Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Thirteen.Into a Trap and Out of it.When Gilda Tempest had disappeared in the dead of night among the rhododendron bushes, Raife stood at the open latticed window of the old library, which had so nearly been the scene of a second tragedy. He was amazed at the squirrel-like movements of this wonderful girl, who had just played the part of burglar with the dexterity of a practised hand.Yet she had told the tragedy of a life-story with a restrained, dramatic power that was convincing—at least to him. Again she had taken possession of him and all his thoughts: his love and passion were for her.On the morning following these extraordinary occurrences, there was seated an old gentleman, wearing blue spectacles, on a secluded seat on the Parade at Brighton. He appeared to be immersed in a book that he held close to his face. An observant onlooker would have noticed that his attention was less engrossed in the book than in the passers-by, of whom, at this point of the Parade, there were not many. A neatly-uniformed nursemaid, with her two young children, approached the seat and appeared to show intention of taking possession of the scant amount of room that was left vacant. The old gentleman uttered a snarl, and glared through his blue spectacles so ferociously that, by common consent, the children refused this particular seat at that particular moment. The old gentleman was again left in sole possession. In spite of the book, impatience seemed to characterise his gestures. At last, with a grunt of satisfaction, he observed, in the distance, the person for whom he had waited.An elderly lady shuffled her way along the front. As she approached this secluded spot, after looking round warily, she took her place at one end of the seat. The old gentleman raised his hat courteously and said: “Well! where are they? Have you got them?”In a beautiful voice, but in tremulous tones, the old lady said: “No, I have not got them.”With a half-suppressed howl, he said: “What! you have not got them? You lie! You are deceiving me.”Still tremulously, but quite restrained, she replied:“No! I have not got them, and I am not deceiving you. Let me tell you what happened.”In spite of the blue glasses the old man’s face assumed a contorted expression of anger that was hateful to behold. Grasping her arm with a vicious grip, he almost shrieked: “Again I tell you, you lie! Where are they? You dare not tell me you have bungled after all the care I took.”“Hush!” she whispered. “You will be heard. Yes! I bungled.”Then this innocent-looking old lady told the events of the previous night at Aldborough Park, for it was Gilda Tempest disguised with consummate craft. The old man writhed and fumed, as each incident of that eventful night was narrated to him in the soft and musical tones of this young criminal of the beauteous countenance. The crime of a burglar is at all times contemptible. This story of an attempted burglary was peculiarly repellent, coming from the lips of a young girl who was so dearly loved by the “intended victim.” To have stolen any property belonging to Raife Remington would have been discreditable, but to attempt, with all the skilled burglar’s art, to steal those valuable jewels of the baroness, which had been entrusted to Raife for safe keeping—that was to place him in the most invidious position. It sounded hateful in the hearing. Yet this old reprobate of the deepest dye was the cause of this young girl’s downfall, and he was furious at her failure.With a resumption of his usual self-control he hissed: “Those jewels are worth thirty thousand pounds. You were clumsy to miss such a prize. Now listen to me. That young fool’s father killed your father.”Gilda shuddered, and tears trickled down the cheeks which had been skilfully lined to disguise their youthful beauty.Again, stooping towards her, his words were reduced almost to a whisper as he said: “Look at me straight in the eyes, Gilda, and listen. You must make love to that man. He cannot, and shall not resist you. He must marry you, and you—must—ruin—him. That shall be your revenge. It shall be my revenge—and your father’s revenge.”Then, springing to his feet with extraordinary vigour, he added:“Come now! Remember what I have said. It must be. It shall be.”People turned to look at this peaceful and distinguished-looking “old” couple sauntering down the front to their hotel.There is an unscrupulous type of villain in this world, whose power for harm is unbounded. Even as the weasel, the stoat, and certain of her types of ferocious animals, kill for the lust of killing, so these evil-minded people pursue their depredations. The worst of this type exercise a curious fascination over women.It is not essential to discuss the possibilities of hypnotism, mesmerism, or any other forms of mind influence, or thought transference. A perusal of the newspapers, and even a general observation of those around us is sufficient to satisfy us of the existence of this power. Curiously, it would more generally seem to be exercised for evil rather than good. Doctor Danilo Malsano exercised his malicious influence over Gilda Tempest with all the malignancy of the type of predatory blood-sucking animals, to which allusion has been made.It was easy, therefore, for plans to be made to encompass the downfall and ruin of Raife Remington. Subterfuge brought clandestine meetings between the young couple. The clandestine element is that which appeals most strongly to the ordinary lover. Raife Remington loved Gilda Tempest with a fierce passion, which he could not control, but, in many senses, he was an ordinary lover.He was now well aware of Gilda’s skill as a “thief”—a burglar. The thought rankled in his mind, but still he could not stave off the desire for her company. A smile from her chased away the hateful reminiscence of the night in the library at Aldborough Park, when she was fully revealed as a thief. There were other mysterious circumstances that, in his ordinary mood, he could not explain away, but when Gilda smiled and looked at him with her appealing eyes, all doubt vanished.He was certain of one thing—Doctor Malsano was a blackguard, and he hated him. Again, his sense of reason—nay of duty—impelled him to give information to the police that would lead to the arrest and conviction of this arch-criminal—a criminal who used his uncanny powers to employ, as a dupe, a sweet, beautiful girl whom he called his niece.His influence appeared almost supernatural, and yet, his cowardice was evident in the fact that he adopted such foul methods. So, in spite of all this, when Gilda smiled, that baneful person, her uncle, was safe from arrest as far as Raife was concerned.There were many incongruities in this courtship. Their first meeting, and each subsequent meeting, had been quite unconventional—yet there was nought but pure thought as far as this couple were concerned when they met.The baleful influence of the doctor at other times alone made for trouble.In all these circumstances, then, it is not surprising that the quaint, old-world, white room of the “Blue Boar” at Tunbridge Wells should have become the rendezvous when it was the only opportunity that served.Raife Remington’s sense of proportion had restrained him for a week or two, and he had not met Gilda. Doctor Malsano was not the type of man to allow his victim to elude his machinations for long. Gilda was, therefore, compelled to adopt the disguise of a hospital nurse, and, with full instructions from information obtained by the doctor, visited Tunbridge Wells. On the pretext of a patient who was expected from town, she obtained a room at the “Blue Boar.” It was not hard to invent a ruse to ensure Raife’s attendance at the “Blue Boar.” When Gilda met him on the staircase, her old influence returned, and under the chaperonage of the landlord, Mr Twisegood, they started the interview. The astute, old Twisegood chuckled as he discreetly left the room, but, at the same time, he had no real knowledge of the state of affairs. Nor was Raife aware that this “accidental” meeting had been cunningly planned by Doctor Malsano.For long they talked. Gilda exercised her fascinating arts, and Raife succumbed more completely than ever. The conquest was complete, and Raife arranged to meet her in town, where they should run less risk of observation, and each should enjoy their own society unmolested by the inquisitive.During all this strange courtship the ordinary caresses, in which lovers freely indulge, had been few indeed. Now, to-day, when Fate seemed propitious, their caresses were less restrained, and, for the first time, Raife kissed Gilda passionately. The fire of youthful kisses will destroy discretion. The sight of a neatly-costumed nurse being passionately embraced by the youthful owner of Aldborough Park would have made an interesting film for a cinema. In real life the casual or accidental witness of such a scene, is liable to be shocked. In this instance the genial old landlord of the “Blue Boar” was ascending the stairs, and saw sufficient of the impassioned incident, through a mirror, to encourage him to give a loud and friendly cough. The process of disentanglement was instant and complete. Most of us are familiar with it. With a discreet tap at the door, which had been, with an inadvertence which was frequent on such occasions, left partly open, the old man announced: “If you please, Sir Raife, Lady Remington is coming upstairs and would like to see you.”Raife merely exclaimed, in a tone that indicated panic, and the exclamation consisted of one word only—a characteristically English utterance, “What!” Hastily pushing the old man out of the room, and, closing the door, he stood for a moment bewildered. Then Raife ejaculated in short, disjointed sentences: “Good heavens! The mater! What brings her here? How did she know?”Gilda stood calmly. She had been well trained to avoid panic in an emergency.A man ceases to be an aristocrat when he allows panic to be more than momentary. Sir Raife Remington, Bart., was an aristocrat. Gilda’s practised eye looked at the window and calculated the drop.With a discretion inherited through generations of “service,” Twisegood had descended the old staircase.Lady Remington, with the instinct of a mother, ascended the staircase. Her rather “exalted” tones sounded from without:“Is this the room, Twisegood?” Her hand was upon the handle of the door.Then did inspiration seize Raife.Whispering hurriedly: “You go down this staircase,” pointing to the secret exit, “into the loose box at the bottom and wait your chance.”To Gilda, who had shown such dexterity in descending by a silken rope from the library window at Aldborough Park, it was easy to find a “way out” by a staircase, even if it did lead her into a loose box in a stable!When Lady Remington explained that the horse in her brougham had cast a shoe, and that Twisegood’s man was attending to it—and that Twisegood had said that Sir Raife was upstairs, it became easier to understand why Lady Remington was climbing those stairs at that unpropitious moment.Sir Raife expressed his opinion of affairs to Twisegood at a later date.

When Gilda Tempest had disappeared in the dead of night among the rhododendron bushes, Raife stood at the open latticed window of the old library, which had so nearly been the scene of a second tragedy. He was amazed at the squirrel-like movements of this wonderful girl, who had just played the part of burglar with the dexterity of a practised hand.

Yet she had told the tragedy of a life-story with a restrained, dramatic power that was convincing—at least to him. Again she had taken possession of him and all his thoughts: his love and passion were for her.

On the morning following these extraordinary occurrences, there was seated an old gentleman, wearing blue spectacles, on a secluded seat on the Parade at Brighton. He appeared to be immersed in a book that he held close to his face. An observant onlooker would have noticed that his attention was less engrossed in the book than in the passers-by, of whom, at this point of the Parade, there were not many. A neatly-uniformed nursemaid, with her two young children, approached the seat and appeared to show intention of taking possession of the scant amount of room that was left vacant. The old gentleman uttered a snarl, and glared through his blue spectacles so ferociously that, by common consent, the children refused this particular seat at that particular moment. The old gentleman was again left in sole possession. In spite of the book, impatience seemed to characterise his gestures. At last, with a grunt of satisfaction, he observed, in the distance, the person for whom he had waited.

An elderly lady shuffled her way along the front. As she approached this secluded spot, after looking round warily, she took her place at one end of the seat. The old gentleman raised his hat courteously and said: “Well! where are they? Have you got them?”

In a beautiful voice, but in tremulous tones, the old lady said: “No, I have not got them.”

With a half-suppressed howl, he said: “What! you have not got them? You lie! You are deceiving me.”

Still tremulously, but quite restrained, she replied:

“No! I have not got them, and I am not deceiving you. Let me tell you what happened.”

In spite of the blue glasses the old man’s face assumed a contorted expression of anger that was hateful to behold. Grasping her arm with a vicious grip, he almost shrieked: “Again I tell you, you lie! Where are they? You dare not tell me you have bungled after all the care I took.”

“Hush!” she whispered. “You will be heard. Yes! I bungled.”

Then this innocent-looking old lady told the events of the previous night at Aldborough Park, for it was Gilda Tempest disguised with consummate craft. The old man writhed and fumed, as each incident of that eventful night was narrated to him in the soft and musical tones of this young criminal of the beauteous countenance. The crime of a burglar is at all times contemptible. This story of an attempted burglary was peculiarly repellent, coming from the lips of a young girl who was so dearly loved by the “intended victim.” To have stolen any property belonging to Raife Remington would have been discreditable, but to attempt, with all the skilled burglar’s art, to steal those valuable jewels of the baroness, which had been entrusted to Raife for safe keeping—that was to place him in the most invidious position. It sounded hateful in the hearing. Yet this old reprobate of the deepest dye was the cause of this young girl’s downfall, and he was furious at her failure.

