.
"Hooray!" said George, as they disappeared. "The suit did it."
Without hesitating, he got into the clothes left behind, wrote a note to the landlady, and was outside the house in a quarter of an hour.
Acting with due caution, he avoided the high road and reached the station as the sun burst into a blaze of glory over the trees.
"Four men?" said the porter he consulted. "Yes, and there won't 'arf be some trouble about it, too. Got in when the train was moving. Not a blooming ticket among the lot."
"Scandalous!" said George. "Where did they go to?"
"First stop, Hastings; that's all I knows," said the porter.
"And quite enough, too. What's the next train up?"
doubleline
singleline
George Earlytravelled a few miles up the line, then made up his mind to cut across country. Changing his plans, he took to the railway again as far as New Cross, and thought the matter out over a good breakfast. Finally he decided to return to Brunswick Terrace and make his home a stronghold until he could defy his enemies. Having thus wasted several hours, he went forward for the third time.
At Cannon Street a surprise awaited him. Hastily correcting himself as he was about to enter the buffet, he turned to the station exit, and in passing through ran against a lady.
"I beg your pardon," said the lady.
"Beg your—what, Ellen? Why, how did you know I was coming here?" cried George.
"Really, I—" the lady gasped, hesitating.
"Who told you I was coming to Cannon Street?"
"What do you mean? I don't know you!" The lady stared at him, and uttered these words with a look of astonishment on her face.
George laughed in spite of his mood. "Well, you've been getting yourself up in some new clothes; but I suppose you're my lawful wife just the same," he said. "Anyway, this is no time for acting, Ellen."
"I beg your pardon," said the lady, quietly. "You've evidently made a mistake. You certainly know my Christian name, but you don't know me; I've never set eyes on you in my life before."
George found refuge in sarcasm. "Go on," he said; "don't mind me. You'll say I'm not your husband presently."
"You're certainly not," said the lady, firmly, preparing to continue on her way.
"Go on," said George, exasperated; "say you're not Mrs. Early; say you were never Miss Fairbrother; say you——"
"How do you know my name is Fairbrother?"
"Was—not is."
"I sayis," said the lady, severely. "Do you know anybody named Fairbrother?"
"I once knew a girl named Fairbrother," said George, in a playful spirit. "She was a very adorable creature, so I married her. The first time I met her was in Upper Thames Street, the last in Cannon——"
"Ah!" The lady gasped and held out her hand. "You don't mean to tell me she's married? Then you must be her husband?"
"No, I'm her grandfather," said George. "Look here, Ellen, stop this rot and talk sense. I can't stand here talking——"
"I'm not your wife," said the lady, sharply. "I've just arrived from Australia, and I'm going to visit Miss Fairbrother. We're cousins."
George opened his mouth, shut it again, and looked frightfully sheepish. Ellen's cousin! Of course, his wife had got a cousin in Australia. He had heard of her; Tops she was called—evidently a pet name. But what in the world was she doing wandering about Cannon Street alone? and what did she mean by looking so tremendously like his own wife? It was obvious, though, now that she was a young person with much more confidence than his own Ellen. But, after all, why was she here at all? What was the matter with Australia?
"I've come over post-haste," said the lady in a business-like manner. "Got a cable, and went on board next day; not even time to write."
"Anybody ill?" asked George.
His cousin-in-law laughed. "No, not so bad as that; I've had a little property left me. We soon leave Australia when there's property here, don't we?"
With an effort George joined in the laugh. Girls from Australia inheriting property was not a favourite topic with him at the moment.
Miss Fairbrother's modest boxes were placed on a four-wheeler, and the two drove off to Brunswick Terrace. On the way George heard a good deal of the childhood of his wife and of the great fun the two cousins used to have together. No doubt these anecdotes were highly humorous, but George was not in the mood for them.
Mrs. Early was just starting for Upper Thames Street when they arrived at Brunswick Terrace, and she rushed to the hall on hearing her husband's voice. As soon as she and her cousin set eyes on one another there was a double shriek.
"Babs!"
"Tops!"
Kisses, endearing epithets, squeezes, playful pats; more kisses, questions—numberless questions. George looked on in gloomy silence.
"You darling scrumptious old Tops!"
"You precious pet! you old Babs!"
More embraces, kisses, and squeezes.
"Keep it up," said George, in a bitter aside to the hatstand; "never mind the husband. What does it matter if I've been harried about the country by a lot of low ruffians, chased from one place to another, bandaged and made a madman? What does it matter, eh?" he repeated, looking hard at a barometer that pointed to "very dry."
