Chapter Twenty.

Chapter Twenty.A Forced Hand.“Now then, old josser, where are you coming to? have you bought the whole room or only half, eh?”The time was the middle of the morning, the place the saloon bar of the Golden Crown in Bassingham, and the speaker Bob Calmour, who had been indulging in more John Walker than was good for him, incidentally at the expense of an opportune friend. The man thus unceremoniously expostulated with was a tallish man with a weather-beaten face and a white beard, who had committed the grave indiscretion of being there what time the unsteady Bob had lurched backward, thus cannoning against him. We have seen him twice before for a short space—once at Hilversea Court and once in Hilversea park.“See here, young man,” was the answer, drily given, “I think it’s time you went home.”“See here, old cock, when I want to know what youthinkI’ll ask; till then I’ll trouble you to keep it to yourself.”And the tone was particularly aggressive and insulting.“If you don’t keep a civil tongue in your head I shall be under the necessity of starting you on the first homeward stage by firing you into the street,” said the stranger with the most provoking tranquillity.That white beard proved Bob’s undoing. He associated it with age, and age with decrepitude.“Will you?” he yelped. “You couldn’t do it—no, nor three of you.”“Not, eh?” said the stranger; and then Bob Calmour hardly knew what had happened, except that some irresistible force had got him by the scruff of the neck and was propelling him rapidly towards the swing doors. The latter swung, and Bob shot down the steps outside, and would have fallen bang on his nose but that he cannoned into a passing stranger just in time.“Here! Hi! Hold up! Why the devil don’t you look where you’re going, you silly young ass!” cried the latter angrily as he collared him. All the swagger and bounce had evaporated from the luckless Bob. The whimpered apology died away into a sort of yelp of terror, and his pasty face went ashy white as he realised that he had run bang into no less formidable a person than Haldane. And in the hand of the latter was a riding-crop. Visions of the ghastly thrashing he had deserved at that individual’s hands, and would certainly receive, finished him off, and he dropped limply on to the pavement in a sitting posture, half fainting.“Awfully sorry, sir,” he was just able to whine; “but I’ve been violently assaulted by a ruffian in there, and—er—couldn’t see where I—I—was going.”Haldane looked at him with a sort of good-natured contempt, seeing before him just an ordinary raffish young pup who had probably got quarrelsome in his cups and come off worst.“Well, you’d better go away home,” he said shortly, and passed on, leaving the unspeakable Bob to pick himself up with feelings akin to those of a criminal reprieved on the very drop itself, then as one condemned afresh as he saw Wagram cross the road and join Haldane. The two stood talking together, then, turning, they looked at him. Of course, Wagram was giving him away, decided the terror-stricken Bob, whose every instinct now was flight—headlong flight; wherefore, having shuffled rapidly round a friendly corner, he sprinted for cover all he knew, nor stopped till he found himself, panting, within the—for once welcome because protective—offices of Pownall and Skreet. Nor did he more than half hear the acrid jobation to which Pownall, who had seen him arrive, treated him by reason of having taken so long about the business upon which he had been sent out.Here again came in the strange, mysterious workings of Fate—or Providence. Had the African adventurer been a little more roused to ire it is conceivable that, not content with throwing the offensive Bob into the street, he might even have kicked him along a section of the same, which, of course, would have befallen exactly what time Haldane was passing. In which event the whole course of this history might have been changed; in fact, we will go as far as to say that it certainly would have been. And it has been recorded that Haldane seldom came to Bassingham.“Hope I haven’t been the means of spoiling custom,” said Develin Hunt pleasantly as he returned to where he had been standing, “because, if so, I hope that all here will put a name to theirs and join me by doing something to make up for it.”“Oh, that’s all right, Mr Hunt,” said the landlord, who, attracted by the scuffle, short as it was, had come in. “Not much ‘custom’ about that young waster.”“Who is he?”“Young Calmour, a clerk at Pownall and Skreet’s. I only wonder they haven’t given him the sack long ago.”“I must say he brought it upon himself,” said the man who had been “standing” him. “Bob can be pretty abusive when he’s got anything on board. Mine? Oh, thanks; another Scotch, I think. Here’s luck.”The landlord’s answer had given Develin Hunt food for thought, not for astonishment; he had seen too many queer phases of life to be astonished at anything. So this egregious young pup stood in the relationship of brother to the exceedingly pretty and even refined-looking girl he had seen with Wagram and his party in Hilversea park some Sundays ago! It seemed hardly credible, but then, as we have said, he was astonished at nothing.He had not spent all the intervening time in Bassingham, where at the Golden Crown he was very popular, and instrumental in an increase of custom; for he was open-handed in setting up “rounds,” and could tell strange, wild stories of strange, wild lands and stranger, wilder people, and this led to an increasing roll up of the good citizens of Bassingham of an evening. But he had not as yet made acquaintance with old Calmour, for the very good reason that that worthy had transferred his custom elsewhere, from motives that may be readily divined.Now, although Haldane had not seen Develin Hunt the latter had seen Haldane. It was a mere glimpse snatched between the swing doors as they let out the obnoxious Bob; but in the school which had afforded the African adventurer his life training a mere glimpse to him was as good as half-an-hour’s scrutiny to most men, and to this one and his plans it now made all the difference in the world.“Who was the man I shot that young pup against?” he said. “Tallish man, sunburnt face, and riding-gaiters?”“Squire Haldane, worse luck!” answered the landlord.“Why ‘worse luck’?”“He’s a magistrate. He don’t often show up in Bassingham, and now, when he does, get’s nearly knocked down by a chump fired out of my bar in the middle of the morning. Maybe he’ll have a word to say, when licensing day comes round, that I keep my house rowdy.”“Shouldn’t think he’d do that, Smith, he looks too much of a sportsman. I’ll bet drinks all round that man has been in countries where firing anyone out doesn’t constitute the liveliest side of a bar worry.”“I won’t take you, then, because he has,” replied Smith. “But what made you think so?”“Quite simple. He never got painted that colour by any sun that only shone over the British Isles.”“Here, I say, sir, excuse me,” struck in the young man who had brought in Bob, “you’re not Sherlock Holmes, are you?”“No. Who’s he?”“Who’s he? Never heard of Sherlock Holmes?”“Now you’re trying to get at me, young man. I suppose you’re going to answer he was a chap who’d forgotten that everybody’s glass had been empty too long. All right. Set ’em up again, Smith, for all hands.”There was a big laugh at this, and three persons started in to explain at once.“Come to think of it, I had heard of the party, but I’d forgotten,” said Hunt with his usual easy good humour. “But about this one, the one we were talking about—where did you say he’d been, Smith?”“Squire Haldane? Oh, everywhere. Mostly in South Africa, I believe. He lives out Fulkston way—a goodish step from here.”Assimilating this piece of information, which, from the point of view of his purposes, was satisfactory, the adventurer easily and imperceptibly switched the conversation on to other matters, and shortly retired to his own quarters.He sat down to think. He had made an important discovery that day—important to the last degree. Haldane in the neighbourhood, and a resident at that! Heavens! what a near thing it had been that they had not run right into each other! The adventurer’s hard face grew quite moist at the thought of it, and of what a volcano he had been sitting over during his sojournings in Bassingham the last few weeks. This discovery had clean altered his plans, and now in their altered stage he must proceed to put them into operation without a moment of unnecessary delay.And yet throughout that day, until after dark, Develin Hunt never ventured outside the doors of the Golden Crown.

“Now then, old josser, where are you coming to? have you bought the whole room or only half, eh?”

The time was the middle of the morning, the place the saloon bar of the Golden Crown in Bassingham, and the speaker Bob Calmour, who had been indulging in more John Walker than was good for him, incidentally at the expense of an opportune friend. The man thus unceremoniously expostulated with was a tallish man with a weather-beaten face and a white beard, who had committed the grave indiscretion of being there what time the unsteady Bob had lurched backward, thus cannoning against him. We have seen him twice before for a short space—once at Hilversea Court and once in Hilversea park.

“See here, young man,” was the answer, drily given, “I think it’s time you went home.”

“See here, old cock, when I want to know what youthinkI’ll ask; till then I’ll trouble you to keep it to yourself.”

And the tone was particularly aggressive and insulting.

“If you don’t keep a civil tongue in your head I shall be under the necessity of starting you on the first homeward stage by firing you into the street,” said the stranger with the most provoking tranquillity.

That white beard proved Bob’s undoing. He associated it with age, and age with decrepitude.

“Will you?” he yelped. “You couldn’t do it—no, nor three of you.”

“Not, eh?” said the stranger; and then Bob Calmour hardly knew what had happened, except that some irresistible force had got him by the scruff of the neck and was propelling him rapidly towards the swing doors. The latter swung, and Bob shot down the steps outside, and would have fallen bang on his nose but that he cannoned into a passing stranger just in time.

“Here! Hi! Hold up! Why the devil don’t you look where you’re going, you silly young ass!” cried the latter angrily as he collared him. All the swagger and bounce had evaporated from the luckless Bob. The whimpered apology died away into a sort of yelp of terror, and his pasty face went ashy white as he realised that he had run bang into no less formidable a person than Haldane. And in the hand of the latter was a riding-crop. Visions of the ghastly thrashing he had deserved at that individual’s hands, and would certainly receive, finished him off, and he dropped limply on to the pavement in a sitting posture, half fainting.

“Awfully sorry, sir,” he was just able to whine; “but I’ve been violently assaulted by a ruffian in there, and—er—couldn’t see where I—I—was going.”

Haldane looked at him with a sort of good-natured contempt, seeing before him just an ordinary raffish young pup who had probably got quarrelsome in his cups and come off worst.

“Well, you’d better go away home,” he said shortly, and passed on, leaving the unspeakable Bob to pick himself up with feelings akin to those of a criminal reprieved on the very drop itself, then as one condemned afresh as he saw Wagram cross the road and join Haldane. The two stood talking together, then, turning, they looked at him. Of course, Wagram was giving him away, decided the terror-stricken Bob, whose every instinct now was flight—headlong flight; wherefore, having shuffled rapidly round a friendly corner, he sprinted for cover all he knew, nor stopped till he found himself, panting, within the—for once welcome because protective—offices of Pownall and Skreet. Nor did he more than half hear the acrid jobation to which Pownall, who had seen him arrive, treated him by reason of having taken so long about the business upon which he had been sent out.

Here again came in the strange, mysterious workings of Fate—or Providence. Had the African adventurer been a little more roused to ire it is conceivable that, not content with throwing the offensive Bob into the street, he might even have kicked him along a section of the same, which, of course, would have befallen exactly what time Haldane was passing. In which event the whole course of this history might have been changed; in fact, we will go as far as to say that it certainly would have been. And it has been recorded that Haldane seldom came to Bassingham.

“Hope I haven’t been the means of spoiling custom,” said Develin Hunt pleasantly as he returned to where he had been standing, “because, if so, I hope that all here will put a name to theirs and join me by doing something to make up for it.”

“Oh, that’s all right, Mr Hunt,” said the landlord, who, attracted by the scuffle, short as it was, had come in. “Not much ‘custom’ about that young waster.”

“Who is he?”