With a resumption of his usual self-control he hissed: “Those jewels are worth thirty thousand pounds. You were clumsy to miss such a prize. Now listen to me. That young fool’s father killed your father.”

Gilda shuddered, and tears trickled down the cheeks which had been skilfully lined to disguise their youthful beauty.

Again, stooping towards her, his words were reduced almost to a whisper as he said: “Look at me straight in the eyes, Gilda, and listen. You must make love to that man. He cannot, and shall not resist you. He must marry you, and you—must—ruin—him. That shall be your revenge. It shall be my revenge—and your father’s revenge.”

Then, springing to his feet with extraordinary vigour, he added:

“Come now! Remember what I have said. It must be. It shall be.”

People turned to look at this peaceful and distinguished-looking “old” couple sauntering down the front to their hotel.

There is an unscrupulous type of villain in this world, whose power for harm is unbounded. Even as the weasel, the stoat, and certain of her types of ferocious animals, kill for the lust of killing, so these evil-minded people pursue their depredations. The worst of this type exercise a curious fascination over women.

It is not essential to discuss the possibilities of hypnotism, mesmerism, or any other forms of mind influence, or thought transference. A perusal of the newspapers, and even a general observation of those around us is sufficient to satisfy us of the existence of this power. Curiously, it would more generally seem to be exercised for evil rather than good. Doctor Danilo Malsano exercised his malicious influence over Gilda Tempest with all the malignancy of the type of predatory blood-sucking animals, to which allusion has been made.

It was easy, therefore, for plans to be made to encompass the downfall and ruin of Raife Remington. Subterfuge brought clandestine meetings between the young couple. The clandestine element is that which appeals most strongly to the ordinary lover. Raife Remington loved Gilda Tempest with a fierce passion, which he could not control, but, in many senses, he was an ordinary lover.

He was now well aware of Gilda’s skill as a “thief”—a burglar. The thought rankled in his mind, but still he could not stave off the desire for her company. A smile from her chased away the hateful reminiscence of the night in the library at Aldborough Park, when she was fully revealed as a thief. There were other mysterious circumstances that, in his ordinary mood, he could not explain away, but when Gilda smiled and looked at him with her appealing eyes, all doubt vanished.

He was certain of one thing—Doctor Malsano was a blackguard, and he hated him. Again, his sense of reason—nay of duty—impelled him to give information to the police that would lead to the arrest and conviction of this arch-criminal—a criminal who used his uncanny powers to employ, as a dupe, a sweet, beautiful girl whom he called his niece.

His influence appeared almost supernatural, and yet, his cowardice was evident in the fact that he adopted such foul methods. So, in spite of all this, when Gilda smiled, that baneful person, her uncle, was safe from arrest as far as Raife was concerned.

There were many incongruities in this courtship. Their first meeting, and each subsequent meeting, had been quite unconventional—yet there was nought but pure thought as far as this couple were concerned when they met.

The baleful influence of the doctor at other times alone made for trouble.

In all these circumstances, then, it is not surprising that the quaint, old-world, white room of the “Blue Boar” at Tunbridge Wells should have become the rendezvous when it was the only opportunity that served.

Raife Remington’s sense of proportion had restrained him for a week or two, and he had not met Gilda. Doctor Malsano was not the type of man to allow his victim to elude his machinations for long. Gilda was, therefore, compelled to adopt the disguise of a hospital nurse, and, with full instructions from information obtained by the doctor, visited Tunbridge Wells. On the pretext of a patient who was expected from town, she obtained a room at the “Blue Boar.” It was not hard to invent a ruse to ensure Raife’s attendance at the “Blue Boar.” When Gilda met him on the staircase, her old influence returned, and under the chaperonage of the landlord, Mr Twisegood, they started the interview. The astute, old Twisegood chuckled as he discreetly left the room, but, at the same time, he had no real knowledge of the state of affairs. Nor was Raife aware that this “accidental” meeting had been cunningly planned by Doctor Malsano.

For long they talked. Gilda exercised her fascinating arts, and Raife succumbed more completely than ever. The conquest was complete, and Raife arranged to meet her in town, where they should run less risk of observation, and each should enjoy their own society unmolested by the inquisitive.

During all this strange courtship the ordinary caresses, in which lovers freely indulge, had been few indeed. Now, to-day, when Fate seemed propitious, their caresses were less restrained, and, for the first time, Raife kissed Gilda passionately. The fire of youthful kisses will destroy discretion. The sight of a neatly-costumed nurse being passionately embraced by the youthful owner of Aldborough Park would have made an interesting film for a cinema. In real life the casual or accidental witness of such a scene, is liable to be shocked. In this instance the genial old landlord of the “Blue Boar” was ascending the stairs, and saw sufficient of the impassioned incident, through a mirror, to encourage him to give a loud and friendly cough. The process of disentanglement was instant and complete. Most of us are familiar with it. With a discreet tap at the door, which had been, with an inadvertence which was frequent on such occasions, left partly open, the old man announced: “If you please, Sir Raife, Lady Remington is coming upstairs and would like to see you.”

Raife merely exclaimed, in a tone that indicated panic, and the exclamation consisted of one word only—a characteristically English utterance, “What!” Hastily pushing the old man out of the room, and, closing the door, he stood for a moment bewildered. Then Raife ejaculated in short, disjointed sentences: “Good heavens! The mater! What brings her here? How did she know?”

Gilda stood calmly. She had been well trained to avoid panic in an emergency.

A man ceases to be an aristocrat when he allows panic to be more than momentary. Sir Raife Remington, Bart., was an aristocrat. Gilda’s practised eye looked at the window and calculated the drop.

With a discretion inherited through generations of “service,” Twisegood had descended the old staircase.

Lady Remington, with the instinct of a mother, ascended the staircase. Her rather “exalted” tones sounded from without:

“Is this the room, Twisegood?” Her hand was upon the handle of the door.

Then did inspiration seize Raife.

Whispering hurriedly: “You go down this staircase,” pointing to the secret exit, “into the loose box at the bottom and wait your chance.”

To Gilda, who had shown such dexterity in descending by a silken rope from the library window at Aldborough Park, it was easy to find a “way out” by a staircase, even if it did lead her into a loose box in a stable!

When Lady Remington explained that the horse in her brougham had cast a shoe, and that Twisegood’s man was attending to it—and that Twisegood had said that Sir Raife was upstairs, it became easier to understand why Lady Remington was climbing those stairs at that unpropitious moment.

Sir Raife expressed his opinion of affairs to Twisegood at a later date.