"Very dry," said George, noticing it; "suppose I'm very dry, what of that? What of it? What does it matter?" raising his voice.
Mrs. Early suddenly tore herself from the embrace of her cousin, and threw her arms about her husband's neck.
"Oh, you dear old Georgy-Porgy! What a shame to leave him all alone! What a naughty bad old girl!"
Somewhat mollified by this display of affection, George at last was prevailed upon to smile, and to give a brief account of his adventures, without moving from the spot. His wife assured him that everything would come right, and declared that his pursuers were the worst and horridest men in the world. She then gave him three special kisses for finding Tops, and bade him take a good look at that young lady from a distance of six feet, and say if she wasn't the dearest, sweetest, and prettiest girl in the world.
George did so, and diplomatically gave it as his opinion that she was the "second prettiest."
Mrs. Early dimpled, and, after vowing that her husband was a dear old stupid, warned him to prepare for a special favour.
"What is it?" asked the young man.
Mrs. Early looked first at her husband, then at her cousin, and then placing her hands behind her, and looking as regal and magnanimous as possible, she said—
"George, you may kiss Tops."
Like a dutiful husband, George obeyed, but not before Mrs. Early had received a scolding from her cousin, who received the salute under protest.
At dinner that evening George almost forgot his woes in the unceasing flow of conversation. Miss Fairbrother's legacy was the chief topic. In spite of the urgent cable presaging "a valuable property," this appeared to be nothing more than "a freehold house at Brixton with a long garden."
"It'll be nice to live in without rent," said Miss Fairbrother; "but of course I shall have to work for my bread-and-butter. Anyhow, I shall be near Babs, so it's worth having on that account."
Aunt Phœbe gave her reminiscences of the sailing of the two cousins for Australia at the age of two years each, with a graphic description of the scene at the docks.
"Your papa was in the height of his success then," she said to Mrs. Early, "and his brother was doing well. The strangest thing was that they both married when nearly fifty, and both were left widowers within three years with a baby-girl each. I offered to take care of the two of you, but as your Aunt Mary was going a voyage to Australia, and the change was thought good for you, away you both went with her. Of course we never dreamt of her staying there and you two staying with her."
"If papa was doing well when I went away, what became of his fortune?" asked Miss Fairbrother.
"He married again," said Aunt Phœbe, "and lost the greater part of it through the extravagance of his wife. I'm glad he managed to keep a house out of it for you; it was little enough to do."
"Poor papa!"
"Yes, I suppose he deserves to be pitied," said Aunt Phœbe. "But John never had the good sense of Joseph. They were both J. Fairbrother's, but the one J. was very different from the other in business ability. I always thought it absurd that John should imitate Joseph in calling his baby-girl by the same name. You were born within a week of each other, and both named Ellen."
"What a funny thing," said Mrs. Early, laughing, "that we never got mixed up!"
"Yes, indeed," said Aunt Phœbe. "I remember your poor father telling your Aunt Mary, with a smile, to be sure to keep you separate."
"'They're separate enough!' said John, laughing. 'One's got a strawberry mark, Mary, and remember the strawberry mark's mine.' Then your father——"
"Aunt," said Miss Fairbrother, in a queer voice, "did you say the strawberry mark was on John's baby or on——"
"John Fairbrother's baby-girl had a strawberry mark," said Aunt Phœbe; "that's how we knew the difference, you were so much alike."
Mrs. Early and her cousin looked at each other. George put down the glass he was raising to his lips and looked at them both. Aunt Phœbe rose from her seat suddenly and said—
"What is it? You don't mean to say——"
Mrs. Early drew up the sleeve of her gown and exposed the bare, pretty arm, with its significant birth-mark.
"John's girl!" gasped her aunt.
There was a deathly silence. The clock on the mantelshelf ticked away in regular monotonous beats, every sound in the street could be heard distinctly, and of the four people at the table three were looking in wonderment at the birthmark on Mrs. Early's arm.
George, on whom the significance of the whole thing had dawned with great rapidity, sat with his mouth open until he had thoroughly grasped the situation. Then he said in a feeble whisper—
"Would somebody mind passing the brandy?"
doubleline
singleline
AnElephant 'bus stopped at the corner of New Bridge Street to pick up a passenger, and then struggled on again towards Blackfriars Bridge.