“Young Calmour, a clerk at Pownall and Skreet’s. I only wonder they haven’t given him the sack long ago.”

“I must say he brought it upon himself,” said the man who had been “standing” him. “Bob can be pretty abusive when he’s got anything on board. Mine? Oh, thanks; another Scotch, I think. Here’s luck.”

The landlord’s answer had given Develin Hunt food for thought, not for astonishment; he had seen too many queer phases of life to be astonished at anything. So this egregious young pup stood in the relationship of brother to the exceedingly pretty and even refined-looking girl he had seen with Wagram and his party in Hilversea park some Sundays ago! It seemed hardly credible, but then, as we have said, he was astonished at nothing.

He had not spent all the intervening time in Bassingham, where at the Golden Crown he was very popular, and instrumental in an increase of custom; for he was open-handed in setting up “rounds,” and could tell strange, wild stories of strange, wild lands and stranger, wilder people, and this led to an increasing roll up of the good citizens of Bassingham of an evening. But he had not as yet made acquaintance with old Calmour, for the very good reason that that worthy had transferred his custom elsewhere, from motives that may be readily divined.

Now, although Haldane had not seen Develin Hunt the latter had seen Haldane. It was a mere glimpse snatched between the swing doors as they let out the obnoxious Bob; but in the school which had afforded the African adventurer his life training a mere glimpse to him was as good as half-an-hour’s scrutiny to most men, and to this one and his plans it now made all the difference in the world.

“Who was the man I shot that young pup against?” he said. “Tallish man, sunburnt face, and riding-gaiters?”

“Squire Haldane, worse luck!” answered the landlord.

“Why ‘worse luck’?”

“He’s a magistrate. He don’t often show up in Bassingham, and now, when he does, get’s nearly knocked down by a chump fired out of my bar in the middle of the morning. Maybe he’ll have a word to say, when licensing day comes round, that I keep my house rowdy.”

“Shouldn’t think he’d do that, Smith, he looks too much of a sportsman. I’ll bet drinks all round that man has been in countries where firing anyone out doesn’t constitute the liveliest side of a bar worry.”

“I won’t take you, then, because he has,” replied Smith. “But what made you think so?”

“Quite simple. He never got painted that colour by any sun that only shone over the British Isles.”

“Here, I say, sir, excuse me,” struck in the young man who had brought in Bob, “you’re not Sherlock Holmes, are you?”

“No. Who’s he?”

“Who’s he? Never heard of Sherlock Holmes?”

“Now you’re trying to get at me, young man. I suppose you’re going to answer he was a chap who’d forgotten that everybody’s glass had been empty too long. All right. Set ’em up again, Smith, for all hands.”

There was a big laugh at this, and three persons started in to explain at once.

“Come to think of it, I had heard of the party, but I’d forgotten,” said Hunt with his usual easy good humour. “But about this one, the one we were talking about—where did you say he’d been, Smith?”

“Squire Haldane? Oh, everywhere. Mostly in South Africa, I believe. He lives out Fulkston way—a goodish step from here.”

Assimilating this piece of information, which, from the point of view of his purposes, was satisfactory, the adventurer easily and imperceptibly switched the conversation on to other matters, and shortly retired to his own quarters.

He sat down to think. He had made an important discovery that day—important to the last degree. Haldane in the neighbourhood, and a resident at that! Heavens! what a near thing it had been that they had not run right into each other! The adventurer’s hard face grew quite moist at the thought of it, and of what a volcano he had been sitting over during his sojournings in Bassingham the last few weeks. This discovery had clean altered his plans, and now in their altered stage he must proceed to put them into operation without a moment of unnecessary delay.

And yet throughout that day, until after dark, Develin Hunt never ventured outside the doors of the Golden Crown.

Chapter Twenty One.The Bolt.“Well, Squire, I’ve called to settle up that little matter that has been outstanding,” said Develin Hunt pleasantly as he took the seat indicated to him—exactly the same seat, by the way, that he had occupied during that first interview in which we made his personal acquaintance.“Yes?”“Yes. But first of all you’ll admit that I haven’t hurried you any over the inquiries you’ve been making; in fact, have afforded you every facility I could in the making of them.”“Yes; I’ll admit that.”“And it’s a case of ‘as you were.’ Well, it’s satisfactory to both of us, because now there’s no room for any little mistake. I have enjoyed my stay in this charming neighbourhood. By the way, I hope you enjoyed yours at the moors, Squire, and had good sport. Well, now, I’ve got a modification of my former proposal to put to you. I’ve decided that this part of the country, delightful as it is, won’t suit me for more than one reason; so, instead of becoming a neighbour of yours, I would suggest some comfortable little arrangement in hard cash.”“Yes. May I ask what would meet your requirements? Don’t be too modest, pray.”The adventurer’s face brightened. The easy tone, the satiric banter was only the other’s philosophical and courtly manner of making the best of a bad job. He had won the game at last.“What do you say to thirty thou? Not all at once; I would be prepared to accept a cheque for twenty-five thou, down, and the rest six months later.”“That would be very considerate of you,” laughed the Squire. “I begged you not to be too moderate.”“And I haven’t met your wishes, Squire. Thirty thou, is a substantial figure, but it is a mere half-crown to the Wagrams of Hilversea. It’s surprising how much I know about the family and its circumstances, you see. Nearly ruined in fines for persistent recusancy under the penal laws, a lucky speculation or two in building-land and coal mines made it a millionaire over and over again. That’s correct, I think, Squire?”“Nearly.”“And all this for the benefit of Everard—‘Butcher Ned,’ we used to call him—never mind why. Well, I’m truly glad it needn’t go to him after all. So we’ll consider my terms accepted, eh, Squire?”“Not so fast—not quite so fast. You don’t seem to realise, Mr Develin Hunt, what an exceedingly perilous position you have placed yourself in. How do you know, for instance, that there are not those present, unseen by you, who have been taking down every word of our conversation?”The adventurer laughed easily.“Oh, as to that, I know it; because Grantley Wagram of Hilversea is considerably too complete a gentleman to admit the secret presence of a third party at a confidential conversation.”In spite of the momentous issues at stake the consummate assurance of this man tickled the old Squire’s diplomatic soul.“I don’t know. There is such a thing as fighting the devil with fire—no play on your somewhat peculiar name intended, Mr Hunt,” he parenthesised, with a smile. “And the fact remains that you have been demanding money from me—a large sum—very civilly, I admit,”—with a courtly wave of the hand—“but still demanding it by a threat. That, as I reminded you on the occasion of our first meeting, means in this country a long term of penal servitude.”“For me?”“For whom else?”“For Everard.”Even the cool old diplomat felt his cheeks go waxen, nor could he repress a slight gasp. He remembered the other’s assertion on a former occasion—to the effect that he had a hold upon Everard—and, bearing in mind Everard and his propensities, he thought it very likely to be true.“For Everard,” repeated the adventurer. “Every year that it would mean for me it would mean two for Everard; indeed, it is possible—I don’t say certain, mind—that it might result in something shorter, sharper, and much quicker over, but—more irrevocable.”The other felt himself growing paler still. A hopeless, beaten feeling came upon him now. Curiously enough, he was not without a consciousness of appreciation of the courteous way in which this man urged his demands. There was nothing of the common, bullying insolence of the blackmailer about him. He might almost have been a disinterested friend urging a certain course for the good of the family.“Do you mind opening that window a little, Mr Hunt?” he said. “I do believe I really am getting old.”“Delighted, Squire,” said the adventurer with alacrity. “Getting old!” as he returned to his seat, “why, you are not even beginning to get old; or, if you are, all I can say is that many a much younger man would be glad to do so on the same terms. But, in any case, why add another anxiety—a totally unnecessary anxiety—to your afternoon of life, and all for a paltry thirty thousand pounds, which, as I said before, can only be, relatively, a mere half-crown to you?”“That’s all very well; but what guarantee have I that it would end there?”“I would give you an undertaking, cautiously worded, of course, to make no further demand upon you, nor upon anybody after you, for another farthing.”“Legally, not worth the paper it’s written on,” said the Squire.“I’m afraid that’s so; still, it would make a very strong piece of presumptive evidence against me if I did fail to keep my word. You may trust me this time. I don’t profess to be a saint or angel, I own to having done some pretty tough things in my time, but one thing I never have done, and that is to go back on a fair, square, and honest deal. Think of your son, Squire—Wagram, I mean—I have seen him more than once, not always when he has seen me. By the way, he turned me off here once when I was trespassing, but he did it in such a nice way, as between one gentleman and another. He’s a fine fellow—a splendid fellow—and I’ve heard a good deal more about him than I’ve seen. Well, isn’t it a thousand pities that life should be ruined for him, and his son after him—I have seen him too, by-the-by—and all because you can’t bring yourself to look at things from my standpoint, which is that necessity has no law?”There was silence for a few moments. In saying that he had seen more of Wagram than the latter knew Develin Hunt was speaking no more than the truth. He had noted the quiet happiness of the man’s flawless life, had gleaned some idea of his intense joy of possession, and had done so with considerable satisfaction in that it would all go to further his own plans. No man living, he argued, would think twice as to what his action would be when called upon to choose between paying down what was, relatively speaking, an inconsiderable sum and throwing up his possessions and his name, and the name of his son after him—and to the case of this one was added an almost unlimited power for good. To do so would be the action of a stark, staring, raving lunatic, and it was abundantly certain Wagram was not that.“Well, Squire, now is the time to make up your mind. It is important that I should go up to London to-night, and unless I take your cheque for twenty-five thousand with me I shall be under the necessity of postponing my departure for a day or two and applying to your son Wagram. I believe he would gladly give double the amount. Think! it is to save his name—his name, mind—and his son’s after him.”The old man felt beaten. It was not the money value that afflicted him; he would cheerfully have parted with double the amount if by so doing he could close the other’s mouth for ever, but he doubted whether in any case he could do this for long. Sooner or later Hunt would come down upon him for more—it was the way of blackmailers for all time—nor did he in the least believe this one would keep his undertaking to make no further demand. And this disreputable adventurer had the power to hold a sword over Wagram’s head indefinitely. He remembered as a far-off thing his agreement with Monsignor Culham—here in this very room—not to give this man another shilling. Yet now matters looked differently; he felt himself cornered beyond all hope of deliverance.“Give me the undertaking you mentioned just now,” he said at last. “Sit down there and draw it up,” pointing to another writing-table.“No need, Squire, I have it here all ready; I knew we should come to terms. Here it is, and you may rely upon my adhering to it rigidly.”He produced a paper with some writing on it as the Squire, slowly unlocking a drawer, produced his chequebook. A moment more and the adventurer could hardly contain his exultation. A cheque for 25,000 pounds was in his hand.“It will be a satisfaction for you to see me sign this yourself, Squire,” and stooping over the writing-table he affixed his signature. As he did so the door opened, admitting Wagram.Even had the latter no other reason for coming in, then one glance at his father’s face would have told him that something was very wrong indeed. The Squire seemed to have aged by twenty years.“Ah, good-morning, Mr Wagram,” said the adventurer cheerily, looking up. “Your father and I have just been getting through a little piece of business together, and we have got through it with complete satisfaction to both parties. Yes; to both parties,” he repeated emphatically.“May I ask its nature? My father’s business affairs are mine in there days.”“Ah, but not this one—no, not this one. It’s an exception, believe me,” was the answer, accompanied by a pleasant laugh. “And now I think I will say good-bye.”“One moment, Mr Develin Hunt,” said Wagram, “but I fear I must detain you a little longer, there is something that needs explanation.”The other looked at the tall form, literally barring his way, and a ghastly misgiving was upon him. The cheque for 25,000 pounds—would he be forced to disgorge? But he replied, easily, pleasantly:“Quite a mistake. No explanation needed. Is there, Squire?”Wagram looked sharply at his father, whose only answer was a feebly-assenting headshake.“Ah, but there is,” he resumed. “For instance, there is one remark you made just now to the effect that I would gladly give double the amount to save my name, and that of my son after me. Now, that remark does emphatically need explaining.”“You heard that?” said the adventurer shortly.“Couldn’t help it. This room is only one storey from ground. Given an open window and still autumn air, and—”Develin Hunt mentally ground his teeth and cursed. So it was with a purpose the Squire had asked him to open the window! As a matter of real fact, this was not the case. Oh, the old fox, with all his blandness and soft sawder! He felt vicious.“That all you heard?” he said shortly.“Enough, wasn’t it? Now, will you kindly tell me in what way my name needs saving; for, looking back, though I have been through hard times, I cannot—thank God—call to mind any instance of having ever disgraced it.”The adventurer felt a wave of intense relief. This was how Wagram had read his words! Well, he would reassure him on that point; perhaps he might even yet save the situation.“No! no! no!” he said emphatically. “Great Scott! Mr Wagram, but you’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick there. Why, your name stands on a pedestal all around here, and, if you will allow me to say so, it thoroughly deserves to. Now, be advised by me. Leave this affair alone. It is between myself and your father, and reflects discredit upon nobody named Wagram—take my word for that.”You see, he was plausible, almost persuasive, this rough-and-tumble West African adventurer. But Wagram shook his head.“Not satisfactory,” he said. “I still demand to know in what way my name needs ‘saving’—and that of my son after me, you added.”“You demand?”“Yes.”Develin Hunt looked at the man standing over him very stern and straight, then he looked at the Squire. He would have given anything to have avoided this, but since his hand had been forced it was, perhaps, as well that Wagram should know all—should know where he stood. Perhaps the Squire thought the same, for he said no word, gave no sign.“In the name of God, leave things where they are, man!” conjured the adventurer in a real outburst of feeling. He was not all bad. He had got his price, and he felt an intense respect and pity for the man before him. He would make one more effort. “I tell you nobody’s discredit is involved here. We can’t alwaysknoweverything—it isn’t good for us. As for me, I have pledged my solemn word you shall never be troubled by me again. Now, let me go.”Still Wagram did not move. He had heard of this man’s former visit, but as his father had not mentioned it to him he himself had kept silence on the subject. But he had put two and two together, and had connected it with days of depression under which the old Squire had suffered. Moreover, it struck him that his father had undergone a subtle change, had not been quite the same ever since. Now he had come in and found him in a state of collapse after another interview with this man. His own name, too, had been brought up, and in such a manner.“No,” he answered; “not yet. This mystery must be cleared up before you leave this room. I repeat my former question: In what way does my name require ‘saving’?”“Oh, if you will be so obstinate!” answered Develin Hunt excitedly, “you have only yourself to blame. I’ve done all I could for you. Since youwillhave it, your name—well, it isn’t your name.”“Not my name?” repeated Wagram in a strange voice. “Man, are you mad, or only drunk?”“Neither,” returned the adventurer doggedly. “Well, then, your mother was married to me before she married your father. She was not to blame. She thought I was dead. If you don’t believe me ask the Squire here.”There was no need to ask the Squire. The old man nodded assent; he was incapable of speech just then.“Are you—trying—to make me believe, then, thatyouare, my father?” said Wagram in a dry, hardly articulate kind of voice.“No, no—not for a moment. But, of course, the second marriage was invalid. Now, do you take in the position?”“Yes.”Wagram’s face had gone livid and his tall form seemed to sway. No further word would come. But for the set, gleaming stare of the eyes he might have been a corpse trying to stand upright. The sight was awful, indescribably so. Even the hard, unscrupulous adventurer was moved to concern and compunction.“For God’s sake, don’t take it like this,” he adjured. “Pull yourself together, man. The thing is a secret between us three, and need never be anything else. Send for a big tot of brandy, or something to steady your nerves. It’s a facer, but nothing need come of it.”For answer Wagram only shook his head, and moved unsteadily to the open window, where he stood, looking out. There was nothing to prevent Develin Hunt walking out of the house with his 25,000 pound cheque in his pocket; and, to do him justice, it was not the thought that this might be stopped by telegram that restrained him. Yet he did not so walk out.