Chapter Fourteen.Haunted by the Spirit of the River.There are brief times of happiness in the careers of most people, and it is a fortunate circumstance that, in the majority of instances, memory reverts to happiness rather than to misery.The gambler prefers to remember the times when he won. The joys of our youth linger in our minds until we approach the border-line of dotage. Among the joys of the youth of most of us are the joys of love. There are few who cannot remember the thrill that accompanied the first kisses with the girl we loved. The happy moments when the world was a vista of promised pleasure! There is happiness in the quiet content of drab surroundings, and there is the delirious happiness of forced gaiety. The pleasure spots of this world are many and varied. “The Great White Way” of New York has its thrills and excitements. Paris, Berlin, Vienna, and the Riviera all possess their pleasure atmosphere and zones, but the vast swing and swirl of London gaiety is a thing apart.Raife Remington and Gilda Tempest came to London to enter into what they determined should be the love zone of pleasure, which should complete their lives. By a tacit understanding, now that the first and most important stages of conquest had been acquired, the doctor did not appear more than necessary. Raife was rich enough for a full indulgence in the round of gaiety that London offers, especially to those who are to the manner born. Raife was to the manner born, and he possessed the gift of selecting those varied entertainments which appeal to most youth, but more especially to young and beautiful women.Gilda, now to a considerable extent away from the depressing and exacting influence of her uncle, experienced, for the first time, the joys of love and of comparative freedom. Her lightest whims were gratified, and together, light-heartedly, they joined the gay whirl of entertainment. Dressed in the richest attire and bejewelled, she was the observed of all, and envied by most women. By men she was admired. By the man to whom she had given her heart she was adored, and Raife had acquired a wonderful skill in courtly admiration. He was living in his old-world suite of rooms in Duke Street, St. James’s, and Gilda and her uncle occupied a suite in a new Bloomsbury hotel.September, and even October, are frequently the most kindly months in England, in the matter of genial climate, and ate more suggestive of perfect summer weather than that afforded by July.On a night in September, Raife and Gilda were dining at the Savoy Hotel. He had chosen a table, and, prior to dinner, they were overlooking the river and the embankment, with the long sweep of lights that lead mysteriously into gloom, whilst the flickering reflections of the murky Surrey side sparkled in the swiftly-moving stream at high tide. He was supremely happy. She appeared to be, but it was not possible to fathom the depths of a heart and mind that had been subordinated to the sinister workings of a hard and cruel disposition. There are few who have looked upon that ancient waterway who have not been influenced by its fascination. To-night its mystery entered into the spirit of Raife, and for a brief while he was affected by the outlook. His had been a great happiness for two weeks now, and he had chased away every grim thought in connection with Doctor Malsano and Gilda. They whispered a brief love-talk and then entered the salon, and crossed to the table which was awaiting them. The waiters performed those mystic evolutions which indicate the relative rank of the diners who are to occupy their tables. It appeared evident that Raife was a person of importance. Apart from this testimony from the waiters, he and she were evidently the cynosure of the rest of the richly-clad diners. With a gay laugh he spoke softly across the table.“Gilda, that view of the river depressed me for a while. There was something of gloom and hidden mystery about it. Shall we drink some champagne to-night?”“Yes, Raife, by all means. Don’t let a horrid river depress you. I’m never depressed now that you are mine.”The soft light from the shaded lamp fell on her lovely form. A pink glow suffused her bare arms and heaving breast. The jewels that decked her sparkled, and her wonderful, lustrous eyes looked at him with a strange, tender look as she uttered those last words, “Now that you are mine.” He answered: “Yes, Gilda, I am yours.” There seemed to be still some sense of foreboding, in spite of all the happiness of the last two weeks and the luxurious gaiety of their present surroundings. The spirit of that ancient river had left a sense of sadness which Raife could not alter. The waiter arrived opportunely with the wine, and they both drank a glass of the sparkling champagne, the wine which has made much merriment and led to much sadness.The dinner progressed with all the stateliness of service, and the exquisite choice of food which is associated with a restaurant whosechefreceives the salary of a statesman.Gilda said, during one of those intervals, when apièce de résistance, which is to follow, has justified a delay:“Oh, Raife, uncle said to-day—”With a gesture of impatience he interrupted: “Don’t tell me what your uncle said. I don’t want to know what he says. I only want to know what you say.”Then he smiled, as many another lover has smiled, who was tempted into a lapse of perfect and complete adoration of his loved one. Even in these happy conditions, where everything seemed favourable to a perfect courtship, love was on tenterhooks.The dinner was finished, and those supplementary accompaniments to the modern meal were in progress. Cigarettes—cigars—liqueurs, were in course of leisurely consumption by some people. Others were leaving, to continue their round of pleasure at theatre—revue—music-hall, or in one of the hundreds of haunts where the leisured ones congregate at night-time. Among those who were leaving were two men, both of whom carried a distinction with them. One, who was the personification of perfectly-dressed dandydom, with a drawl, nudged his companion’s elbow and indicated Raife and Gilda at their table. He whispered to his companion “I will tell you something about them presently.” The other replied: “Do, old chap! They’re a deuced handsome couple, whoever they are.” They passed out.Others were moving, and some, as they passed, bowed to Gilda. Raife could not get over the depression which had come over him as they had leant over the balustrade and gazed at the sad-looking river before dinner. He found an excuse quite early in the evening and accompanied Gilda to her hotel in Bloomsbury. There was a strained manner which had broken the chain of happiness that had lasted for two weeks. Having bade adieu to Gilda he told his chauffeur to drive him to his rooms in Duke Street. When he arrived, he hastily donned a dressing-gown, and, calling his man, ordered a fire to be lit. A disturbed mind frequently desires the solace of a fire, and Raife’s mind was perturbed with a sense of foreboding. A box of cigars, with a decanter of brandy and some soda-water, completed his equipment for a moody contemplation of affairs. As he reclined in the deep-set leather arm-chair, he appeared a perfect paragon of manhood. He was clad in a thin Japanese silk dressing-gown of many and bright-hued colours. The sombre black of his evening clothes underneath, heightened by the dazzling brilliancy of a broad expanse of shirt-front, completed the colour scheme, revealed in the subdued light from a shaded lamp on the small oriental table at his side. Trouble sat heavily on his handsome countenance, as he gazed into the crackling flames of the fire that his man, Pulman, had recently lit.“Anything more, sir?” asked that discreet person, a fine type of the unrivalled English manservant.“Nothing more, Pulman.” And as the door was being softly closed, he called out: “Oh, Pulman, I don’t want to be disturbed.”“Very good, sir,” and he retired. As he disappeared downstairs he said to himself: “Ten to one there’s a woman in the case. That ain’t at all like Sir Raife, leastways, not as I have known him all these years.” Pulman sighed a sigh of wisdom as he opened the door in the basement on his way up the area-steps to a neighbouring hostelry.Left to himself, and secure from intrusion, Raife rose from his chair and crossed the room to a small black cabinet of exquisite design. Producing a tiny bunch of keys he opened the door of the cabinet, and from a small door within, which sprung open as he touched a spring, he took forth a richly-chased and jewelled miniature frame. The miniature portrait was of Gilda Tempest. He gazed at it, and, as is the wont of young men who gaze at the portraits of their lady love in the seclusion of their own room, he touched it lightly with his lips. Then a sudden twinge seemed to attack him, and a pained expression pervaded his face. He looked at it lovingly, and muttering: “Ah! If I only knew. What is this unfathomable mystery?”—he replaced it in the drawer.Raife sat long and moodily. He helped himself freely with the brandy and soda, but the stimulant did not soothe his troubled mind.After a certain hour the streets of St. James’s are silent, and Duke Street, where Raife’s rooms were situated, is not an exception. To-night the very quietude, which is generally desirable, oppressed him further. Rising again from his chair, he removed his dressing-gown and donned a long overcoat and a golf-cap. Choosing a stout walking-stick, he went out into the night. The streets of St. James’s are well guarded by police, but the city nightbird is witty in his ways, at the same time, evasive and elusive. As Raife swung into Jermyn Street, he was conscious of a figure that slouched behind him. Stopping abruptly at the corner of St. James’s Street, he wheeled around to find that the figure was now walking in the other direction, or rather did he appear to crawl. Raife walked down St. James’s Street, and at the bottom he chartered a passing taxi. Chance enters largely into the movements of the lovelorn mind, and chance impelled him to direct the driver to Hammersmith. At the wide junction of streets called the Broadway, he dismissed the taxi and wandered around for a while. He noticed another taxi pull up almost immediately after his own, and a familiar figure in a long coat and flowing tie, got out and crossed to a coffee-stall. Curiosity prompted him to follow. Some heavy traffic impeded his progress for about half a minute, and when he reached the coffee-stall the figure had disappeared. He called for a cup of coffee which he did not drink.The trouble entered his mind again and he soliloquised: “Was he being shadowed? If so, why? Who was this mysterious figure, and where had they met before?”“Bah!” he exclaimed aloud. “What do I care?” The coffee-stall keeper looked at him, and, with a wide experience of such matters, assumed that he had been drinking.Raife sauntered away, leaving his coffee untouched, which more than ever confirmed the coffee-man’s view of the subject. Again a blind impulse steered Raife, and he found himself wandering among the queer little streets and alley-ways that fringe the riverside and lead to Hammersmith Mall. The tide was high and the dull swish of the water, as it swung past the moored barges, soothed his troubled mind for a while, and he became engrossed in the strangeness of his weird surroundings. A slight mist came off the river and added to the mystery. He had now reached that part of the Mall made famous by William Morris, and those brilliant men who founded the Kelmscott Press, and restored the merits of English typography and printing. The houses of Chiswick Mall and Hammersmith Mall are famous for their old-world charm, and many of them suggest, from without, the wealth and comfort within.Time flies quickly to the engrossed and contemplative mind. Raife had seated himself on a sort of disused capstan, and was gazing at the river as he smoked his pipe. At rare intervals, he heard footsteps in the distance, and assumed they were bargees, or other workmen, going to their nightly occupations. The rumble and clink of machinery proclaimed the proximity of a brewery that does not distinguish between night and day in its operations.Once, looking round, as he imagined footsteps that were too stealthy for those of a British workman, he fancied he saw the mysterious figure of Jermyn Street and the Broadway. He chased away the thought as merely fanciful and the result of his perturbed brain. The incident trended in his thoughts, however, towards that persistent person. Presently, it flashed through his mind and brought a crowd of recollections to him: the curious meeting with Gilda at Nice; the message conveyed by the little Italian girl among the orange groves by moonlight; the message delivered at the entrance of the café!Yes! He was sure now. It was that Apache fellow, who looked as though he might be from the Latin quarter of Paris, and yet was not. But had not Gilda told him that he was killed in the motor smash outside Cuneo? Again he said: “Bah! What does it matter? Or, what do I care?”With a suddenness that took him quite off his guard he was seized from behind. His arms were pinioned in a firm grip, whilst another man, holding a revolver, went through his pockets. As becomes an outraged Englishman, whether he be plebeian or aristocrat, Raife swore violently, and struggled viciously. At length, the man who searched his pockets, said: “It’s all right, sir, he’s got no weapon or arms.” Still holding the pistol in front, his arms were released from behind. Raife turned to face the man with the iron grip who had pinioned him so easily. Both men gave a start and an exclamation of surprise.“Good heavens! Herrion—Inspector—what’s the meaning of this?” demanded Raife.“Well,” said Inspector Herrion, for it was he, the immaculate Scarlet Pimpernel of Scotland Yard, “we hardly expected, Sir Raife, to find you here, at this hour of the night.”Raife laughed, and said: “I couldn’t sleep, so I took a stroll.”“Rather a long stroll, Sir Raife, from St. James’s to the Mall, Hammersmith, in the middle of the night,” said Herrion with a curious smile. “May I call on you in the morning, sir?” he added.“Why to be sure, I’ll be delighted to see you. But leave that infernal grip of yours behind,” and they both laughed.At this moment there was a trampling of bushes in the garden behind, the swinging and slamming of a heavy iron gate, and then a shout: “Stop him!” A cloaked form, with flowing tie, dashed past a few yards from where the trio stood. They joined in hot pursuit, but the Apache, for it was he, was fleet of foot and had a good start. Further, he seemed to know every alley and byway in this maze of wharves and streets.Taking part in the chase, Raife was handicapped by his ignorance of the neighbourhood, and, at the outset, ran into a post in the dark and placed himselfhors de combatin the matter of speed. Raife was a runner, but to charge full tilt into a post was a sore handicap. After a while, Herrion, the dapper, little detective-inspector, was the only one left in the chase, and he ran as well as the Apache, but the Apache had the start, and, with the inherited cunning of his breed, understood the art of doubling. The inspector was unfamiliar with these alleys and slums, and it looked as though the Apache had got clean away. They came to acul de sacand there was no trace of him. With the consummate skill of his class, he had vanished into space and was gone. The two policemen and Raife retraced their steps and met other officers. Herrion was not the type of man to abandon his quarry without taxing his extraordinary resources to the end. He deployed his men to the best of their knowledge of the locality.A rat will hide from its pursuer with great cunning, but even a rat will lose its way in a clumsy manner, sometimes. That Apache had reckoned without the state of the tide. He had wormed his way out of thecul de sac, and had intended to hide among some launches in one of the creeks that find their way in shore, if it had not been high tide. He had lost time, and, in his efforts to redouble his tracks, was sighted by Herrion, who at once started in pursuit. The Apache turned and ran. Something caused him to stumble, and over he plunged into the swinging tide, to be sucked under a barge and drowned—or to escape again. They searched in vain.

There are brief times of happiness in the careers of most people, and it is a fortunate circumstance that, in the majority of instances, memory reverts to happiness rather than to misery.

The gambler prefers to remember the times when he won. The joys of our youth linger in our minds until we approach the border-line of dotage. Among the joys of the youth of most of us are the joys of love. There are few who cannot remember the thrill that accompanied the first kisses with the girl we loved. The happy moments when the world was a vista of promised pleasure! There is happiness in the quiet content of drab surroundings, and there is the delirious happiness of forced gaiety. The pleasure spots of this world are many and varied. “The Great White Way” of New York has its thrills and excitements. Paris, Berlin, Vienna, and the Riviera all possess their pleasure atmosphere and zones, but the vast swing and swirl of London gaiety is a thing apart.

Raife Remington and Gilda Tempest came to London to enter into what they determined should be the love zone of pleasure, which should complete their lives. By a tacit understanding, now that the first and most important stages of conquest had been acquired, the doctor did not appear more than necessary. Raife was rich enough for a full indulgence in the round of gaiety that London offers, especially to those who are to the manner born. Raife was to the manner born, and he possessed the gift of selecting those varied entertainments which appeal to most youth, but more especially to young and beautiful women.

Gilda, now to a considerable extent away from the depressing and exacting influence of her uncle, experienced, for the first time, the joys of love and of comparative freedom. Her lightest whims were gratified, and together, light-heartedly, they joined the gay whirl of entertainment. Dressed in the richest attire and bejewelled, she was the observed of all, and envied by most women. By men she was admired. By the man to whom she had given her heart she was adored, and Raife had acquired a wonderful skill in courtly admiration. He was living in his old-world suite of rooms in Duke Street, St. James’s, and Gilda and her uncle occupied a suite in a new Bloomsbury hotel.

September, and even October, are frequently the most kindly months in England, in the matter of genial climate, and ate more suggestive of perfect summer weather than that afforded by July.

On a night in September, Raife and Gilda were dining at the Savoy Hotel. He had chosen a table, and, prior to dinner, they were overlooking the river and the embankment, with the long sweep of lights that lead mysteriously into gloom, whilst the flickering reflections of the murky Surrey side sparkled in the swiftly-moving stream at high tide. He was supremely happy. She appeared to be, but it was not possible to fathom the depths of a heart and mind that had been subordinated to the sinister workings of a hard and cruel disposition. There are few who have looked upon that ancient waterway who have not been influenced by its fascination. To-night its mystery entered into the spirit of Raife, and for a brief while he was affected by the outlook. His had been a great happiness for two weeks now, and he had chased away every grim thought in connection with Doctor Malsano and Gilda. They whispered a brief love-talk and then entered the salon, and crossed to the table which was awaiting them. The waiters performed those mystic evolutions which indicate the relative rank of the diners who are to occupy their tables. It appeared evident that Raife was a person of importance. Apart from this testimony from the waiters, he and she were evidently the cynosure of the rest of the richly-clad diners. With a gay laugh he spoke softly across the table.

“Gilda, that view of the river depressed me for a while. There was something of gloom and hidden mystery about it. Shall we drink some champagne to-night?”

“Yes, Raife, by all means. Don’t let a horrid river depress you. I’m never depressed now that you are mine.”