"By the way, Cattermole," said a man in a top hat to his friend in a bowler, "what was the result of that little skirmish in the country you told me about some time ago?"
The Walworth chemist laughed and buttoned up his coat.
"That all ended in smoke," he said. "I got a wire telling me not to bother about going down again, as my friend had given them the slip and got away."
"But they got some money out of him, I suppose? It was a money job, wasn't it?"
"Yes, but they didn't get any money, as it happened. It turned out that my friend's wife wasn't the heiress to the property; it really belonged to her cousin."
"He had to hand it over, then?"
"Yes, the wife's cousin took the property, and I'm told she has enough business ability to run three firms as big as that."
"Hard luck for your friend!"
"Oh I not such hard luck. He's a sort of manager there. He draws a decent salary, and they have a freehold house in Brixton. They're not badly off. The three men got their old positions back, so everything's pretty comfortable."
"Blackfriars!" yelled the 'bus conductor, "Elephant, Kennington, and Brixton. Now for Brix—ton!"
A man jumped on and clambered up to the top.
"What—George!"
Cattermole and George Early shook hands, and George was introduced to the man in the top hat.
"Business good?" asked Cattermole.
"Splendid!" said George. He whispered in his friend's ear.
Cattermole held out his hand again. "I congratulate you, old man!" he said. "What are you going to call her?"
Instead of replying directly George poured some further confidence into his friend's ear, and accompanied the recital by sundry taps on his friend's coat-sleeve.
"No!" said Cattermole at the finish. "Worth as much as fifteen thousand! She's your aunt, isn't she?"
"My wife's," said George, in a whisper.
"I thought she professed to be poor?"
"So she does"—with a wink.
"You're a devil for finding out things," said Cattermole, with some admiration. "So I suppose you're going to call the girl——"
"Phœbe," said George. Cattermole laughed, and his friend, who had caught some scraps of the conversation, laughed also. George joined them.
"I suppose it'll work all right?" said Cattermole.
"Coming to stay a month," said George; "you can leave the rest to me."
"Well, I hope you're backing a winner," said Cattermole.
"It's a cert," said George. "Baby holds the reins."
"Elephant!" yelled the 'bus conductor.
"We get off here," said Cattermole. He and his friend shook hands and went down the steps. George changed his seat for one next to the driver, and the 'bus rattled on to Brixton.
THE JUDGMENT OF PARIS: A Novel. ByM. P. Willcocks, Author of "The Wingless Victory." Crown 8vo, 6s.
⁂Miss Willcocks' success with "The Wingless Victory" has been notable, the more so when it is remembered that it was only her second book. Her new story deals with Devonshire, where she is so much at home in describing the beauties of her native county.
COMPANIONS: A Novel. ByHugh de Sélincourt, Author of "A Boy's Marriage" and "The Strongest Plume." Crown 8vo, 6s.
THE BISHOP'S SCAPEGOAT: A Novel. ByT. B. Clegg, Author of "The Love Child" and "The Wilderness." Crown 8vo, 6s.
⁂The Bishop of Capricarnia, when a vicar, for one moment forgot his cloth in remembering his manhood. The far-reaching results of this lapse form the subject of Mr. Cleggs new novel. Eventually the Bishop discovers the suffering which ensued from his crime and the punishment which Providence has meted out to him.
THE FINANCES OF SIR JOHN KYNNERSLEY. ByA. C. Fox-Davies, Barrister-at-Law, Author of "The Mauleverer Murders," "The Dangerville Inheritance," etc. Crown 8vo, 6s.
⁂This book creates an arch type of the clever swindler, and represents the series of episodes by which he amasses an enormous fortune and finally relapses into private life and respectability. The episodes are so cleverly devised that in all probability they could have been carried through in real life without risk of detection and with complete immunity from unpleasant consequences.
THE CHICHESTER INTRIGUE: A Novel. ByThomas Cobb, Author of "Mrs. Erricker's Reputation," "The Dissemblers," etc. Crown 8vo, 6s.
⁂Lambert Amory is placed in a difficult situation by the discovery, amongst the papers of the late Alfred Chichester (who, "if not the most inspired actor on the English stage, was reputed the handsomest"), of some passionate love letters from, it appears, the woman whom his friend, Sir Hugo Warbrook, desires to marry. The story treats of the effect on varying temperaments, and also of Lambert's efforts to remove any doubt concerning the writer's identity.