“Well, Squire, I’ve called to settle up that little matter that has been outstanding,” said Develin Hunt pleasantly as he took the seat indicated to him—exactly the same seat, by the way, that he had occupied during that first interview in which we made his personal acquaintance.

“Yes?”

“Yes. But first of all you’ll admit that I haven’t hurried you any over the inquiries you’ve been making; in fact, have afforded you every facility I could in the making of them.”

“Yes; I’ll admit that.”

“And it’s a case of ‘as you were.’ Well, it’s satisfactory to both of us, because now there’s no room for any little mistake. I have enjoyed my stay in this charming neighbourhood. By the way, I hope you enjoyed yours at the moors, Squire, and had good sport. Well, now, I’ve got a modification of my former proposal to put to you. I’ve decided that this part of the country, delightful as it is, won’t suit me for more than one reason; so, instead of becoming a neighbour of yours, I would suggest some comfortable little arrangement in hard cash.”

“Yes. May I ask what would meet your requirements? Don’t be too modest, pray.”

The adventurer’s face brightened. The easy tone, the satiric banter was only the other’s philosophical and courtly manner of making the best of a bad job. He had won the game at last.

“What do you say to thirty thou? Not all at once; I would be prepared to accept a cheque for twenty-five thou, down, and the rest six months later.”

“That would be very considerate of you,” laughed the Squire. “I begged you not to be too moderate.”

“And I haven’t met your wishes, Squire. Thirty thou, is a substantial figure, but it is a mere half-crown to the Wagrams of Hilversea. It’s surprising how much I know about the family and its circumstances, you see. Nearly ruined in fines for persistent recusancy under the penal laws, a lucky speculation or two in building-land and coal mines made it a millionaire over and over again. That’s correct, I think, Squire?”

“Nearly.”

“And all this for the benefit of Everard—‘Butcher Ned,’ we used to call him—never mind why. Well, I’m truly glad it needn’t go to him after all. So we’ll consider my terms accepted, eh, Squire?”

“Not so fast—not quite so fast. You don’t seem to realise, Mr Develin Hunt, what an exceedingly perilous position you have placed yourself in. How do you know, for instance, that there are not those present, unseen by you, who have been taking down every word of our conversation?”

The adventurer laughed easily.

“Oh, as to that, I know it; because Grantley Wagram of Hilversea is considerably too complete a gentleman to admit the secret presence of a third party at a confidential conversation.”

In spite of the momentous issues at stake the consummate assurance of this man tickled the old Squire’s diplomatic soul.

“I don’t know. There is such a thing as fighting the devil with fire—no play on your somewhat peculiar name intended, Mr Hunt,” he parenthesised, with a smile. “And the fact remains that you have been demanding money from me—a large sum—very civilly, I admit,”—with a courtly wave of the hand—“but still demanding it by a threat. That, as I reminded you on the occasion of our first meeting, means in this country a long term of penal servitude.”

“For me?”

“For whom else?”

“For Everard.”

Even the cool old diplomat felt his cheeks go waxen, nor could he repress a slight gasp. He remembered the other’s assertion on a former occasion—to the effect that he had a hold upon Everard—and, bearing in mind Everard and his propensities, he thought it very likely to be true.

“For Everard,” repeated the adventurer. “Every year that it would mean for me it would mean two for Everard; indeed, it is possible—I don’t say certain, mind—that it might result in something shorter, sharper, and much quicker over, but—more irrevocable.”

The other felt himself growing paler still. A hopeless, beaten feeling came upon him now. Curiously enough, he was not without a consciousness of appreciation of the courteous way in which this man urged his demands. There was nothing of the common, bullying insolence of the blackmailer about him. He might almost have been a disinterested friend urging a certain course for the good of the family.

“Do you mind opening that window a little, Mr Hunt?” he said. “I do believe I really am getting old.”

“Delighted, Squire,” said the adventurer with alacrity. “Getting old!” as he returned to his seat, “why, you are not even beginning to get old; or, if you are, all I can say is that many a much younger man would be glad to do so on the same terms. But, in any case, why add another anxiety—a totally unnecessary anxiety—to your afternoon of life, and all for a paltry thirty thousand pounds, which, as I said before, can only be, relatively, a mere half-crown to you?”

“That’s all very well; but what guarantee have I that it would end there?”

“I would give you an undertaking, cautiously worded, of course, to make no further demand upon you, nor upon anybody after you, for another farthing.”

“Legally, not worth the paper it’s written on,” said the Squire.

“I’m afraid that’s so; still, it would make a very strong piece of presumptive evidence against me if I did fail to keep my word. You may trust me this time. I don’t profess to be a saint or angel, I own to having done some pretty tough things in my time, but one thing I never have done, and that is to go back on a fair, square, and honest deal. Think of your son, Squire—Wagram, I mean—I have seen him more than once, not always when he has seen me. By the way, he turned me off here once when I was trespassing, but he did it in such a nice way, as between one gentleman and another. He’s a fine fellow—a splendid fellow—and I’ve heard a good deal more about him than I’ve seen. Well, isn’t it a thousand pities that life should be ruined for him, and his son after him—I have seen him too, by-the-by—and all because you can’t bring yourself to look at things from my standpoint, which is that necessity has no law?”

There was silence for a few moments. In saying that he had seen more of Wagram than the latter knew Develin Hunt was speaking no more than the truth. He had noted the quiet happiness of the man’s flawless life, had gleaned some idea of his intense joy of possession, and had done so with considerable satisfaction in that it would all go to further his own plans. No man living, he argued, would think twice as to what his action would be when called upon to choose between paying down what was, relatively speaking, an inconsiderable sum and throwing up his possessions and his name, and the name of his son after him—and to the case of this one was added an almost unlimited power for good. To do so would be the action of a stark, staring, raving lunatic, and it was abundantly certain Wagram was not that.

“Well, Squire, now is the time to make up your mind. It is important that I should go up to London to-night, and unless I take your cheque for twenty-five thousand with me I shall be under the necessity of postponing my departure for a day or two and applying to your son Wagram. I believe he would gladly give double the amount. Think! it is to save his name—his name, mind—and his son’s after him.”