The soft light from the shaded lamp fell on her lovely form. A pink glow suffused her bare arms and heaving breast. The jewels that decked her sparkled, and her wonderful, lustrous eyes looked at him with a strange, tender look as she uttered those last words, “Now that you are mine.” He answered: “Yes, Gilda, I am yours.” There seemed to be still some sense of foreboding, in spite of all the happiness of the last two weeks and the luxurious gaiety of their present surroundings. The spirit of that ancient river had left a sense of sadness which Raife could not alter. The waiter arrived opportunely with the wine, and they both drank a glass of the sparkling champagne, the wine which has made much merriment and led to much sadness.

The dinner progressed with all the stateliness of service, and the exquisite choice of food which is associated with a restaurant whosechefreceives the salary of a statesman.

Gilda said, during one of those intervals, when apièce de résistance, which is to follow, has justified a delay:

“Oh, Raife, uncle said to-day—”

With a gesture of impatience he interrupted: “Don’t tell me what your uncle said. I don’t want to know what he says. I only want to know what you say.”

Then he smiled, as many another lover has smiled, who was tempted into a lapse of perfect and complete adoration of his loved one. Even in these happy conditions, where everything seemed favourable to a perfect courtship, love was on tenterhooks.

The dinner was finished, and those supplementary accompaniments to the modern meal were in progress. Cigarettes—cigars—liqueurs, were in course of leisurely consumption by some people. Others were leaving, to continue their round of pleasure at theatre—revue—music-hall, or in one of the hundreds of haunts where the leisured ones congregate at night-time. Among those who were leaving were two men, both of whom carried a distinction with them. One, who was the personification of perfectly-dressed dandydom, with a drawl, nudged his companion’s elbow and indicated Raife and Gilda at their table. He whispered to his companion “I will tell you something about them presently.” The other replied: “Do, old chap! They’re a deuced handsome couple, whoever they are.” They passed out.

Others were moving, and some, as they passed, bowed to Gilda. Raife could not get over the depression which had come over him as they had leant over the balustrade and gazed at the sad-looking river before dinner. He found an excuse quite early in the evening and accompanied Gilda to her hotel in Bloomsbury. There was a strained manner which had broken the chain of happiness that had lasted for two weeks. Having bade adieu to Gilda he told his chauffeur to drive him to his rooms in Duke Street. When he arrived, he hastily donned a dressing-gown, and, calling his man, ordered a fire to be lit. A disturbed mind frequently desires the solace of a fire, and Raife’s mind was perturbed with a sense of foreboding. A box of cigars, with a decanter of brandy and some soda-water, completed his equipment for a moody contemplation of affairs. As he reclined in the deep-set leather arm-chair, he appeared a perfect paragon of manhood. He was clad in a thin Japanese silk dressing-gown of many and bright-hued colours. The sombre black of his evening clothes underneath, heightened by the dazzling brilliancy of a broad expanse of shirt-front, completed the colour scheme, revealed in the subdued light from a shaded lamp on the small oriental table at his side. Trouble sat heavily on his handsome countenance, as he gazed into the crackling flames of the fire that his man, Pulman, had recently lit.

“Anything more, sir?” asked that discreet person, a fine type of the unrivalled English manservant.

“Nothing more, Pulman.” And as the door was being softly closed, he called out: “Oh, Pulman, I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Very good, sir,” and he retired. As he disappeared downstairs he said to himself: “Ten to one there’s a woman in the case. That ain’t at all like Sir Raife, leastways, not as I have known him all these years.” Pulman sighed a sigh of wisdom as he opened the door in the basement on his way up the area-steps to a neighbouring hostelry.

Left to himself, and secure from intrusion, Raife rose from his chair and crossed the room to a small black cabinet of exquisite design. Producing a tiny bunch of keys he opened the door of the cabinet, and from a small door within, which sprung open as he touched a spring, he took forth a richly-chased and jewelled miniature frame. The miniature portrait was of Gilda Tempest. He gazed at it, and, as is the wont of young men who gaze at the portraits of their lady love in the seclusion of their own room, he touched it lightly with his lips. Then a sudden twinge seemed to attack him, and a pained expression pervaded his face. He looked at it lovingly, and muttering: “Ah! If I only knew. What is this unfathomable mystery?”—he replaced it in the drawer.

Raife sat long and moodily. He helped himself freely with the brandy and soda, but the stimulant did not soothe his troubled mind.

After a certain hour the streets of St. James’s are silent, and Duke Street, where Raife’s rooms were situated, is not an exception. To-night the very quietude, which is generally desirable, oppressed him further. Rising again from his chair, he removed his dressing-gown and donned a long overcoat and a golf-cap. Choosing a stout walking-stick, he went out into the night. The streets of St. James’s are well guarded by police, but the city nightbird is witty in his ways, at the same time, evasive and elusive. As Raife swung into Jermyn Street, he was conscious of a figure that slouched behind him. Stopping abruptly at the corner of St. James’s Street, he wheeled around to find that the figure was now walking in the other direction, or rather did he appear to crawl. Raife walked down St. James’s Street, and at the bottom he chartered a passing taxi. Chance enters largely into the movements of the lovelorn mind, and chance impelled him to direct the driver to Hammersmith. At the wide junction of streets called the Broadway, he dismissed the taxi and wandered around for a while. He noticed another taxi pull up almost immediately after his own, and a familiar figure in a long coat and flowing tie, got out and crossed to a coffee-stall. Curiosity prompted him to follow. Some heavy traffic impeded his progress for about half a minute, and when he reached the coffee-stall the figure had disappeared. He called for a cup of coffee which he did not drink.

The trouble entered his mind again and he soliloquised: “Was he being shadowed? If so, why? Who was this mysterious figure, and where had they met before?”

“Bah!” he exclaimed aloud. “What do I care?” The coffee-stall keeper looked at him, and, with a wide experience of such matters, assumed that he had been drinking.

Raife sauntered away, leaving his coffee untouched, which more than ever confirmed the coffee-man’s view of the subject. Again a blind impulse steered Raife, and he found himself wandering among the queer little streets and alley-ways that fringe the riverside and lead to Hammersmith Mall. The tide was high and the dull swish of the water, as it swung past the moored barges, soothed his troubled mind for a while, and he became engrossed in the strangeness of his weird surroundings. A slight mist came off the river and added to the mystery. He had now reached that part of the Mall made famous by William Morris, and those brilliant men who founded the Kelmscott Press, and restored the merits of English typography and printing. The houses of Chiswick Mall and Hammersmith Mall are famous for their old-world charm, and many of them suggest, from without, the wealth and comfort within.

Time flies quickly to the engrossed and contemplative mind. Raife had seated himself on a sort of disused capstan, and was gazing at the river as he smoked his pipe. At rare intervals, he heard footsteps in the distance, and assumed they were bargees, or other workmen, going to their nightly occupations. The rumble and clink of machinery proclaimed the proximity of a brewery that does not distinguish between night and day in its operations.

Once, looking round, as he imagined footsteps that were too stealthy for those of a British workman, he fancied he saw the mysterious figure of Jermyn Street and the Broadway. He chased away the thought as merely fanciful and the result of his perturbed brain. The incident trended in his thoughts, however, towards that persistent person. Presently, it flashed through his mind and brought a crowd of recollections to him: the curious meeting with Gilda at Nice; the message conveyed by the little Italian girl among the orange groves by moonlight; the message delivered at the entrance of the café!

Yes! He was sure now. It was that Apache fellow, who looked as though he might be from the Latin quarter of Paris, and yet was not. But had not Gilda told him that he was killed in the motor smash outside Cuneo? Again he said: “Bah! What does it matter? Or, what do I care?”

With a suddenness that took him quite off his guard he was seized from behind. His arms were pinioned in a firm grip, whilst another man, holding a revolver, went through his pockets. As becomes an outraged Englishman, whether he be plebeian or aristocrat, Raife swore violently, and struggled viciously. At length, the man who searched his pockets, said: “It’s all right, sir, he’s got no weapon or arms.” Still holding the pistol in front, his arms were released from behind. Raife turned to face the man with the iron grip who had pinioned him so easily. Both men gave a start and an exclamation of surprise.

“Good heavens! Herrion—Inspector—what’s the meaning of this?” demanded Raife.

“Well,” said Inspector Herrion, for it was he, the immaculate Scarlet Pimpernel of Scotland Yard, “we hardly expected, Sir Raife, to find you here, at this hour of the night.”

Raife laughed, and said: “I couldn’t sleep, so I took a stroll.”

“Rather a long stroll, Sir Raife, from St. James’s to the Mall, Hammersmith, in the middle of the night,” said Herrion with a curious smile. “May I call on you in the morning, sir?” he added.

“Why to be sure, I’ll be delighted to see you. But leave that infernal grip of yours behind,” and they both laughed.

At this moment there was a trampling of bushes in the garden behind, the swinging and slamming of a heavy iron gate, and then a shout: “Stop him!” A cloaked form, with flowing tie, dashed past a few yards from where the trio stood. They joined in hot pursuit, but the Apache, for it was he, was fleet of foot and had a good start. Further, he seemed to know every alley and byway in this maze of wharves and streets.

Taking part in the chase, Raife was handicapped by his ignorance of the neighbourhood, and, at the outset, ran into a post in the dark and placed himselfhors de combatin the matter of speed. Raife was a runner, but to charge full tilt into a post was a sore handicap. After a while, Herrion, the dapper, little detective-inspector, was the only one left in the chase, and he ran as well as the Apache, but the Apache had the start, and, with the inherited cunning of his breed, understood the art of doubling. The inspector was unfamiliar with these alleys and slums, and it looked as though the Apache had got clean away. They came to acul de sacand there was no trace of him. With the consummate skill of his class, he had vanished into space and was gone. The two policemen and Raife retraced their steps and met other officers. Herrion was not the type of man to abandon his quarry without taxing his extraordinary resources to the end. He deployed his men to the best of their knowledge of the locality.

A rat will hide from its pursuer with great cunning, but even a rat will lose its way in a clumsy manner, sometimes. That Apache had reckoned without the state of the tide. He had wormed his way out of thecul de sac, and had intended to hide among some launches in one of the creeks that find their way in shore, if it had not been high tide. He had lost time, and, in his efforts to redouble his tracks, was sighted by Herrion, who at once started in pursuit. The Apache turned and ran. Something caused him to stumble, and over he plunged into the swinging tide, to be sucked under a barge and drowned—or to escape again. They searched in vain.