THE CHILD OF CHANCE: A Novel. ByMaxime Formont. Crown 8vo, 6s.
⁂A novel which had the good fortune to be immensely discussed in Paris when it came out recently in serial form. The author deals boldly, but without offence, with the rights of motherhood. He points out that while contemporary drama and fiction are largely concerned with the justification of illicit love, no one has raised the question of the rights of maternity as a thing desirable in itself, not merely accepted as a consequence of sexual passion.
THE GATES THAT SHALL NOT PREVAIL: A Novel. ByHerbert M. Farrington. 6s.
⁂A story dealing with the progress of a movement which became known as The Great Crusade, and which, inaugurated and carried on by one "Brother Paul," a cleric of an unconventional type, had for its object the bringing of Christianity "from the region of an impracticable theology into the market-places of the world." Interwoven with this is the tale of "Brother Paul's" temptation at the hands of a woman, and how he learned the lesson he had tried to teach.
ASHES: A Novel. Translated from the Italian of Grazia Deledda. ByHelen Hester Colvill. Crown 8vo, 6s.
⁂This is a story of Sardinia by Grazia Deledda, the well-known and popular Sardinian authoress. It is a picture of simple country life, set in a poetic though sombre background. Anania is a love child, deserted by his mother Ali for his good. He is brought up by his father in comfortable circumstances; but always is haunted by the thought of his lost mother, whom he seeks even in Rome. At last he finds her in the mountain village of his birth. She is in the last stage of degradation and misery; but Anania leaves all, even his sweetheart, that he may take charge of and rescue her.
LADY JULIA'S EMERALD: A Novel. ByHelen Hester Colvill. Crown 8vo, 6s.
⁂Lesley was the daughter of a woman of genius, and she hoped she had genius herself. She set out to follow her star; but she made great mistakes, and was doubted and misunderstood even by those who loved her best. For a time she was the fashion; then came a sudden downfall, which her enemies called the Exposure of an Adventuress. She never succeeded in the high tasks she had set herself; but she brought back Victor Penruddocke to his lost faith in womanhood, and she learned herself that even for a child of genius Love is the surest guide into the higher life.
LOVE AND THE IRONMONGER: A Novel. ByF. J. Randall. Crown 8vo, 6s.
⁂A humorous story, chiefly concerning the bequests of a benevolent, self-made merchant, who endeavours to reform some of his intemperate and untruthful employés. Peculiar knowledge of these legacies falls in the way of a junior clerk, who blackmails the legatees and uses his power as a lever for his own advancement. In doing so he creates many absurd situations, and is able to exercise extensively his natural humour. Love and a wealthy young lady intervene, together with a reversion of the legacies, so that the blackmailed turn on the blackmailer and pay him back in his own coin.
THE MASTER KNOT: A Novel. ByAlice Birkhead. Crown 8vo, 6s.
⁂This is a story of two women who differ widely in character and fortune, but whose fates are intertwined. Each struggles to untie the knot of destiny—to find that human hands are powerless to unloose it, and that it binds together the fluttering strands of the life, before held free, till security brings happiness even as youth passes and desires become less strong.
ABSOLUTION: A Novel. ByClara Viebig. Crown 8vo, 6s.
⁂On the publication of this remarkable book in Germany last Autumn, a lengthy review appeared in the "Westminster Gazette," from which the following passages are selected:—"In Germany this book of the sombre purple cover and the design of a halo surrounding the strange title is everywhere. It is on train and steamer, in little odd bookshops of sleepy country towns, and (often in strange company) among the best-displayed wares in the shop-windows of the main streets of great cities. 'It is a terrible book,' people say as they sit poring over its pages, but we doubt whether any one, having taken it up, lays it aside as too 'terrible' before he has reached the abrupt, dramatic end…. The face of a woman, young and proud, and very beautiful, haunts the pages of the new novel by the most powerful of the woman writers of Germany."
THE ISLE OF MAIDS: A Novel. ByM. T. Hainsselin. Crown 8vo, 6s.
⁂A story dealing with the adventures of two young men fresh from Oxford, who decide, by way of a holiday, to find an uninhabited island and live for a time away from civilisation. They select one of the Ægean group in the Mediterranean. Many brisk adventures and stirring scenes follow, interspersed with love-making. The treatment is uncommon, and has the advantage of not belonging to the usual hackneyed category of stories, while the handling of grotesque situations brought about by the impulsiveness of the hero is humorous and entertaining.