The old man felt beaten. It was not the money value that afflicted him; he would cheerfully have parted with double the amount if by so doing he could close the other’s mouth for ever, but he doubted whether in any case he could do this for long. Sooner or later Hunt would come down upon him for more—it was the way of blackmailers for all time—nor did he in the least believe this one would keep his undertaking to make no further demand. And this disreputable adventurer had the power to hold a sword over Wagram’s head indefinitely. He remembered as a far-off thing his agreement with Monsignor Culham—here in this very room—not to give this man another shilling. Yet now matters looked differently; he felt himself cornered beyond all hope of deliverance.

“Give me the undertaking you mentioned just now,” he said at last. “Sit down there and draw it up,” pointing to another writing-table.

“No need, Squire, I have it here all ready; I knew we should come to terms. Here it is, and you may rely upon my adhering to it rigidly.”

He produced a paper with some writing on it as the Squire, slowly unlocking a drawer, produced his chequebook. A moment more and the adventurer could hardly contain his exultation. A cheque for 25,000 pounds was in his hand.

“It will be a satisfaction for you to see me sign this yourself, Squire,” and stooping over the writing-table he affixed his signature. As he did so the door opened, admitting Wagram.

Even had the latter no other reason for coming in, then one glance at his father’s face would have told him that something was very wrong indeed. The Squire seemed to have aged by twenty years.

“Ah, good-morning, Mr Wagram,” said the adventurer cheerily, looking up. “Your father and I have just been getting through a little piece of business together, and we have got through it with complete satisfaction to both parties. Yes; to both parties,” he repeated emphatically.

“May I ask its nature? My father’s business affairs are mine in there days.”

“Ah, but not this one—no, not this one. It’s an exception, believe me,” was the answer, accompanied by a pleasant laugh. “And now I think I will say good-bye.”

“One moment, Mr Develin Hunt,” said Wagram, “but I fear I must detain you a little longer, there is something that needs explanation.”

The other looked at the tall form, literally barring his way, and a ghastly misgiving was upon him. The cheque for 25,000 pounds—would he be forced to disgorge? But he replied, easily, pleasantly:

“Quite a mistake. No explanation needed. Is there, Squire?”

Wagram looked sharply at his father, whose only answer was a feebly-assenting headshake.

“Ah, but there is,” he resumed. “For instance, there is one remark you made just now to the effect that I would gladly give double the amount to save my name, and that of my son after me. Now, that remark does emphatically need explaining.”

“You heard that?” said the adventurer shortly.

“Couldn’t help it. This room is only one storey from ground. Given an open window and still autumn air, and—”

Develin Hunt mentally ground his teeth and cursed. So it was with a purpose the Squire had asked him to open the window! As a matter of real fact, this was not the case. Oh, the old fox, with all his blandness and soft sawder! He felt vicious.

“That all you heard?” he said shortly.

“Enough, wasn’t it? Now, will you kindly tell me in what way my name needs saving; for, looking back, though I have been through hard times, I cannot—thank God—call to mind any instance of having ever disgraced it.”

The adventurer felt a wave of intense relief. This was how Wagram had read his words! Well, he would reassure him on that point; perhaps he might even yet save the situation.

“No! no! no!” he said emphatically. “Great Scott! Mr Wagram, but you’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick there. Why, your name stands on a pedestal all around here, and, if you will allow me to say so, it thoroughly deserves to. Now, be advised by me. Leave this affair alone. It is between myself and your father, and reflects discredit upon nobody named Wagram—take my word for that.”

You see, he was plausible, almost persuasive, this rough-and-tumble West African adventurer. But Wagram shook his head.

“Not satisfactory,” he said. “I still demand to know in what way my name needs ‘saving’—and that of my son after me, you added.”

“You demand?”

“Yes.”

Develin Hunt looked at the man standing over him very stern and straight, then he looked at the Squire. He would have given anything to have avoided this, but since his hand had been forced it was, perhaps, as well that Wagram should know all—should know where he stood. Perhaps the Squire thought the same, for he said no word, gave no sign.

“In the name of God, leave things where they are, man!” conjured the adventurer in a real outburst of feeling. He was not all bad. He had got his price, and he felt an intense respect and pity for the man before him. He would make one more effort. “I tell you nobody’s discredit is involved here. We can’t alwaysknoweverything—it isn’t good for us. As for me, I have pledged my solemn word you shall never be troubled by me again. Now, let me go.”

Still Wagram did not move. He had heard of this man’s former visit, but as his father had not mentioned it to him he himself had kept silence on the subject. But he had put two and two together, and had connected it with days of depression under which the old Squire had suffered. Moreover, it struck him that his father had undergone a subtle change, had not been quite the same ever since. Now he had come in and found him in a state of collapse after another interview with this man. His own name, too, had been brought up, and in such a manner.

“No,” he answered; “not yet. This mystery must be cleared up before you leave this room. I repeat my former question: In what way does my name require ‘saving’?”

“Oh, if you will be so obstinate!” answered Develin Hunt excitedly, “you have only yourself to blame. I’ve done all I could for you. Since youwillhave it, your name—well, it isn’t your name.”

“Not my name?” repeated Wagram in a strange voice. “Man, are you mad, or only drunk?”

“Neither,” returned the adventurer doggedly. “Well, then, your mother was married to me before she married your father. She was not to blame. She thought I was dead. If you don’t believe me ask the Squire here.”

There was no need to ask the Squire. The old man nodded assent; he was incapable of speech just then.

“Are you—trying—to make me believe, then, thatyouare, my father?” said Wagram in a dry, hardly articulate kind of voice.

“No, no—not for a moment. But, of course, the second marriage was invalid. Now, do you take in the position?”

“Yes.”

Wagram’s face had gone livid and his tall form seemed to sway. No further word would come. But for the set, gleaming stare of the eyes he might have been a corpse trying to stand upright. The sight was awful, indescribably so. Even the hard, unscrupulous adventurer was moved to concern and compunction.

“For God’s sake, don’t take it like this,” he adjured. “Pull yourself together, man. The thing is a secret between us three, and need never be anything else. Send for a big tot of brandy, or something to steady your nerves. It’s a facer, but nothing need come of it.”

For answer Wagram only shook his head, and moved unsteadily to the open window, where he stood, looking out. There was nothing to prevent Develin Hunt walking out of the house with his 25,000 pound cheque in his pocket; and, to do him justice, it was not the thought that this might be stopped by telegram that restrained him. Yet he did not so walk out.