Chapter Fifteen.Raife’s Resolve.On the day succeeding Raife’s night excursion, having refreshed himself by a little sleep, that had come readily after the night’s adventure, and those aids that come to a rich man in rooms in St. James’s, he was planning a day’s pleasure-hunting with Gilda. He was writing a note, making an appointment, when his man, Pulman, entered and announced a visitor. “Mr Herrion wishes to see you, sir.”“Ask him in, Pulman, I’ll see him at once,” said Raife.Inspector Herrion entered, immaculately clad, as usual, but without the drawl in his speech which he used principally at society functions, and when he felt it would serve him in his work.“Good morning, Herrion,” said Raife, cheerily, and with extended hand. “What were we chasing that fellow last night for? I got so keen on the hunt, I forgot to ask what it was all about.”Herrion smiled a cryptic smile, and then said solemnly: “Sir Raife, I want to speak very seriously to you on a subject that concerns you deeply, and the rest of your family.”“Great Scott! Herrion, what’s the meaning of this? What’s it all about? You look like an undertaker. Come, my dear fellow, what’s it all about?”“Well, Sir Raife, I am speaking to you entirely outside my professional capacity. If you take offence, I can’t help it. I shall be very sorry, but, I repeat, I can’t help it. It is the high regard in which I hold you and your family that prompts me to speak.”Raife laughed heartily and said: “Come, come, Herrion, you’re getting worse and worse. I shan’t take offence. Sail ahead and tell me all about it. First of all, have a drink.”“Well, I take you at your word, but please listen to me to the end.”Raife dispensed the drinks and Herrion proceeded:“The man we chased last night was one of a gang of burglars. I had word they were making an attempt on Gildersley House, which contains a lot of valuable property, and there is jewellery and plate, too. I was right. Somehow, we did not succeed in catching them. When I seized you, I did not, of course, recognise you, and I thought you were one of the gang.”Raife intervened. “I think that’s rather amusing, don’t you?”“No, Sir Raife, I fear not. That Apache-looking fellow is practically in the employ of a certain Doctor Malsano.”Raife started, and his expression became engrossed.“The important part of what I want to say is,” proceeded the detective, “that, although it is merely a coincidence that you should have been in the middle of the night on the scene of an attempted burglary, I saw you, earlier in the evening, dining at the Savoy with a Miss Gilda Tempest, who is supposed to be the niece of this Doctor Malsano.”Raife sprang from his seat and said: “Come, come, Herrion, I can’t hear a word against Miss Tempest.”“I ask you to keep cool, Sir Raife, until I explain to you how serious is the situation. It is incredible to feel that your good name—Sir Raife Remington—should be associated with a gang of continental swindlers, of whom this lady is the decoy.”Again Raife hotly intervened. “I must ask you, Herrion, not to drag Miss Tempest’s name into the dust.”“It is true, I think you will agree, that my professional position entitles me to speak.”Raife winced, but his was not the nature to give in easily. In spite of his own personal knowledge of the doctor, and of Gilda, he loved the girl dearly, and love is blind—sometimes to the point of madness.Herrion continued: “I assure you, in confidence, that Doctor Malsano and Miss Tempest are liable to arrest at any moment. When I was in Nice, a short while ago, they had a plan for stealing the Baroness von Sassniltz’s jewels. She was staying at the Hôtel Royal, and so were they. In addition, this Apache-looking fellow, who fell in the river last night, was in their service for the purpose. He was employed as a messenger, and I had him removed. I had other work on and could not stay to protect the baroness’s jewels. I did my best in the circumstances. The doctor caught sight of me in the hotel, and he, and his niece, disappeared at once.”This was circumstantial enough, and, but for the obstinate strain in all young lovers, would have carried conviction. Raife remained obdurate, almost defiant, but the skilled observation of the famous detective noticed that he was wavering. With great dignity and deliberation he added: “Sir Raife Remington, in your own interests, I beg of you to abandon this mad alliance. It is suicidal.”Raife rose from his chair and walked slowly around the room. He mixed himself a whisky and soda, and drank the contents at a gulp. He crossed the room to Herrion, and, extending his hand, said:“Herrion, you are right. I thank you heartily for your most disinterested action. I will abandon the whole accursed crew. They have blighted my life.”The strong, stern, little man, relentless in the conviction of crime, unwavering in the performance of his duty, had saved a man’s name—a family name. A whimsical smile spread over his countenance as he left the room.Two days later Gilda Tempest received a letter from Raife. It was brief, and to the point. It stated that it was his duty not to be associated with a man whom he was convinced was an unscrupulous criminal. He expressed regrets and bade farewell.Gilda’s wonderful, beautiful, and yet inscrutable face did not tell how much she suffered. Doctor Malsano was furious, and showed growing signs of weakness by allowing his passion to get beyond control.A few days after the foregoing events, Raife Remington, accompanied by Colonel Langton, was on his way to Egypt. Colonel Langton was a big-game shooter, and a club friend of some years standing. Their intention was to make for Khartoum and thence up the Blue Nile.“The Nile-guarded city, the desert-bound city,The city of Gordon’s doom.The womanless city, cradleless city,The city of men—Khartoum.”This was to be the goal of Raife Remington who had emerged from a great crisis, the crisis of a dangerous passion for a woman. A passion for a beautiful woman—but a woman whose very presence seemed to herald trouble. The big game was to be found beyond Meshrael Zerak, and he was to forget the loss of his love, with the companionship of his friend, Colonel Langton, among the mysterious and unfathomable Arabs of the desert.Some men are destined, by nature, to live in an atmosphere of altered plans or broken hopes. Raife Remington’s inheritance had, so far, been attended by both. Raife got to Khartoum, but he did not reach Meshrael Zerak; there were other plans for him. When he and Colonel Langton arrived at Khartoum, there remained much to be done before it was possible to get together the entire outfit necessary to a big-game shooting expedition. Colonel Langton’s experience was essential to this part of the work, and Raife took the opportunity of seeing what there is of the fantastic life of the desert city of Khartoum. In the daytime the city slumbers, and when the stars or moon rise, there is life. There are cafés in Khartoum, as well as poultry-farms, in this late land of the Mahdi and incredible horrors. Raife selected a seat at a café from which point of vantage to observe the passers-by on the broad plank walk. He called for a bottle of Greek wine, an impossible concoction, less for his consumption than as a passport or ticket for the use of the table and chair, and the enjoyment of the vantage point of observation. There were many other tables at which men sat, for be it remembered that Khartoum is “The womanless city, the cradleless city. The city of men.” They were men of many nations, from Greece, Sicily, Roumania, and nomadic Semitics from no one knows where. The British conquerors govern there, as in so much of the east and south, not by weight of numbers, but by the inherited knowledge that he is pre-eminently the sahib, the acknowledged ruler in such quarters.There was not much of comfort in the café of Raife’s choice. The Greek wine was bad, the food he called for was worse. A couple of arc lights shed a flickering brilliance which revealed myriad insects of all sizes and shapes, and possessed of malignity in varying degree. They fell in shoals all over the place and created a sense of nausea. In spite of all this, overhead was the deep-blue vault of the unfathomable skies flecked by a million stars. The stolid, sulky silence of the dusky Arabs, in every variety of costumes, which include the turban, the tarboosh, loose, flapping drawers, and the coarse woven jibba, added to a melancholy sense. If it were possible to supplement Raife’s dejection, that was achieved by the snuffling dogs who sought garbage under chair and table, and a certain smell which belongs to much of the East.Raife tired of the café, the plank walk, and his neighbours. He rose from the table, paid hisadditionand sauntered away. He was passing a narrow, evil-smelling street of the native quarter when he heard blows and cries. Raife, being unfamiliar with Oriental methods, sought a reason for the disturbance, imagining that a good row would cause a diversion and relieve the monotony of the last few hours. He proceeded down the street and discovered that there was a woman in Khartoum, and she was being beaten by a big, dusky Nubian. The woman seemed to look appealingly at Raife, and he, with all the proper, but, in the circumstances, unwise impulse of a normal man of the West, sailed in and hit that Nubian many blows with his useful fists. He should then have beaten a hasty retreat, but he did not. The result of this later indiscretion was that he received from somebody, from somewhere, a stab in the shoulder, which taught him some of the wisdom necessary in the Orient. He found his way back to his hotel, and the regimental surgeon, being sent for, treated the wound, which, though not very serious, would take a long time to heal in a place like Khartoum.When Colonel Langton returned from purchasing water-bags, sacks, girths for camels, and many of the articles necessary for a well-equipped caravan, he discovered Raife bound up in bandages, and the regimental surgeon putting on the finishing touches to a very neat job of surgery. Having learnt the cause of things, the Colonel swore, in a characteristic fashion, at the prospect of his plans for big-game shooting being at least altered, if not indefinitely postponed.The news of the occurrence spread, and a few of the officers called on Raife to learn about it. The story having been repeated several times, headed by Colonel Langton, the regimental surgeon and each visitor, in turn, talked interminable lectures on the folly of Raife’s action.Raife’s pride, as well as his shoulder, was sorely hurt. He felt he had made an ass of himself, and that these fellows, with their experience, were inwardly laughing at him. He cursed the fact that, for the second time, a woman had landed him in trouble.His days at Khartoum were very miserable. His wound would not heal and he saw that he would be a drag on the expedition if he started. He decided to return to Cairo, and try and patch himself up there.

On the day succeeding Raife’s night excursion, having refreshed himself by a little sleep, that had come readily after the night’s adventure, and those aids that come to a rich man in rooms in St. James’s, he was planning a day’s pleasure-hunting with Gilda. He was writing a note, making an appointment, when his man, Pulman, entered and announced a visitor. “Mr Herrion wishes to see you, sir.”

“Ask him in, Pulman, I’ll see him at once,” said Raife.

Inspector Herrion entered, immaculately clad, as usual, but without the drawl in his speech which he used principally at society functions, and when he felt it would serve him in his work.

“Good morning, Herrion,” said Raife, cheerily, and with extended hand. “What were we chasing that fellow last night for? I got so keen on the hunt, I forgot to ask what it was all about.”

Herrion smiled a cryptic smile, and then said solemnly: “Sir Raife, I want to speak very seriously to you on a subject that concerns you deeply, and the rest of your family.”

“Great Scott! Herrion, what’s the meaning of this? What’s it all about? You look like an undertaker. Come, my dear fellow, what’s it all about?”

“Well, Sir Raife, I am speaking to you entirely outside my professional capacity. If you take offence, I can’t help it. I shall be very sorry, but, I repeat, I can’t help it. It is the high regard in which I hold you and your family that prompts me to speak.”

Raife laughed heartily and said: “Come, come, Herrion, you’re getting worse and worse. I shan’t take offence. Sail ahead and tell me all about it. First of all, have a drink.”

“Well, I take you at your word, but please listen to me to the end.”

Raife dispensed the drinks and Herrion proceeded:

“The man we chased last night was one of a gang of burglars. I had word they were making an attempt on Gildersley House, which contains a lot of valuable property, and there is jewellery and plate, too. I was right. Somehow, we did not succeed in catching them. When I seized you, I did not, of course, recognise you, and I thought you were one of the gang.”

Raife intervened. “I think that’s rather amusing, don’t you?”

“No, Sir Raife, I fear not. That Apache-looking fellow is practically in the employ of a certain Doctor Malsano.”

Raife started, and his expression became engrossed.

“The important part of what I want to say is,” proceeded the detective, “that, although it is merely a coincidence that you should have been in the middle of the night on the scene of an attempted burglary, I saw you, earlier in the evening, dining at the Savoy with a Miss Gilda Tempest, who is supposed to be the niece of this Doctor Malsano.”

Raife sprang from his seat and said: “Come, come, Herrion, I can’t hear a word against Miss Tempest.”

“I ask you to keep cool, Sir Raife, until I explain to you how serious is the situation. It is incredible to feel that your good name—Sir Raife Remington—should be associated with a gang of continental swindlers, of whom this lady is the decoy.”

Again Raife hotly intervened. “I must ask you, Herrion, not to drag Miss Tempest’s name into the dust.”

“It is true, I think you will agree, that my professional position entitles me to speak.”

Raife winced, but his was not the nature to give in easily. In spite of his own personal knowledge of the doctor, and of Gilda, he loved the girl dearly, and love is blind—sometimes to the point of madness.

Herrion continued: “I assure you, in confidence, that Doctor Malsano and Miss Tempest are liable to arrest at any moment. When I was in Nice, a short while ago, they had a plan for stealing the Baroness von Sassniltz’s jewels. She was staying at the Hôtel Royal, and so were they. In addition, this Apache-looking fellow, who fell in the river last night, was in their service for the purpose. He was employed as a messenger, and I had him removed. I had other work on and could not stay to protect the baroness’s jewels. I did my best in the circumstances. The doctor caught sight of me in the hotel, and he, and his niece, disappeared at once.”

This was circumstantial enough, and, but for the obstinate strain in all young lovers, would have carried conviction. Raife remained obdurate, almost defiant, but the skilled observation of the famous detective noticed that he was wavering. With great dignity and deliberation he added: “Sir Raife Remington, in your own interests, I beg of you to abandon this mad alliance. It is suicidal.”