Chapter Twenty Two.“Nobody of Nowhere.”Had Wagram been a sufferer from weakness of heart it is highly probable that he would have fallen down dead there and then.The shock was sudden and complete. As he stood gazing out through the open window its full meaning swept over his mind as in a very flash of blasting flame. He, Wagram of Hilversea, whose intense pride in and love of his noble inheritance and the almost illimitable opportunity for good which the position entailed upon him were as the very breath of life, now learned, all in a moment of time, that he was in reality Nobody of Nowhere—that he had not even a name. It seemed as though the very heavens had fallen upon him, crushing him to the dust.“Not a soul need ever be one atom the wiser. It’s strictly between ourselves.”It was the adventurer’s voice that had broken the awful silence. Wagram turned, wearily.“You have proof of what you advance, I take it—sufficient and convincing proof?” he said.“Oh yes; abundant. Look at this,” exhibiting a marriage certificate of many years back. “You can go down and compare notes with the original parish register; it isn’t a very long journey from here. Besides, your father will bear out what I say.”Again the old man nodded feebly. He seemed incapable of speech.Wagram took the certificate and examined it earnestly. It was from the register of a parish in a small county town. Then he handed it back.“What have you received as hush-money over this business?” he said.“Not a farthing until to-day. But the Squire has been very liberal, and has behaved like a thorough gentleman. You may rely upon it that no word will ever pass my lips.”“May I see the cheque?”“Certainly.”Develin Hunt produced the cheque, intending to keep a firm hold of it while the other scanned its contents; but, marvellous to relate, he actually and deliberately placed it in Wagram’s outstretched hand. The latter looked at it.“Twenty-five thousand pounds!” he said. “I suppose you are greatly in need of money?”“Greatly isn’t the word for it,” answered the adventurer quickly. “I’m stony broke—and the worst of it is, I’m too old to be able to make any more.”“Destroy it, Wagram, destroy it!” burst from the old Squire. “He’s broken his side of the contract already.”The adventurer was conscious of a tense and anxious moment. He was fully aware, as we have said above, that the payment could be stopped by wire; still, while he actually held the document itself, he seemed to be holding something substantial. Wagram handed it back unhesitatingly.“No, father,” he said; “it has been given, and we can’t take back a gift; and if anyone is the loser it will be me.”“No, it will not,” declared the adventurer with vehemence. “No, certainly not. And—pardon me, Squire, for reminding you that I havenotbroken my side of the compact. Your son forced the information from me—very unfortunately, but still he did. But nobody else ever will if only you could bring yourselves to believe it. Come. Remember how, for all these years, I have kept absolute silence, even to Everard—though I have been seeing him day after day—in fact, for a devilish sight more days than I wanted to. Well, then, why should I begin to wag my tongue now?”“Only to Everard?” repeated Wagram. “Then you’ve seen him?”“Seen him? Rather! Seen a great deal too much of him. I don’t mind admitting that, if I hadn’t been a sight smarter man for my age than he reckoned, I should have had six inches of his knife between my ribs one time.”“Where is he?” said Wagram.“Ah-h! Now you’re asking for some information it wouldn’t be a bit good for you to have, so I think I’ll withhold it in your own interest—purely in your own interest, mind.”Wagram was about to reply, but did not. The adventurer went on:“Don’t let this knowledge make any difference to you. I give you my word of honour—though, I daresay, you won’t think much of that—that this secret shall die with me. You have both treated me handsomely and fairly and squarely in this matter, and, so help me God! I’ll do the same by you. Wagram Wagram, you might have torn up that cheque when I put it into your hand, as the Squire there advised you, though I know he was speaking without thought when he did. But it was with the knowledge that no more honourable man treads this green and blue world than yourself that I did put it there. Well, then, I swear to you that what I told the Squire on a former occasion is absolutely true. I have a hankering to end up my days decently and respectably, and, perhaps, in the long run this will turn out not the least amount of good of all the good you have done in your time, and I have some sort of inkling what that is. Now I’ll go, and once more I say you’ll never hear of me again.”He rose, and, with a bow to both, walked to the door. No attempt was made to detain him this time.“I’ll just see this gentleman out, father,” said Wagram. “I won’t be a moment.” The Squire nodded.But Wagram had something further in his mind than merely seeing an exceedingly unwelcome visitor off the premises. He made a commonplace remark or two until they were clear of the house; then, once fairly in the avenue, where the ground was open around, and no chance of being overheard, he said again:“Where is he? Where is my brother?”The adventurer’s answer was the same.“You had better not know,” he said.“But—I must.”“But—why? Have you gained anything by being too curious before? Didn’t I warn you to leave it alone—that there might be things it were better that you should not know? This is another of them. Leave it alone, I say. ‘Where ignorance is bliss,’ you know. Well, in this case it is, believe me.”“That is impossible. What sort of ease of mind, let alone happiness, could ever travel my way again while every moment of my life was spent in the consciousness that I was keeping somebody else out of his rights?”“His rights! Good Lord! His rights! Now, do you really mean to tell me that you would abdicate, would turn over all this”—with a sweep of the hand around—“to Butcher Ned—er—I mean Everard? Why, to begin with, it would kill your father.”“No; because he could have no rights here—at least not in the sense we mean—during my father’s lifetime. After that, well—”“After that—well, you would put him in here—would install him in possession. Good Lord! Wagram Wagram, I can only suppose you don’t know your—er—brother one little bit.”“Not lately, of course. But that doesn’t touch the principle of the thing anyhow.”“Not touch the principle of the thing, eh? Have you reflected what would be the result of putting Everard in possession here? No; of course, you haven’t. Well, then, you may take it from me that hell let loose would be a merry little joke compared with Hilversea six months after that sucking lamb had got his finger on it. I tell you it would be a by-word for—well, for everything that you, and all decent people, would rather it were not.”“Have you some grudge against him?” said Wagram.“Grudge? No; not an atom of a grudge. But, honestly, I’d be sorry—more than sorry—to see him in your place. I haven’t any grudge against him; but—Iknowhim, and I don’t think you do.”“Possibly not. But if he is all you imply, all the more reason for finding him out. No one is utterly irreclaimable, you know.”“Pardon me. I don’t I would say I know the exact contrary; only that is a point on which we should certainly disagree. And the first instance I should cite in proof of that contrary would be your half-brother. Now, this time be advised by me—you would not before—and leave Everard—well, exactly wherever he may happen to be.”“No; I cannot do that. We had thought him dead, having heard nothing of him for years. Now we know he is alive it is—well, my duty to find him, in view of his future rights and great responsibilities. Now, Mr Hunt you owned just now that you had been well treated by us, so I put it to you to make some little return; therefore tell me where Everard is to be found.”“The return you mention is to bury what I know as surely as if I were dead, and that you seem determined to prevent me from doing.”“No. Nothing need be known of—of—the other matter any the more. But Everard must be restored to his rights.”The adventurer stood stock still and stared at Wagram. His experience had been wide and diverse, yet here was a man who stood clean outside it. Why, he must be mad; yet as his puzzled glance took in the tall, straight form and the strong, thoroughbred face, still showing traces of the recent shock, he shook his head, puzzled, and decided that the man was as sane as himself, only clean outside his own experience.“Look here,” he said shortly, “supposing in refusing you this information I am trying to protect myself against myself—oh, not from Everard, don’t think that. He couldn’t harm me; the boot, if anything, is rather on the other foot. Now, I’ve made a compact with you and your father, and I mean to keep it, but I’ve made no compact with Everard. Yet, I’m only human, and what if you let him in here and I felt moved to take advantage of it? I have a considerable hold over him, remember, and might easily be tempted to turn it to account.”“In that case you ‘might easily be tempted’ to turn this other knowledge to further account as regards ourselves,” said Wagram, with a dry, wan smile.“No, no; the cases are entirely different,” rejoined the adventurer quickly, and with some vehemence. “Look here. Like yourself, I, too, have a son, of about the same age as yours. Well, it is for him—to keep him as far apart as the poles from becoming what Everard and I, and others, have been—that I am so urgently in need of this money. Now I can do it, and if I could have done it without your forcing this secret from me Heaven knows I would have been far more glad.”Wagram softened. “It could not be helped,” he said wearily. “And now, in return, tell me where to find my brother. I don’t say I am going to rush up to him with the good news—for him—all at once; but he must be found.”The adventurer stood for a moment or two in silence.“Well, then,” he said at last, “since you are so death on finding him, this is the best—or the worst—I can do for you. Go to Lourenço Marques and make a few inquiries there—not from the police, of course. Then, if that’s no good, work over the Lebombo into Swaziland, and get into touch with some of the tougher samples of white traders there—and there are some tough ones. Then go to work delicately and carefully to obtain tidings of Butcher Ned—that’s how he’s known in those parts—never mind why, as I told the Squire just now. Only be very careful how you work your inquiries, for he’ll be engaged on the most ticklish and infernally risky game in the gun-running and general information line for the benefit of the Transvaal Government, unless he’s changed his mind since I saw him last, and I don’t think he has. And, honestly, I hope you won’t succeed in finding him, in which case even your scruples, I should think, would be set at rest. And, perhaps, you won’t, for I certainly can’t give you any information that’s more explicit; and it’s more than a year old, for I took a look in on the West Coast on my way back from that part, and it lasted me a year.”“Thanks,” said Wagram, again with that dry, wan smile, as he made a note or two in a pocket-book.“Now I will go,” said Develin Hunt, “and my best wish is that you will be unsuccessful in your search.”Then he paused, and a strange look—almost a wistful look—came over his hard, bronzed face.“Look here, Wagram Wagram,” he blurted out, “I’ve done you a devilish ill turn, but I needn’t have done that if you hadn’t been so infernally persistent. I still hope nothing will come of it; but, hang it all, I want to tell you before I go that I’ve never seen a man like you in all my experience, and it isn’t small. I’m going to ask you a great favour—no, not money this time—and I know you’re going to refuse it. I want to ask you to let me shake hands with you.”Instinctively Wagram started, partly with astonishment. This man, as he had said, had indeed done him an ill turn. He had, by a word, deprived him of his possessions and of his very name. He had come as a blackmailer, and had obtained his blackmail—his price. He had spoiled—nay, ruined—his very life. And yet, and yet, but for the grace of God he himself might have been such as he, was the reflection that ran swiftly through his mind. Who was he to set himself up in judgment?“No. You will not?” said the other, noting his hesitation. “Of course, I ought to have known.”“But I will,” said Wagram, putting forth his hand.The adventurer clasped it in a strong, hard grip. Then without another word he turned and strode away down the avenue at a most astonishing pace for one of his apparent years.

Had Wagram been a sufferer from weakness of heart it is highly probable that he would have fallen down dead there and then.

The shock was sudden and complete. As he stood gazing out through the open window its full meaning swept over his mind as in a very flash of blasting flame. He, Wagram of Hilversea, whose intense pride in and love of his noble inheritance and the almost illimitable opportunity for good which the position entailed upon him were as the very breath of life, now learned, all in a moment of time, that he was in reality Nobody of Nowhere—that he had not even a name. It seemed as though the very heavens had fallen upon him, crushing him to the dust.

“Not a soul need ever be one atom the wiser. It’s strictly between ourselves.”

It was the adventurer’s voice that had broken the awful silence. Wagram turned, wearily.

“You have proof of what you advance, I take it—sufficient and convincing proof?” he said.

“Oh yes; abundant. Look at this,” exhibiting a marriage certificate of many years back. “You can go down and compare notes with the original parish register; it isn’t a very long journey from here. Besides, your father will bear out what I say.”

Again the old man nodded feebly. He seemed incapable of speech.

Wagram took the certificate and examined it earnestly. It was from the register of a parish in a small county town. Then he handed it back.

“What have you received as hush-money over this business?” he said.

“Not a farthing until to-day. But the Squire has been very liberal, and has behaved like a thorough gentleman. You may rely upon it that no word will ever pass my lips.”

“May I see the cheque?”

“Certainly.”

Develin Hunt produced the cheque, intending to keep a firm hold of it while the other scanned its contents; but, marvellous to relate, he actually and deliberately placed it in Wagram’s outstretched hand. The latter looked at it.

“Twenty-five thousand pounds!” he said. “I suppose you are greatly in need of money?”

“Greatly isn’t the word for it,” answered the adventurer quickly. “I’m stony broke—and the worst of it is, I’m too old to be able to make any more.”

“Destroy it, Wagram, destroy it!” burst from the old Squire. “He’s broken his side of the contract already.”

The adventurer was conscious of a tense and anxious moment. He was fully aware, as we have said above, that the payment could be stopped by wire; still, while he actually held the document itself, he seemed to be holding something substantial. Wagram handed it back unhesitatingly.

“No, father,” he said; “it has been given, and we can’t take back a gift; and if anyone is the loser it will be me.”

“No, it will not,” declared the adventurer with vehemence. “No, certainly not. And—pardon me, Squire, for reminding you that I havenotbroken my side of the compact. Your son forced the information from me—very unfortunately, but still he did. But nobody else ever will if only you could bring yourselves to believe it. Come. Remember how, for all these years, I have kept absolute silence, even to Everard—though I have been seeing him day after day—in fact, for a devilish sight more days than I wanted to. Well, then, why should I begin to wag my tongue now?”

“Only to Everard?” repeated Wagram. “Then you’ve seen him?”

“Seen him? Rather! Seen a great deal too much of him. I don’t mind admitting that, if I hadn’t been a sight smarter man for my age than he reckoned, I should have had six inches of his knife between my ribs one time.”

“Where is he?” said Wagram.

“Ah-h! Now you’re asking for some information it wouldn’t be a bit good for you to have, so I think I’ll withhold it in your own interest—purely in your own interest, mind.”

Wagram was about to reply, but did not. The adventurer went on:

“Don’t let this knowledge make any difference to you. I give you my word of honour—though, I daresay, you won’t think much of that—that this secret shall die with me. You have both treated me handsomely and fairly and squarely in this matter, and, so help me God! I’ll do the same by you. Wagram Wagram, you might have torn up that cheque when I put it into your hand, as the Squire there advised you, though I know he was speaking without thought when he did. But it was with the knowledge that no more honourable man treads this green and blue world than yourself that I did put it there. Well, then, I swear to you that what I told the Squire on a former occasion is absolutely true. I have a hankering to end up my days decently and respectably, and, perhaps, in the long run this will turn out not the least amount of good of all the good you have done in your time, and I have some sort of inkling what that is. Now I’ll go, and once more I say you’ll never hear of me again.”

He rose, and, with a bow to both, walked to the door. No attempt was made to detain him this time.

“I’ll just see this gentleman out, father,” said Wagram. “I won’t be a moment.” The Squire nodded.

But Wagram had something further in his mind than merely seeing an exceedingly unwelcome visitor off the premises. He made a commonplace remark or two until they were clear of the house; then, once fairly in the avenue, where the ground was open around, and no chance of being overheard, he said again:

“Where is he? Where is my brother?”

The adventurer’s answer was the same.

“You had better not know,” he said.

“But—I must.”

“But—why? Have you gained anything by being too curious before? Didn’t I warn you to leave it alone—that there might be things it were better that you should not know? This is another of them. Leave it alone, I say. ‘Where ignorance is bliss,’ you know. Well, in this case it is, believe me.”

“That is impossible. What sort of ease of mind, let alone happiness, could ever travel my way again while every moment of my life was spent in the consciousness that I was keeping somebody else out of his rights?”

“His rights! Good Lord! His rights! Now, do you really mean to tell me that you would abdicate, would turn over all this”—with a sweep of the hand around—“to Butcher Ned—er—I mean Everard? Why, to begin with, it would kill your father.”

“No; because he could have no rights here—at least not in the sense we mean—during my father’s lifetime. After that, well—”

“After that—well, you would put him in here—would install him in possession. Good Lord! Wagram Wagram, I can only suppose you don’t know your—er—brother one little bit.”

“Not lately, of course. But that doesn’t touch the principle of the thing anyhow.”

“Not touch the principle of the thing, eh? Have you reflected what would be the result of putting Everard in possession here? No; of course, you haven’t. Well, then, you may take it from me that hell let loose would be a merry little joke compared with Hilversea six months after that sucking lamb had got his finger on it. I tell you it would be a by-word for—well, for everything that you, and all decent people, would rather it were not.”

“Have you some grudge against him?” said Wagram.

“Grudge? No; not an atom of a grudge. But, honestly, I’d be sorry—more than sorry—to see him in your place. I haven’t any grudge against him; but—Iknowhim, and I don’t think you do.”

“Possibly not. But if he is all you imply, all the more reason for finding him out. No one is utterly irreclaimable, you know.”

“Pardon me. I don’t I would say I know the exact contrary; only that is a point on which we should certainly disagree. And the first instance I should cite in proof of that contrary would be your half-brother. Now, this time be advised by me—you would not before—and leave Everard—well, exactly wherever he may happen to be.”

“No; I cannot do that. We had thought him dead, having heard nothing of him for years. Now we know he is alive it is—well, my duty to find him, in view of his future rights and great responsibilities. Now, Mr Hunt you owned just now that you had been well treated by us, so I put it to you to make some little return; therefore tell me where Everard is to be found.”

“The return you mention is to bury what I know as surely as if I were dead, and that you seem determined to prevent me from doing.”

“No. Nothing need be known of—of—the other matter any the more. But Everard must be restored to his rights.”

The adventurer stood stock still and stared at Wagram. His experience had been wide and diverse, yet here was a man who stood clean outside it. Why, he must be mad; yet as his puzzled glance took in the tall, straight form and the strong, thoroughbred face, still showing traces of the recent shock, he shook his head, puzzled, and decided that the man was as sane as himself, only clean outside his own experience.

“Look here,” he said shortly, “supposing in refusing you this information I am trying to protect myself against myself—oh, not from Everard, don’t think that. He couldn’t harm me; the boot, if anything, is rather on the other foot. Now, I’ve made a compact with you and your father, and I mean to keep it, but I’ve made no compact with Everard. Yet, I’m only human, and what if you let him in here and I felt moved to take advantage of it? I have a considerable hold over him, remember, and might easily be tempted to turn it to account.”

“In that case you ‘might easily be tempted’ to turn this other knowledge to further account as regards ourselves,” said Wagram, with a dry, wan smile.

“No, no; the cases are entirely different,” rejoined the adventurer quickly, and with some vehemence. “Look here. Like yourself, I, too, have a son, of about the same age as yours. Well, it is for him—to keep him as far apart as the poles from becoming what Everard and I, and others, have been—that I am so urgently in need of this money. Now I can do it, and if I could have done it without your forcing this secret from me Heaven knows I would have been far more glad.”

Wagram softened. “It could not be helped,” he said wearily. “And now, in return, tell me where to find my brother. I don’t say I am going to rush up to him with the good news—for him—all at once; but he must be found.”

The adventurer stood for a moment or two in silence.

“Well, then,” he said at last, “since you are so death on finding him, this is the best—or the worst—I can do for you. Go to Lourenço Marques and make a few inquiries there—not from the police, of course. Then, if that’s no good, work over the Lebombo into Swaziland, and get into touch with some of the tougher samples of white traders there—and there are some tough ones. Then go to work delicately and carefully to obtain tidings of Butcher Ned—that’s how he’s known in those parts—never mind why, as I told the Squire just now. Only be very careful how you work your inquiries, for he’ll be engaged on the most ticklish and infernally risky game in the gun-running and general information line for the benefit of the Transvaal Government, unless he’s changed his mind since I saw him last, and I don’t think he has. And, honestly, I hope you won’t succeed in finding him, in which case even your scruples, I should think, would be set at rest. And, perhaps, you won’t, for I certainly can’t give you any information that’s more explicit; and it’s more than a year old, for I took a look in on the West Coast on my way back from that part, and it lasted me a year.”

“Thanks,” said Wagram, again with that dry, wan smile, as he made a note or two in a pocket-book.

“Now I will go,” said Develin Hunt, “and my best wish is that you will be unsuccessful in your search.”

Then he paused, and a strange look—almost a wistful look—came over his hard, bronzed face.

“Look here, Wagram Wagram,” he blurted out, “I’ve done you a devilish ill turn, but I needn’t have done that if you hadn’t been so infernally persistent. I still hope nothing will come of it; but, hang it all, I want to tell you before I go that I’ve never seen a man like you in all my experience, and it isn’t small. I’m going to ask you a great favour—no, not money this time—and I know you’re going to refuse it. I want to ask you to let me shake hands with you.”

Instinctively Wagram started, partly with astonishment. This man, as he had said, had indeed done him an ill turn. He had, by a word, deprived him of his possessions and of his very name. He had come as a blackmailer, and had obtained his blackmail—his price. He had spoiled—nay, ruined—his very life. And yet, and yet, but for the grace of God he himself might have been such as he, was the reflection that ran swiftly through his mind. Who was he to set himself up in judgment?

“No. You will not?” said the other, noting his hesitation. “Of course, I ought to have known.”

“But I will,” said Wagram, putting forth his hand.

The adventurer clasped it in a strong, hard grip. Then without another word he turned and strode away down the avenue at a most astonishing pace for one of his apparent years.