Raife rose from his chair and walked slowly around the room. He mixed himself a whisky and soda, and drank the contents at a gulp. He crossed the room to Herrion, and, extending his hand, said:

“Herrion, you are right. I thank you heartily for your most disinterested action. I will abandon the whole accursed crew. They have blighted my life.”

The strong, stern, little man, relentless in the conviction of crime, unwavering in the performance of his duty, had saved a man’s name—a family name. A whimsical smile spread over his countenance as he left the room.

Two days later Gilda Tempest received a letter from Raife. It was brief, and to the point. It stated that it was his duty not to be associated with a man whom he was convinced was an unscrupulous criminal. He expressed regrets and bade farewell.

Gilda’s wonderful, beautiful, and yet inscrutable face did not tell how much she suffered. Doctor Malsano was furious, and showed growing signs of weakness by allowing his passion to get beyond control.

A few days after the foregoing events, Raife Remington, accompanied by Colonel Langton, was on his way to Egypt. Colonel Langton was a big-game shooter, and a club friend of some years standing. Their intention was to make for Khartoum and thence up the Blue Nile.

“The Nile-guarded city, the desert-bound city,The city of Gordon’s doom.The womanless city, cradleless city,The city of men—Khartoum.”

“The Nile-guarded city, the desert-bound city,The city of Gordon’s doom.The womanless city, cradleless city,The city of men—Khartoum.”

This was to be the goal of Raife Remington who had emerged from a great crisis, the crisis of a dangerous passion for a woman. A passion for a beautiful woman—but a woman whose very presence seemed to herald trouble. The big game was to be found beyond Meshrael Zerak, and he was to forget the loss of his love, with the companionship of his friend, Colonel Langton, among the mysterious and unfathomable Arabs of the desert.

Some men are destined, by nature, to live in an atmosphere of altered plans or broken hopes. Raife Remington’s inheritance had, so far, been attended by both. Raife got to Khartoum, but he did not reach Meshrael Zerak; there were other plans for him. When he and Colonel Langton arrived at Khartoum, there remained much to be done before it was possible to get together the entire outfit necessary to a big-game shooting expedition. Colonel Langton’s experience was essential to this part of the work, and Raife took the opportunity of seeing what there is of the fantastic life of the desert city of Khartoum. In the daytime the city slumbers, and when the stars or moon rise, there is life. There are cafés in Khartoum, as well as poultry-farms, in this late land of the Mahdi and incredible horrors. Raife selected a seat at a café from which point of vantage to observe the passers-by on the broad plank walk. He called for a bottle of Greek wine, an impossible concoction, less for his consumption than as a passport or ticket for the use of the table and chair, and the enjoyment of the vantage point of observation. There were many other tables at which men sat, for be it remembered that Khartoum is “The womanless city, the cradleless city. The city of men.” They were men of many nations, from Greece, Sicily, Roumania, and nomadic Semitics from no one knows where. The British conquerors govern there, as in so much of the east and south, not by weight of numbers, but by the inherited knowledge that he is pre-eminently the sahib, the acknowledged ruler in such quarters.

There was not much of comfort in the café of Raife’s choice. The Greek wine was bad, the food he called for was worse. A couple of arc lights shed a flickering brilliance which revealed myriad insects of all sizes and shapes, and possessed of malignity in varying degree. They fell in shoals all over the place and created a sense of nausea. In spite of all this, overhead was the deep-blue vault of the unfathomable skies flecked by a million stars. The stolid, sulky silence of the dusky Arabs, in every variety of costumes, which include the turban, the tarboosh, loose, flapping drawers, and the coarse woven jibba, added to a melancholy sense. If it were possible to supplement Raife’s dejection, that was achieved by the snuffling dogs who sought garbage under chair and table, and a certain smell which belongs to much of the East.

Raife tired of the café, the plank walk, and his neighbours. He rose from the table, paid hisadditionand sauntered away. He was passing a narrow, evil-smelling street of the native quarter when he heard blows and cries. Raife, being unfamiliar with Oriental methods, sought a reason for the disturbance, imagining that a good row would cause a diversion and relieve the monotony of the last few hours. He proceeded down the street and discovered that there was a woman in Khartoum, and she was being beaten by a big, dusky Nubian. The woman seemed to look appealingly at Raife, and he, with all the proper, but, in the circumstances, unwise impulse of a normal man of the West, sailed in and hit that Nubian many blows with his useful fists. He should then have beaten a hasty retreat, but he did not. The result of this later indiscretion was that he received from somebody, from somewhere, a stab in the shoulder, which taught him some of the wisdom necessary in the Orient. He found his way back to his hotel, and the regimental surgeon, being sent for, treated the wound, which, though not very serious, would take a long time to heal in a place like Khartoum.

When Colonel Langton returned from purchasing water-bags, sacks, girths for camels, and many of the articles necessary for a well-equipped caravan, he discovered Raife bound up in bandages, and the regimental surgeon putting on the finishing touches to a very neat job of surgery. Having learnt the cause of things, the Colonel swore, in a characteristic fashion, at the prospect of his plans for big-game shooting being at least altered, if not indefinitely postponed.

The news of the occurrence spread, and a few of the officers called on Raife to learn about it. The story having been repeated several times, headed by Colonel Langton, the regimental surgeon and each visitor, in turn, talked interminable lectures on the folly of Raife’s action.

Raife’s pride, as well as his shoulder, was sorely hurt. He felt he had made an ass of himself, and that these fellows, with their experience, were inwardly laughing at him. He cursed the fact that, for the second time, a woman had landed him in trouble.

His days at Khartoum were very miserable. His wound would not heal and he saw that he would be a drag on the expedition if he started. He decided to return to Cairo, and try and patch himself up there.

Chapter Sixteen.The Mysterious Stab in the Dark.A few weeks after Raife’s unfortunate interference in a Nubian’s domestic affairs at Khartoum, he was reclining amid soft cushions on the piazza of Shepheard’s Hotel at Cairo.There may be no women in Khartoum—at least, there was one, who, being in trouble herself, made trouble for Raife—but there are women at Cairo. Just what the attraction is, no one really knows. It is hot and dusty. There are flies, mosquitoes, and plenty of other irritating little things in Cairo. But Shepheard’s Hotel is generally full of visitors, and there is a predominance of gaily and richly-dressed women. They come from all countries and speak many languages. The language that one hears more than any is that of the United States of America. Americans do not, individually, stay longer, but there are more of them, therefore the supply is greater. Further, the American woman is a good talker; that is, she talks quickly and talks quite a good deal. There are several of them who talk very well.Exclusiveness used to be the prerogative of the English to a greater extent than most other countries. As the English are becoming less exclusive, so American women are cultivating the habit. The new generation of American women have cultivated, almost inherited, a score or more of little habits, mannerisms—perhaps affectations, which are quite charming to the impressionable young English person. There is a certaingaucherieabout the English which, in turn, retains a charm for the American woman. They would openly hate one another if it were not for these peculiarities, which make the one interesting to the other.The limelight of publicity has always been turned on to the American boy and girl from infancy. For that reason they have never suffered from shyness. Until recently there has been an excess of privacy in the lives of the English of most ages. That has been altered, and now there are English girls who can rock a chair level with any girl from Kentucky to California.Of course, the voice question had almost as much vogue as the colour question. That, in turn, has been altered. There are as many soft contraltos, or, at least, mezzo-sopranos coming from the United States as from England nowadays. Altogether, there is less need for antagonism and more need for good fellowship between the United States and Great Britain, than at any period since “The Great Misunderstanding” of a hundred years ago. This helps to explain the circumstances of the very rapid friendship that had sprung up between Sir Raife Remington, Bart., of Aldborough Park, and Miss Hilda Muirhead, the daughter of Reginald Pomeroy Muirhead, Esq., President of the Fifth State Bank of Illinois, U.S.A.In writing of Americans it has ever been customary to allude to their wealth, of which many people possess an exaggerated estimate. The successful American is, frequently, very generous, and it is from that freedom and generosity that the exaggerated notion springs.Mr Reginald Pomeroy Muirhead was not a very wealthy man, but he was a prosperous man, and a generous man, a fine and courtly type of the American banker.His daughter, Hilda, who had formed such a rapid friendship with Raife Remington, on the piazza—the balcony—in the drawing-room—on the staircase—in the foyer—or any of those places where friendships are made abroad, calls for more description.Hilda Muirhead was not more than twenty. In some respects she had the knowledge and experience of a woman of thirty. In other respects she was a simpleingénue, with the attractive grace of a gazelle-like child. The latter was her natural mood and attitude. The former had been acquired and thrust upon her by the bitterness of cruel experience at an immature period of her life.She had a gift of talk, and the charm of her conversation won for her the attention which invariably ended in admiration. Many girls, of any nationality, do not realise the value of natural and intellectual conversation. Her father had seen to it that Hilda did. Hilda’s mother died in her infancy, leaving Hilda an only child of a devoted and gentle parent.Hilda’s appearance was striking in the extreme, and if she had been of the “abounding” type who flaunt themselves for admiration, she would have, in an obsolete vernacular, “swept the board.” Her restraint and lack of self-consciousness were an addition to her charm.Her hair was a glory to behold. Few had seen the full extent of that glory of her womanhood. Her old nigger “mammy” was almost the only one who had seen it in its full maturity. Her face had an indefinable irregularity of contour, and showed the southern blood in her veins. Her eyes were only large when she opened them under some strong emotion. They were not of that pertinacious, staring type, that are aggressively anxious to attract on all occasions. Her eyes were grey, and constructed for the purpose of normal sight and restrained emotion—but they were beautiful eyes.The form of her lips had not been moulded into beauty by an assumed pout, nor were they distorted by youthful grimace. They were just wholesome lips, that helped her to talk, and laugh and sing. The rest of her face was in perfect harmony. It was not classical on the lines of a Grecian statue, nor an Italian Madonna. It was a modern, fascinating, yet dignified face.A broken arm or a bandaged wound invariably attract attention and sympathy, especially from women. Raife’s bandaged shoulder, which necessitated that the right sleeve should remain empty, attracted the attention of the women at Shepheard’s Hotel. His Apollo-like appearance added to the effect when he arrived. In addition to the side glances in his direction, as he reclined on a long wicker chair, shaded from the hot sun which streamed from above, he had to endure the bold stares of the more brazen-faced. At this time, Raife had suffered from two women, and he was, for the present, at least, a woman-hater. He, therefore, refused to notice any of the glances that he received, whatever their nature might be. The balcony piazza and foyer of an hotel are very like the deck of an ocean steamer, and it is not possible for an invalid to resist the advances of those who wish to be polite and render aid.Raife and Hilda Muirhead met in such a manner. The foyer was almost deserted, and Raife dropped his book just out of reach. Hilda Muirhead and her father were passing. Hilda darted forward and restored the book to Raife, who thanked her.Mr Muirhead remarked: “I hope your injury is not serious, sir?”To which Raife replied: “Oh, no. It is just a slight dagger wound.”Hilda exclaimed, involuntarily: “A dagger!” Even in Egypt men are not frequently suffering from dagger wounds, and the word has a shudder in its sound.Mr Muirhead said, smilingly: “There is generally romance surrounding a dagger wound, sir. If it would not bore or distress you, perhaps, some time later, you might feel inclined to tell us as much as you care.”Raife thought to himself: “Oh, hang these people. Why don’t they go away? She’s a charming girl, though.”As he thought, Mr Muirhead, with a promptitude characteristic of Americans, produced his card, and, proffering it, said: “Here is my card, sir. I am a very humble American citizen. My daughter and I occupy the suite on the first floor, facing north. I shall take it as a compliment, if you should have a dull few minutes to spare, that you should honour us with a visit. We shall be here, or hereabouts, for a week or two.”Even in Cairo the warmth of the old gentleman’s invitation appeared rather sudden to Raife. However, he had not been in the United States, and had met few Americans. He certainly had not met one who combined so much courtliness of manner and dignity as Mr Reginald Pomeroy Muirhead, of the Fifth State Bank of Illinois, and father of a charming daughter with a musical voice.Raife forgot he was a woman-hater. He replied, “I’m sorry I haven’t got a card with me, and, if I had, I couldn’t get at it with this confounded shoulder. My name is Remington, sir, and I’m an Englishman. I will try to avail myself of your very kind invitation.”As they departed, Raife, for the first time, saw those lips that helped Hilda Muirhead “to talk and laugh, and to sing.” He also encountered her eyes that were for the purpose “of normal sight and restrained emotion.” On this occasion it was a sympathetic emotion.When they had gone out into the hot sun for one of those expeditions on donkeys, that are such an attraction to visitors to Egypt, Raife contemplated. In the end he had determined that he would not accept Mr Muirhead’s invitation to visit them in his suite. He hated the sound of the word “suite,” anyhow.It is dull work for a strong young man to recline in a wicker chair, to smoke and to read all day in a hotel, whether it be in Cairo or elsewhere. To refuse the advances of a hundred eyes of every hue, and to maintain a stoical indifference to every one around, because one has suffered at the hands of two women was a brave endeavour. Raife confined himself to his own rooms and dined in solitary state for three days. At the end of that time his desire for companionship of some kind was uncontrollable.Raife sat in the foyer once more, and Mr Muirhead came across to him with an air of urbanity. “Ah, Mr Remington! We have not seen you during the last few days. I hope your wound has not been troubling you.”Raife stood up and looking straight at the genial, old gentleman, said: “No, Mr Muirhead, not much; but the doctors have told me that if I don’t keep quiet, I shall have complications, and I am already tired of ‘keeping quiet,’ as they call it.”“Well, Mr Remington, if you are tired of keeping quiet by yourself and you will dine with me to-night, in my room, I promise you quietude, and, at the same time, it may prove a relaxation to you.”Raife could not refuse the invitation offered so gracefully, and he accepted.When Raife was announced that evening, in Mr Muirhead’s suite of rooms, the first impression he received was that a very ordinary hotel room had been transformed into a bower of flowers and blossom, and that there were many evidences of home life around it in the shape of daintily-framed photographs and tiny ornaments representative of many countries. The arrangement of flowers on the dinner-table which awaited them, showed that an appreciative hand had tended them. Mr Muirhead received his guest, and after the ordinary interchange of greetings, sounded a gong which brought a dusky attendant.“Mr Remington, may I have the privilege of mixing for you an American cocktail?” said his host. “There are many spurious editions of the cocktail throughout Europe, and, indeed, the world; but it is essentially an American drink, and, if you will allow me to play the part of ‘bar-tender,’ I think I may please you.”Mr Muirhead’s cocktail, which he mixed from the ingredients handed to him by the attendant, was a superlative success.Raife said: “Splendid! how do you do it?”At this moment Hilda Muirhead entered.The Oriental atmosphere at night-time is a thing apart. There is a subtle, undefinable charm about an Oriental apartment, which combines with it just sufficient of the modern to add to luxury. Mr Muirhead’s reception-room had been adapted as a dining-room for Raife’s benefit, and was sumptuous. There were rich oriental draperies and soft divans, with subdued lights; in the centre, a perfectly-appointed dinner-table for three, on which was cream-coloured napery, silver, cutlery and sparkling glass. The whole scene was a wealth of many colours, subdued and harmonised. The sombre black and white of the Western evening dress of men took its place in the soft light and deep shadows. This was the setting and background when Hilda Muirhead entered the room.The introduction was both formal and informal. “Mr Remington, I present my daughter, my only daughter.” Then to Hilda he said: “Are you ready, my dear; shall dinner be served?”They were, indeed, a handsome trio around the table in the rich apartment of a hundred colours, lights and shadows all welded.Skilled were the movements of the attendants which brought the dishes—theplatswhich Mr Muirhead had ordered well, as a polished and travelled American.Raife hated women less at that time than for many months past. Hilda Muirhead displayed the well-bred and experienced side of her character, and made a charming hostess. Her delicately-tinted, clinging gown revealed a neck and bust of daintily-tinted alabaster, with rounded arms. A pearl necklace was the only article of jewellery that supplemented this confection, which adorned a simple American girl. The environment, the charm of Mr Muirhead’s conversation, and the subdued grace of the fascinating girl who confronted him, presented to Raife an aspect of “Americanhood” that he had not conceived possible. There are many degrees of trippers from the United States and elsewhere. If these were trippers, then they possessed an exalted rank amongst trippers. No! they were not trippers. They were aristocrats of a type that Sir Raife Remington, Bart., had not previously encountered.The dinner was finished and the coffee was served. Hilda had retired and the two men smoked cigarettes. Mr Muirhead, after a silence of a minute or two, said, “Mr Remington, I do not wish to intrude on any subject that may be unpleasant to you. Your allusion, the other day, to the fact that your wound was due to a blow from a dagger interested me very much at the time, and I have thought of it several times since. May I ask, I do not press the question, which may even appear impertinent—may I ask, was it—er—was it an accident?”Raife smiled as he said: “No, there is no secret about it, although I am rather ashamed of the business. It made me appear such a fool, and has spoilt a big-game hunting expedition I had started on. I should be much further south by now, and probably mauled by some big beast I had failed to hit. So, perhaps, it’s just as well.”Mr Muirhead was evidently interested. Big-game shooting is known mostly in America by the exploits of an ex-president, whose deeds were, at the same time, exploited and travestied by a Press peculiar to the country.He interrupted: “Do you mind if I ask my daughter to join us again. I am sure the story will interest her so much. Do you mind? You are sure you don’t mind?”It was impossible for Raife “to mind,” and he assented.When Mr Muirhead returned, followed by Hilda Muirhead, every atom of Raife’s hatred of women had vanished. She had changed her dinner-gown, and was now attired in a long, trailing robe of soft silk, clasped at the waist by an antique metal belt studded with quaint stones. The conventional tight folds of her wonderful hair had been loosened and gave indication of the wealth of that glory of womanhood. Her arms were still half bare and some Egyptian bangles hung loosely around her wrists. She stood for a moment holding aside afortièreof the deepesteau-de-nilblue mingled with Indian reds. It was a complete picture of human loveliness in a background of Oriental splendour. As Raife rose from the divan, on which he had been reclining, to acknowledge her presence, he gasped with admiration.In her well-modulated contralto tones she said, with evident earnestness: “Mr Remington, father tells me that you have consented that I should hear the story of your wound—that dagger wound.” Then she shuddered.“My dear Miss Muirhead, I am afraid it will make a very dull story, and will make me appear very foolish. However, I will willingly appear foolish before such an audience.”Raife told the story of the woman who was beaten by the Nubian in the back street of Khartoum; of her cries, and his attempt at rescue—and of the stab in the dark from behind. He told it in a characteristically English way—haltingly, and without embellishment.With elbows on knees, and with dainty fingers entwined under her chin, Hilda Muirhead sat and gazed at this handsome young man—his nationality mattered not to her—as he told the story that “made him appear foolish.” It was incredible to her that a man who boldly ran down a slum, in a hateful place like Khartoum, to hammer a great big ugly black man, who was beating a woman, should be considered foolish by any one, much more so by himself. The thought, a woman’s thought, came to her—“he did it in the dark, too. What curious people these Englishmen are. How they love to ridicule themselves and one another. Fancy being considered foolish to risk his life for helping a woman.”Hilda Muirhead gazed with admiration, whilst Mr Muirhead rose, crossed the room, and, seizing Raife’s hand, said: “Mr Remington, that’s a fine story. We shouldn’t call you a fool in the United States. We should call you a hero and give you the time of your life. I’m your friend, sir, if you will allow me that honour.”Raife stammered and blushed. Hilda Muirhead saw that blush and admired it, for there are not many men who blush in the United States.In an effort to change the subject, which was tiresome to him, Raife said, “By the by, Mr Muirhead, I owe you an apology.”“Well, now, father,” said Hilda, laughingly, “I wonder what Mr Remington will apologise for next?”Raife continued, smiling: “Oh, this isn’t so foolish as the other. Only I omitted to give you my card, when we met. I hadn’t got one with me at the moment.” He handed his card to Mr Muirhead, and, turning to Hilda, said: “May I present you with one also, Miss Muirhead?”Father and daughter read the little neat piece of pasteboard:Sir Raife Remington, Bart.,Aldborough Park,Tunbridge Wells.

A few weeks after Raife’s unfortunate interference in a Nubian’s domestic affairs at Khartoum, he was reclining amid soft cushions on the piazza of Shepheard’s Hotel at Cairo.

There may be no women in Khartoum—at least, there was one, who, being in trouble herself, made trouble for Raife—but there are women at Cairo. Just what the attraction is, no one really knows. It is hot and dusty. There are flies, mosquitoes, and plenty of other irritating little things in Cairo. But Shepheard’s Hotel is generally full of visitors, and there is a predominance of gaily and richly-dressed women. They come from all countries and speak many languages. The language that one hears more than any is that of the United States of America. Americans do not, individually, stay longer, but there are more of them, therefore the supply is greater. Further, the American woman is a good talker; that is, she talks quickly and talks quite a good deal. There are several of them who talk very well.

Exclusiveness used to be the prerogative of the English to a greater extent than most other countries. As the English are becoming less exclusive, so American women are cultivating the habit. The new generation of American women have cultivated, almost inherited, a score or more of little habits, mannerisms—perhaps affectations, which are quite charming to the impressionable young English person. There is a certaingaucherieabout the English which, in turn, retains a charm for the American woman. They would openly hate one another if it were not for these peculiarities, which make the one interesting to the other.

The limelight of publicity has always been turned on to the American boy and girl from infancy. For that reason they have never suffered from shyness. Until recently there has been an excess of privacy in the lives of the English of most ages. That has been altered, and now there are English girls who can rock a chair level with any girl from Kentucky to California.

Of course, the voice question had almost as much vogue as the colour question. That, in turn, has been altered. There are as many soft contraltos, or, at least, mezzo-sopranos coming from the United States as from England nowadays. Altogether, there is less need for antagonism and more need for good fellowship between the United States and Great Britain, than at any period since “The Great Misunderstanding” of a hundred years ago. This helps to explain the circumstances of the very rapid friendship that had sprung up between Sir Raife Remington, Bart., of Aldborough Park, and Miss Hilda Muirhead, the daughter of Reginald Pomeroy Muirhead, Esq., President of the Fifth State Bank of Illinois, U.S.A.

In writing of Americans it has ever been customary to allude to their wealth, of which many people possess an exaggerated estimate. The successful American is, frequently, very generous, and it is from that freedom and generosity that the exaggerated notion springs.

Mr Reginald Pomeroy Muirhead was not a very wealthy man, but he was a prosperous man, and a generous man, a fine and courtly type of the American banker.

His daughter, Hilda, who had formed such a rapid friendship with Raife Remington, on the piazza—the balcony—in the drawing-room—on the staircase—in the foyer—or any of those places where friendships are made abroad, calls for more description.

Hilda Muirhead was not more than twenty. In some respects she had the knowledge and experience of a woman of thirty. In other respects she was a simpleingénue, with the attractive grace of a gazelle-like child. The latter was her natural mood and attitude. The former had been acquired and thrust upon her by the bitterness of cruel experience at an immature period of her life.

She had a gift of talk, and the charm of her conversation won for her the attention which invariably ended in admiration. Many girls, of any nationality, do not realise the value of natural and intellectual conversation. Her father had seen to it that Hilda did. Hilda’s mother died in her infancy, leaving Hilda an only child of a devoted and gentle parent.