Chapter Twenty Three.After the Blow.Facing round to return to the house the sight of the latter met Wagram as with a blow. The last time he had looked upon it from outside, barely half-an-hour ago, it had been with the love of it and everything about it—that pride of possession which had become unconsciously a part of his very life. Now all was swept away. He passed his hand over his eyes as though dazzled; even his walk seemed swaying and unsteady, as that of a man recovering from a stunning shock. But not of himself must he think just then. He must do what he could to mitigate the stroke as regarded his father, he told himself; afterwards he might indulge in the “luxury” of self-pity.The old Squire was sitting in the library just where he had left him, and as many years seemed to have gone over his head as minutes during the time intervening.“Well, father, this is rather a facer,” he began. “The next thing is to consider what’s to be done.”“There’s nothing to be done,” answered the old man wearily. “Do you think that scoundrel means to keep his word?”“To do him justice, I think he means to at present; but whether his good intentions will evaporate with the lapse of time, and the temptation to try and extract more plunder, is another matter.”There was silence for a few moments between them. Then Wagram said:“Father, would you mind telling me all the ins and outs of this while we are on the subject? We shall get it over that way, and then we need never refer to it again.”“Yes; perhaps it is better,” said the Squire, with a sigh.And then he set forth the whole story, which, with some additional but immaterial detail, was the same as that which we heard him narrate to Monsignor Culham.“You know, this man has just been telling me where I can find Everard,” said Wagram when he had done.The Squire started.“Where you can find Everard!” he echoed. “But—Wagram, you will never be so mad as to try?”“How can I do otherwise? Every hour that I am here I am keeping him out of his rights.”Smiling somewhat feebly the old diplomat asserted himself.“Hardly, my dear boy. At least not at present—for during my lifetime Everard has no rights. After—”Wagram looked up quickly, but the old man paused. Then he went on:“Your first duty is to me; and, that being so, are you contemplating leaving me alone in my old age—my very old age, some might call it—while you scour the world in search of a wastrel who, if you find him, will lay himself out to ruin within six months all that it has taken me—and you—a lifetime to build up? You cannot do it, Wagram. I have not very much longer to live, but as sure as you leave me it will hasten my death. Now, are you anxious to start upon this search?”“No, father. While you are here—and may that be for many years to come—I will not leave you.”“Promise me that.”“Solemnly I promise it.”The old man’s face brightened as they clasped hands. Then he went on:“This is no conscious wrong I have done you, Wagram—God knows. We had every reason—legal and otherwise—for supposing this man to be dead. We acted in perfect good faith, but—can one be sure of anything? And now give me your attention. Even if the worst comes to the very worst, and that—that other claim should come to be established, I have already effected my utmost to repair the wrong I have, accidentally, done you. The very day of that blackmailer’s first visit to me I sent instructions for an entirely new will to be drawn up, and under it, after my death, you take the whole of my personalty absolutely. That alone will constitute you what some would call a rich man. But—as for Hilversea, well—”Earlier in this narrative we heard Haldane remark that its present occupants cherished a conviction that the world revolved round Hilversea, and being, perhaps, the most intimate friend of the said occupants he ought to be in a position to judge. Further, he had observed that, if possible, Wagram held that conviction rather more firmly than his father. It was a figure of speech, of course, but that both were wrapped up in the place and its interests, far beyond the ordinary, we have abundantly shown. And now one of them would be called upon to surrender it.“I have left nothing to chance, Wagram,” went on the Squire. “The will is signed and sealed and most carefully drawn. And now observe: it seems to me a sort of inspiration that caused me to have you christened Wagram; but, to make everything doubly safe, the terms run: ‘To my son Wagram Gerard, known as Wagram Gerard Wagram.’ But I want you to go up to town in a day or two and tell Simcox and Yaxley to let you see it. You can then satisfy yourself.”Wagram nodded assent, and the Squire went on:“This has come upon us—upon you at any rate—in a hurry, and for that very reason we must not allow ourselves to do or say anything in a hurry. Meanwhile we are in possession, which is a strong point. So what we—what you—have got to do is to go on exactly as if this revelation had never been made. There is no telling what Time may work, so give Time his chance. Morally, you are just in the position you would actually have been in—morally, for I repeat again the whole affair was a sheer accident for which nobody is to blame—no, not anybody. And, Wagram, if you distrust my advice as possibly too interested, why not take other advice? There is Monsignor Culham, for instance—no one is more competent to advise you.”“Monsignor Culham? Does he know about this, father?”“Yes; I laid it before him when this blackmailer first approached me.”“And his opinion?”“Substantially what I have been telling you. He was not in favour of your knowing anything about the matter. Unfortunately, you forced the blackmailer’s hand—as he said himself. Morally, and in the sight of God,” went on the old Squire, lapsing into what was, for him, extraordinary vehemence, “your position is just what it would have been but for this—accident. There is no doubt about it. You are the one selected to hold this place in trust, with its many cares and responsibilities and opportunities, so, for God’s sake, Wagram, bear that in mind, and do nothing sudden or rash, either now or after my time.”“I will bear it in mind, father; but it is a position which requires a great deal of thinking out, and that can’t be done in a day or a week or a month where such issues are at stake.”“Quite true; leave it at that, then. And now, Wagram, all this has exhausted me more than I can say. I think I will lie down for a bit and try to get a little sleep. Tell them I am on no account to be disturbed.”“Mine!”No longer the ecstatic intonation of the entrancing possessive, as Wagram, strolling forth to wrestle out alone the blank and deadening revelation he had heard that day, gazed upon the surroundings which had called forth that intensity of self-gratulation on the occasion of our first making his acquaintance. He was now but a mere temporary pensioner. He realised that he was here but for his father’s lifetime, for he knew that when left to himself, whatever might be the after consequences, he would leave no stone unturned till he should find his half-brother, and then—He turned into a seldom-used path in the thick of the shrubbery. The Gothic roof of the chapel rose among the trees at no great distance, and the sight was productive of another heart-tightening. All his pride and joy in the beautiful little sanctuary—and soon it, too, would know him no more. He felt as though about to be cast out of Paradise. But with the thought came another, and it was a wholesome one. What right had he to look upon life as a broken thing simply because one side of its joys had been reft from him? It was not even as though he were about to be thrown forth penniless, or on a meagre, scraping, starvation pittance, which is, perhaps, hardly better, as he had had ample occasion to know during long years of his earlier life. As his father had said, he would be what some would call a rich man in any case; and as an object in life had he not his son’s future to secure and his present to watch over? And then there recurred to his mind a question which Delia Calmour had put to him on a former occasion as to whether he did not find life too good to be real—and his answer to it. There was something prophetic about both. Of late years he had, indeed, found life too good to be real, and was that a state altogether healthy for anybody in this world of probation? He had made an idol of Hilversea.It was late autumn, and the woodland scents were moist and earthy. Brown leaves, crimped and curled, clustered clingingly upon the oak boughs, and the ground was already carpeted with them. He had followed the most secluded paths, sacred, indeed, to himself and the gamekeepers. The white scut of a rabbit darting across a ride; the rustle of pheasants scuttling away in the undergrowth, or the vast flap-flap of wood-pigeon’s wings—now gathered in flocks—detonating in the deep silence of the covert as they fled disturbed from their intended roost; a couple of squirrels chattering angrily at the intruder from the high security of a fir limb—constituted the only sights and sounds. In a day or two these woods would echo and re-echo the crack of guns, and now he thought how he had been looking forward with keen enjoyment to the best shooting party of the year. His guests would go as they had come, thinking—as they had often thought before—that Wagram was about the luckiest and most-to-be-envied man on earth; and, up till this morning, would he not cordially have agreed with such opinion! Would he not? The “pride of life!”Now a sound of voices struck upon his ear. The path he was following ended in a gate, beyond which was the road—a lonely woodland road, intersecting the coverts. As he laid his hand upon this gate to open it he recognised one of the voices—a sweet, full soprano that by this time he had come to know fairly well. The other was strong, harsh, common, but also feminine. Not feeling at all inclined to talk to anybody just then he would have turned back, but—it was too late.Delia Calmour gave a little cry of astonishment as he opened the gate.“Why, Mr Wagram, who’d have thought of meeting you here?”The little flush of surprise, perhaps of something else, which mantled her cheeks as she put out a hand, half shyly, lent an additional sparkle to her eyes, making a whole that was very alluring. She was in semi-winter garb, with a touch of fur, and her bicycle stood against the hedge. The other was a dark, beady-eyed, gipsy-looking woman.“Such fun!” rattled the girl. “I’ve been having my fortune told; only I can’t make head or tail of it.”Here the other, with a half-knowing leer—for, of course, she had at once decided that this meeting was no accidental one—opened on Wagram with the stock professional whine.“I’ll tell yours too, sir, and it’s sure to be bright—and—”Then she stopped. Wagram’s gaze was fixed sternly upon her.“Go away,” he said. “I’ve seen you before, and I’ve warned you before that we had no use for such as you in this neighbourhood. You had better leave it at once, for I shall send word to the police at Bassingham to pay you some very particular attention.”The tramp, seeing he was in earnest, and that there was nothing more to be got out of him, waxed bold and defiant.“You’d do that, would you Squire?” she snarled. “All right. Maybe there’s them as knows more about your little game than you thinks of. Maybe you’ll not be finding everything as easy always; no, and I ’opes yer won’t—tramplin’ upon a pore woman who’s tryin’ to make a honest livin’.” And, cursing and growling, the hag shuffled off down the road.In his then frame of mind the words were startling to Wagram. What on earth—was his altered position already common property? was his first thought, as he read into the malevolent words the very last meaning that the mind of their utterer could have held.“I am surprised at you, Miss Calmour,” he said gravely, “listening to the pestiferous humbug of the commonest type of hedge-side charlatan. Really, I had a better opinion of you.”“And—has it fled?” answered the girl, with a pretty pleading penitence that was not wholly mock. “I only let her tell my fortune for the fun of the thing—and she said some very queer things—not at all after the pattern of stock bosh which I had expected. In fact, they were rather weird—about green seas, smooth and oily, and a battered ship—and terrors—and perhaps death, but if not death, then great happiness. Yes; really it was quite creepy; strange too, for what on earth can I ever have to do with battered ships or green seas—or great happiness either?” she added to herself mournfully. Then again, aloud: “But do you think there may be anything in these people’s powers of prediction?”“No, I do not,” he answered decisively, and with some sternness. “Certainly not. The knowledge of the future is in other hands than those of a common wayside impostor, whom, if I were doing my duty, I ought to have at once had arrested and locked up on a former occasion when she tried to play that humbugging game in my presence.”“Oh yes; she got into the wrong corner this time,” laughed Delia. “You are a magistrate, are you not, Mr Wagram?”“I have seen this particular fraud before, and gave her a trifle, as she seemed really in want,” he answered. “In strict duty I ought to have had her locked up, but strict duty is rather a hard thing to carry out always. But anything that encourages superstition is to me especially abhorrent. The greatest harm these impostors do is not merely in obtaining hard-earned silver from ignorant people but in keeping alive the idea that they can possess any supernatural power—let alone wisdom—at all.”The girl looked at him with a covert smile.“Be merciful to one of those ‘ignorant people,’” she said softly. “Though, really, I did not believe in any supernatural power about the affair; I only let her do it for the fun of the thing.”“I should hope not. With your talents and education I could not have believed it of you. And yet—you hardly know where to draw the line. When you find people, whose upbringing and education, and everything else, ought to put them miles above anything of the kind, steeped over head and ears in such puerile superstitions as throwing spilled salt over the shoulder, scared of having a peacock’s feather brought into their houses, or of getting up first of thirteen from the table, or of walking under a ladder—really it makes one—well, cynical.”“But—walking under a ladder is unlucky sometimes, Mr Wagram.”“Verylikely to be, if you don’t first ascertain whether there’s a journeyman painter up it with a paint pot—not otherwise.”Then they both laughed—for Wagram the first laugh he had indulged in since the bolt had fallen. Well, he could still laugh; yet but now it had seemed to him that he never would laugh again.“But—you’ll admit there are people who can tell you strange—and even startling—things about yourself that they can’t possibly have got at by any ordinary means.”“I’ll admit nothing of the kind. I know the old stock business—I have had it thrown at me too often. Some fool—usually some feminine fool—goes to one of these impostors—not the hedge-side type of fraud but the fashionable ditto—and pays down her guineas to be told such and such. She is told such and such, and it amazes her. Then, in retailing it, she invariably ends up with: ‘But, how do you account for it?’ I always answer I can’t account for it, any more than I can account for how the clever card conjurer takes ace and king and queen out of the top of the head of the baldest man in the audience; but he does it, and nobody dreams of associating the supernatural with the process. It’s the same thing here. It’s part of the system to find out things; and they do it. If you were let into the secret you’d probably laugh at the simplicity with which it’s done. No; really, I’ve no patience with that sort of absurdity; it’s too childish.”“Looked at in that light it is. You do put things straight, Mr Wagram.”“Well, but—isn’t it so? I have even heard people attribute that sort of quackery to satanic influence, which has almost struck me, if one may say so, as insulting to the intelligence of the devil. But it is getting rather dusk. You will want your lamp before you get home. Is it in good lighting order?”If a momentary temptation beset Delia to pretend it was not, so as to afford a pretext for accompanying him to the house, which was not very far distant, she heroically stifled it; so between them they lighted the lamp.“Good-bye, Mr Wagram. Thanks so much. I promise you I won’t dabble in the black art again,” she said as they shook hands; and mounting she skimmed away down the now shadowy road, going over in her mind every word, every tone of the, in hard fact, utterly unmomentous interview. And he, striking into a woodland path on the other side, continued his walk in the deepening gloom, to the accompaniment of the ghostly hooting of owls. It was strange that he should have fallen in with this girl just then, and in his then frame of mind it seemed to him that her glance and tone and demeanour were very sweet, very soothing, very sympathetic. And then—he ceased to give her another thought.

Facing round to return to the house the sight of the latter met Wagram as with a blow. The last time he had looked upon it from outside, barely half-an-hour ago, it had been with the love of it and everything about it—that pride of possession which had become unconsciously a part of his very life. Now all was swept away. He passed his hand over his eyes as though dazzled; even his walk seemed swaying and unsteady, as that of a man recovering from a stunning shock. But not of himself must he think just then. He must do what he could to mitigate the stroke as regarded his father, he told himself; afterwards he might indulge in the “luxury” of self-pity.

The old Squire was sitting in the library just where he had left him, and as many years seemed to have gone over his head as minutes during the time intervening.

“Well, father, this is rather a facer,” he began. “The next thing is to consider what’s to be done.”

“There’s nothing to be done,” answered the old man wearily. “Do you think that scoundrel means to keep his word?”

“To do him justice, I think he means to at present; but whether his good intentions will evaporate with the lapse of time, and the temptation to try and extract more plunder, is another matter.”

There was silence for a few moments between them. Then Wagram said:

“Father, would you mind telling me all the ins and outs of this while we are on the subject? We shall get it over that way, and then we need never refer to it again.”

“Yes; perhaps it is better,” said the Squire, with a sigh.

And then he set forth the whole story, which, with some additional but immaterial detail, was the same as that which we heard him narrate to Monsignor Culham.

“You know, this man has just been telling me where I can find Everard,” said Wagram when he had done.

The Squire started.

“Where you can find Everard!” he echoed. “But—Wagram, you will never be so mad as to try?”

“How can I do otherwise? Every hour that I am here I am keeping him out of his rights.”

Smiling somewhat feebly the old diplomat asserted himself.

“Hardly, my dear boy. At least not at present—for during my lifetime Everard has no rights. After—”

Wagram looked up quickly, but the old man paused. Then he went on:

“Your first duty is to me; and, that being so, are you contemplating leaving me alone in my old age—my very old age, some might call it—while you scour the world in search of a wastrel who, if you find him, will lay himself out to ruin within six months all that it has taken me—and you—a lifetime to build up? You cannot do it, Wagram. I have not very much longer to live, but as sure as you leave me it will hasten my death. Now, are you anxious to start upon this search?”

“No, father. While you are here—and may that be for many years to come—I will not leave you.”

“Promise me that.”

“Solemnly I promise it.”

The old man’s face brightened as they clasped hands. Then he went on:

“This is no conscious wrong I have done you, Wagram—God knows. We had every reason—legal and otherwise—for supposing this man to be dead. We acted in perfect good faith, but—can one be sure of anything? And now give me your attention. Even if the worst comes to the very worst, and that—that other claim should come to be established, I have already effected my utmost to repair the wrong I have, accidentally, done you. The very day of that blackmailer’s first visit to me I sent instructions for an entirely new will to be drawn up, and under it, after my death, you take the whole of my personalty absolutely. That alone will constitute you what some would call a rich man. But—as for Hilversea, well—”

Earlier in this narrative we heard Haldane remark that its present occupants cherished a conviction that the world revolved round Hilversea, and being, perhaps, the most intimate friend of the said occupants he ought to be in a position to judge. Further, he had observed that, if possible, Wagram held that conviction rather more firmly than his father. It was a figure of speech, of course, but that both were wrapped up in the place and its interests, far beyond the ordinary, we have abundantly shown. And now one of them would be called upon to surrender it.