Hilda’s appearance was striking in the extreme, and if she had been of the “abounding” type who flaunt themselves for admiration, she would have, in an obsolete vernacular, “swept the board.” Her restraint and lack of self-consciousness were an addition to her charm.

Her hair was a glory to behold. Few had seen the full extent of that glory of her womanhood. Her old nigger “mammy” was almost the only one who had seen it in its full maturity. Her face had an indefinable irregularity of contour, and showed the southern blood in her veins. Her eyes were only large when she opened them under some strong emotion. They were not of that pertinacious, staring type, that are aggressively anxious to attract on all occasions. Her eyes were grey, and constructed for the purpose of normal sight and restrained emotion—but they were beautiful eyes.

The form of her lips had not been moulded into beauty by an assumed pout, nor were they distorted by youthful grimace. They were just wholesome lips, that helped her to talk, and laugh and sing. The rest of her face was in perfect harmony. It was not classical on the lines of a Grecian statue, nor an Italian Madonna. It was a modern, fascinating, yet dignified face.

A broken arm or a bandaged wound invariably attract attention and sympathy, especially from women. Raife’s bandaged shoulder, which necessitated that the right sleeve should remain empty, attracted the attention of the women at Shepheard’s Hotel. His Apollo-like appearance added to the effect when he arrived. In addition to the side glances in his direction, as he reclined on a long wicker chair, shaded from the hot sun which streamed from above, he had to endure the bold stares of the more brazen-faced. At this time, Raife had suffered from two women, and he was, for the present, at least, a woman-hater. He, therefore, refused to notice any of the glances that he received, whatever their nature might be. The balcony piazza and foyer of an hotel are very like the deck of an ocean steamer, and it is not possible for an invalid to resist the advances of those who wish to be polite and render aid.

Raife and Hilda Muirhead met in such a manner. The foyer was almost deserted, and Raife dropped his book just out of reach. Hilda Muirhead and her father were passing. Hilda darted forward and restored the book to Raife, who thanked her.

Mr Muirhead remarked: “I hope your injury is not serious, sir?”

To which Raife replied: “Oh, no. It is just a slight dagger wound.”

Hilda exclaimed, involuntarily: “A dagger!” Even in Egypt men are not frequently suffering from dagger wounds, and the word has a shudder in its sound.

Mr Muirhead said, smilingly: “There is generally romance surrounding a dagger wound, sir. If it would not bore or distress you, perhaps, some time later, you might feel inclined to tell us as much as you care.”

Raife thought to himself: “Oh, hang these people. Why don’t they go away? She’s a charming girl, though.”

As he thought, Mr Muirhead, with a promptitude characteristic of Americans, produced his card, and, proffering it, said: “Here is my card, sir. I am a very humble American citizen. My daughter and I occupy the suite on the first floor, facing north. I shall take it as a compliment, if you should have a dull few minutes to spare, that you should honour us with a visit. We shall be here, or hereabouts, for a week or two.”

Even in Cairo the warmth of the old gentleman’s invitation appeared rather sudden to Raife. However, he had not been in the United States, and had met few Americans. He certainly had not met one who combined so much courtliness of manner and dignity as Mr Reginald Pomeroy Muirhead, of the Fifth State Bank of Illinois, and father of a charming daughter with a musical voice.

Raife forgot he was a woman-hater. He replied, “I’m sorry I haven’t got a card with me, and, if I had, I couldn’t get at it with this confounded shoulder. My name is Remington, sir, and I’m an Englishman. I will try to avail myself of your very kind invitation.”

As they departed, Raife, for the first time, saw those lips that helped Hilda Muirhead “to talk and laugh, and to sing.” He also encountered her eyes that were for the purpose “of normal sight and restrained emotion.” On this occasion it was a sympathetic emotion.

When they had gone out into the hot sun for one of those expeditions on donkeys, that are such an attraction to visitors to Egypt, Raife contemplated. In the end he had determined that he would not accept Mr Muirhead’s invitation to visit them in his suite. He hated the sound of the word “suite,” anyhow.

It is dull work for a strong young man to recline in a wicker chair, to smoke and to read all day in a hotel, whether it be in Cairo or elsewhere. To refuse the advances of a hundred eyes of every hue, and to maintain a stoical indifference to every one around, because one has suffered at the hands of two women was a brave endeavour. Raife confined himself to his own rooms and dined in solitary state for three days. At the end of that time his desire for companionship of some kind was uncontrollable.

Raife sat in the foyer once more, and Mr Muirhead came across to him with an air of urbanity. “Ah, Mr Remington! We have not seen you during the last few days. I hope your wound has not been troubling you.”

Raife stood up and looking straight at the genial, old gentleman, said: “No, Mr Muirhead, not much; but the doctors have told me that if I don’t keep quiet, I shall have complications, and I am already tired of ‘keeping quiet,’ as they call it.”

“Well, Mr Remington, if you are tired of keeping quiet by yourself and you will dine with me to-night, in my room, I promise you quietude, and, at the same time, it may prove a relaxation to you.”

Raife could not refuse the invitation offered so gracefully, and he accepted.

When Raife was announced that evening, in Mr Muirhead’s suite of rooms, the first impression he received was that a very ordinary hotel room had been transformed into a bower of flowers and blossom, and that there were many evidences of home life around it in the shape of daintily-framed photographs and tiny ornaments representative of many countries. The arrangement of flowers on the dinner-table which awaited them, showed that an appreciative hand had tended them. Mr Muirhead received his guest, and after the ordinary interchange of greetings, sounded a gong which brought a dusky attendant.

“Mr Remington, may I have the privilege of mixing for you an American cocktail?” said his host. “There are many spurious editions of the cocktail throughout Europe, and, indeed, the world; but it is essentially an American drink, and, if you will allow me to play the part of ‘bar-tender,’ I think I may please you.”

Mr Muirhead’s cocktail, which he mixed from the ingredients handed to him by the attendant, was a superlative success.

Raife said: “Splendid! how do you do it?”

At this moment Hilda Muirhead entered.

The Oriental atmosphere at night-time is a thing apart. There is a subtle, undefinable charm about an Oriental apartment, which combines with it just sufficient of the modern to add to luxury. Mr Muirhead’s reception-room had been adapted as a dining-room for Raife’s benefit, and was sumptuous. There were rich oriental draperies and soft divans, with subdued lights; in the centre, a perfectly-appointed dinner-table for three, on which was cream-coloured napery, silver, cutlery and sparkling glass. The whole scene was a wealth of many colours, subdued and harmonised. The sombre black and white of the Western evening dress of men took its place in the soft light and deep shadows. This was the setting and background when Hilda Muirhead entered the room.

The introduction was both formal and informal. “Mr Remington, I present my daughter, my only daughter.” Then to Hilda he said: “Are you ready, my dear; shall dinner be served?”

They were, indeed, a handsome trio around the table in the rich apartment of a hundred colours, lights and shadows all welded.

Skilled were the movements of the attendants which brought the dishes—theplatswhich Mr Muirhead had ordered well, as a polished and travelled American.

Raife hated women less at that time than for many months past. Hilda Muirhead displayed the well-bred and experienced side of her character, and made a charming hostess. Her delicately-tinted, clinging gown revealed a neck and bust of daintily-tinted alabaster, with rounded arms. A pearl necklace was the only article of jewellery that supplemented this confection, which adorned a simple American girl. The environment, the charm of Mr Muirhead’s conversation, and the subdued grace of the fascinating girl who confronted him, presented to Raife an aspect of “Americanhood” that he had not conceived possible. There are many degrees of trippers from the United States and elsewhere. If these were trippers, then they possessed an exalted rank amongst trippers. No! they were not trippers. They were aristocrats of a type that Sir Raife Remington, Bart., had not previously encountered.

The dinner was finished and the coffee was served. Hilda had retired and the two men smoked cigarettes. Mr Muirhead, after a silence of a minute or two, said, “Mr Remington, I do not wish to intrude on any subject that may be unpleasant to you. Your allusion, the other day, to the fact that your wound was due to a blow from a dagger interested me very much at the time, and I have thought of it several times since. May I ask, I do not press the question, which may even appear impertinent—may I ask, was it—er—was it an accident?”

Raife smiled as he said: “No, there is no secret about it, although I am rather ashamed of the business. It made me appear such a fool, and has spoilt a big-game hunting expedition I had started on. I should be much further south by now, and probably mauled by some big beast I had failed to hit. So, perhaps, it’s just as well.”

Mr Muirhead was evidently interested. Big-game shooting is known mostly in America by the exploits of an ex-president, whose deeds were, at the same time, exploited and travestied by a Press peculiar to the country.

He interrupted: “Do you mind if I ask my daughter to join us again. I am sure the story will interest her so much. Do you mind? You are sure you don’t mind?”

It was impossible for Raife “to mind,” and he assented.

When Mr Muirhead returned, followed by Hilda Muirhead, every atom of Raife’s hatred of women had vanished. She had changed her dinner-gown, and was now attired in a long, trailing robe of soft silk, clasped at the waist by an antique metal belt studded with quaint stones. The conventional tight folds of her wonderful hair had been loosened and gave indication of the wealth of that glory of womanhood. Her arms were still half bare and some Egyptian bangles hung loosely around her wrists. She stood for a moment holding aside afortièreof the deepesteau-de-nilblue mingled with Indian reds. It was a complete picture of human loveliness in a background of Oriental splendour. As Raife rose from the divan, on which he had been reclining, to acknowledge her presence, he gasped with admiration.

In her well-modulated contralto tones she said, with evident earnestness: “Mr Remington, father tells me that you have consented that I should hear the story of your wound—that dagger wound.” Then she shuddered.

“My dear Miss Muirhead, I am afraid it will make a very dull story, and will make me appear very foolish. However, I will willingly appear foolish before such an audience.”

Raife told the story of the woman who was beaten by the Nubian in the back street of Khartoum; of her cries, and his attempt at rescue—and of the stab in the dark from behind. He told it in a characteristically English way—haltingly, and without embellishment.

With elbows on knees, and with dainty fingers entwined under her chin, Hilda Muirhead sat and gazed at this handsome young man—his nationality mattered not to her—as he told the story that “made him appear foolish.” It was incredible to her that a man who boldly ran down a slum, in a hateful place like Khartoum, to hammer a great big ugly black man, who was beating a woman, should be considered foolish by any one, much more so by himself. The thought, a woman’s thought, came to her—“he did it in the dark, too. What curious people these Englishmen are. How they love to ridicule themselves and one another. Fancy being considered foolish to risk his life for helping a woman.”

Hilda Muirhead gazed with admiration, whilst Mr Muirhead rose, crossed the room, and, seizing Raife’s hand, said: “Mr Remington, that’s a fine story. We shouldn’t call you a fool in the United States. We should call you a hero and give you the time of your life. I’m your friend, sir, if you will allow me that honour.”

Raife stammered and blushed. Hilda Muirhead saw that blush and admired it, for there are not many men who blush in the United States.

In an effort to change the subject, which was tiresome to him, Raife said, “By the by, Mr Muirhead, I owe you an apology.”

“Well, now, father,” said Hilda, laughingly, “I wonder what Mr Remington will apologise for next?”

Raife continued, smiling: “Oh, this isn’t so foolish as the other. Only I omitted to give you my card, when we met. I hadn’t got one with me at the moment.” He handed his card to Mr Muirhead, and, turning to Hilda, said: “May I present you with one also, Miss Muirhead?”

Father and daughter read the little neat piece of pasteboard:

Sir Raife Remington, Bart.,Aldborough Park,Tunbridge Wells.

Sir Raife Remington, Bart.,Aldborough Park,Tunbridge Wells.

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