“I have left nothing to chance, Wagram,” went on the Squire. “The will is signed and sealed and most carefully drawn. And now observe: it seems to me a sort of inspiration that caused me to have you christened Wagram; but, to make everything doubly safe, the terms run: ‘To my son Wagram Gerard, known as Wagram Gerard Wagram.’ But I want you to go up to town in a day or two and tell Simcox and Yaxley to let you see it. You can then satisfy yourself.”

Wagram nodded assent, and the Squire went on:

“This has come upon us—upon you at any rate—in a hurry, and for that very reason we must not allow ourselves to do or say anything in a hurry. Meanwhile we are in possession, which is a strong point. So what we—what you—have got to do is to go on exactly as if this revelation had never been made. There is no telling what Time may work, so give Time his chance. Morally, you are just in the position you would actually have been in—morally, for I repeat again the whole affair was a sheer accident for which nobody is to blame—no, not anybody. And, Wagram, if you distrust my advice as possibly too interested, why not take other advice? There is Monsignor Culham, for instance—no one is more competent to advise you.”

“Monsignor Culham? Does he know about this, father?”

“Yes; I laid it before him when this blackmailer first approached me.”

“And his opinion?”

“Substantially what I have been telling you. He was not in favour of your knowing anything about the matter. Unfortunately, you forced the blackmailer’s hand—as he said himself. Morally, and in the sight of God,” went on the old Squire, lapsing into what was, for him, extraordinary vehemence, “your position is just what it would have been but for this—accident. There is no doubt about it. You are the one selected to hold this place in trust, with its many cares and responsibilities and opportunities, so, for God’s sake, Wagram, bear that in mind, and do nothing sudden or rash, either now or after my time.”

“I will bear it in mind, father; but it is a position which requires a great deal of thinking out, and that can’t be done in a day or a week or a month where such issues are at stake.”

“Quite true; leave it at that, then. And now, Wagram, all this has exhausted me more than I can say. I think I will lie down for a bit and try to get a little sleep. Tell them I am on no account to be disturbed.”

“Mine!”

No longer the ecstatic intonation of the entrancing possessive, as Wagram, strolling forth to wrestle out alone the blank and deadening revelation he had heard that day, gazed upon the surroundings which had called forth that intensity of self-gratulation on the occasion of our first making his acquaintance. He was now but a mere temporary pensioner. He realised that he was here but for his father’s lifetime, for he knew that when left to himself, whatever might be the after consequences, he would leave no stone unturned till he should find his half-brother, and then—

He turned into a seldom-used path in the thick of the shrubbery. The Gothic roof of the chapel rose among the trees at no great distance, and the sight was productive of another heart-tightening. All his pride and joy in the beautiful little sanctuary—and soon it, too, would know him no more. He felt as though about to be cast out of Paradise. But with the thought came another, and it was a wholesome one. What right had he to look upon life as a broken thing simply because one side of its joys had been reft from him? It was not even as though he were about to be thrown forth penniless, or on a meagre, scraping, starvation pittance, which is, perhaps, hardly better, as he had had ample occasion to know during long years of his earlier life. As his father had said, he would be what some would call a rich man in any case; and as an object in life had he not his son’s future to secure and his present to watch over? And then there recurred to his mind a question which Delia Calmour had put to him on a former occasion as to whether he did not find life too good to be real—and his answer to it. There was something prophetic about both. Of late years he had, indeed, found life too good to be real, and was that a state altogether healthy for anybody in this world of probation? He had made an idol of Hilversea.

It was late autumn, and the woodland scents were moist and earthy. Brown leaves, crimped and curled, clustered clingingly upon the oak boughs, and the ground was already carpeted with them. He had followed the most secluded paths, sacred, indeed, to himself and the gamekeepers. The white scut of a rabbit darting across a ride; the rustle of pheasants scuttling away in the undergrowth, or the vast flap-flap of wood-pigeon’s wings—now gathered in flocks—detonating in the deep silence of the covert as they fled disturbed from their intended roost; a couple of squirrels chattering angrily at the intruder from the high security of a fir limb—constituted the only sights and sounds. In a day or two these woods would echo and re-echo the crack of guns, and now he thought how he had been looking forward with keen enjoyment to the best shooting party of the year. His guests would go as they had come, thinking—as they had often thought before—that Wagram was about the luckiest and most-to-be-envied man on earth; and, up till this morning, would he not cordially have agreed with such opinion! Would he not? The “pride of life!”

Now a sound of voices struck upon his ear. The path he was following ended in a gate, beyond which was the road—a lonely woodland road, intersecting the coverts. As he laid his hand upon this gate to open it he recognised one of the voices—a sweet, full soprano that by this time he had come to know fairly well. The other was strong, harsh, common, but also feminine. Not feeling at all inclined to talk to anybody just then he would have turned back, but—it was too late.

Delia Calmour gave a little cry of astonishment as he opened the gate.

“Why, Mr Wagram, who’d have thought of meeting you here?”

The little flush of surprise, perhaps of something else, which mantled her cheeks as she put out a hand, half shyly, lent an additional sparkle to her eyes, making a whole that was very alluring. She was in semi-winter garb, with a touch of fur, and her bicycle stood against the hedge. The other was a dark, beady-eyed, gipsy-looking woman.

“Such fun!” rattled the girl. “I’ve been having my fortune told; only I can’t make head or tail of it.”

Here the other, with a half-knowing leer—for, of course, she had at once decided that this meeting was no accidental one—opened on Wagram with the stock professional whine.

“I’ll tell yours too, sir, and it’s sure to be bright—and—”

Then she stopped. Wagram’s gaze was fixed sternly upon her.

“Go away,” he said. “I’ve seen you before, and I’ve warned you before that we had no use for such as you in this neighbourhood. You had better leave it at once, for I shall send word to the police at Bassingham to pay you some very particular attention.”

The tramp, seeing he was in earnest, and that there was nothing more to be got out of him, waxed bold and defiant.

“You’d do that, would you Squire?” she snarled. “All right. Maybe there’s them as knows more about your little game than you thinks of. Maybe you’ll not be finding everything as easy always; no, and I ’opes yer won’t—tramplin’ upon a pore woman who’s tryin’ to make a honest livin’.” And, cursing and growling, the hag shuffled off down the road.

In his then frame of mind the words were startling to Wagram. What on earth—was his altered position already common property? was his first thought, as he read into the malevolent words the very last meaning that the mind of their utterer could have held.

“I am surprised at you, Miss Calmour,” he said gravely, “listening to the pestiferous humbug of the commonest type of hedge-side charlatan. Really, I had a better opinion of you.”

“And—has it fled?” answered the girl, with a pretty pleading penitence that was not wholly mock. “I only let her tell my fortune for the fun of the thing—and she said some very queer things—not at all after the pattern of stock bosh which I had expected. In fact, they were rather weird—about green seas, smooth and oily, and a battered ship—and terrors—and perhaps death, but if not death, then great happiness. Yes; really it was quite creepy; strange too, for what on earth can I ever have to do with battered ships or green seas—or great happiness either?” she added to herself mournfully. Then again, aloud: “But do you think there may be anything in these people’s powers of prediction?”

“No, I do not,” he answered decisively, and with some sternness. “Certainly not. The knowledge of the future is in other hands than those of a common wayside impostor, whom, if I were doing my duty, I ought to have at once had arrested and locked up on a former occasion when she tried to play that humbugging game in my presence.”

“Oh yes; she got into the wrong corner this time,” laughed Delia. “You are a magistrate, are you not, Mr Wagram?”

“I have seen this particular fraud before, and gave her a trifle, as she seemed really in want,” he answered. “In strict duty I ought to have had her locked up, but strict duty is rather a hard thing to carry out always. But anything that encourages superstition is to me especially abhorrent. The greatest harm these impostors do is not merely in obtaining hard-earned silver from ignorant people but in keeping alive the idea that they can possess any supernatural power—let alone wisdom—at all.”

The girl looked at him with a covert smile.

“Be merciful to one of those ‘ignorant people,’” she said softly. “Though, really, I did not believe in any supernatural power about the affair; I only let her do it for the fun of the thing.”

“I should hope not. With your talents and education I could not have believed it of you. And yet—you hardly know where to draw the line. When you find people, whose upbringing and education, and everything else, ought to put them miles above anything of the kind, steeped over head and ears in such puerile superstitions as throwing spilled salt over the shoulder, scared of having a peacock’s feather brought into their houses, or of getting up first of thirteen from the table, or of walking under a ladder—really it makes one—well, cynical.”

“But—walking under a ladder is unlucky sometimes, Mr Wagram.”

“Verylikely to be, if you don’t first ascertain whether there’s a journeyman painter up it with a paint pot—not otherwise.”

Then they both laughed—for Wagram the first laugh he had indulged in since the bolt had fallen. Well, he could still laugh; yet but now it had seemed to him that he never would laugh again.

“But—you’ll admit there are people who can tell you strange—and even startling—things about yourself that they can’t possibly have got at by any ordinary means.”

“I’ll admit nothing of the kind. I know the old stock business—I have had it thrown at me too often. Some fool—usually some feminine fool—goes to one of these impostors—not the hedge-side type of fraud but the fashionable ditto—and pays down her guineas to be told such and such. She is told such and such, and it amazes her. Then, in retailing it, she invariably ends up with: ‘But, how do you account for it?’ I always answer I can’t account for it, any more than I can account for how the clever card conjurer takes ace and king and queen out of the top of the head of the baldest man in the audience; but he does it, and nobody dreams of associating the supernatural with the process. It’s the same thing here. It’s part of the system to find out things; and they do it. If you were let into the secret you’d probably laugh at the simplicity with which it’s done. No; really, I’ve no patience with that sort of absurdity; it’s too childish.”

“Looked at in that light it is. You do put things straight, Mr Wagram.”

“Well, but—isn’t it so? I have even heard people attribute that sort of quackery to satanic influence, which has almost struck me, if one may say so, as insulting to the intelligence of the devil. But it is getting rather dusk. You will want your lamp before you get home. Is it in good lighting order?”

If a momentary temptation beset Delia to pretend it was not, so as to afford a pretext for accompanying him to the house, which was not very far distant, she heroically stifled it; so between them they lighted the lamp.

“Good-bye, Mr Wagram. Thanks so much. I promise you I won’t dabble in the black art again,” she said as they shook hands; and mounting she skimmed away down the now shadowy road, going over in her mind every word, every tone of the, in hard fact, utterly unmomentous interview. And he, striking into a woodland path on the other side, continued his walk in the deepening gloom, to the accompaniment of the ghostly hooting of owls. It was strange that he should have fallen in with this girl just then, and in his then frame of mind it seemed to him that her glance and tone and demeanour were very sweet, very soothing, very sympathetic. And then—he ceased to give her another thought.

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