"Mr. Leicester Dodson," said the detective, shortly. "It was his hat, and he was seen on the cliff road."
"But—but," said the captain, "it is impossible!"
The detective glanced at him, and smiled.
"Nothing's impossible in a murder, sir. I think I can get a trap or a horse here quicker than going up to the Park. Here, saddle me a horse, sharp, boy, and I'll give you a shilling."
There was confusion instantly all round the "Blue Lion", at the door of which stood Martha, grim and fierce, as usual.
A horse was saddled, and, after giving a few instructions to the inspector, Detective Dockett dashed off.
The captain looked at Mr. Thaxton with perplexity and dismay.
"This is preposterous and ridiculous! Mr. Leicester Dodson is the most respected man in the place."
Mr. Thaxton shook his head gravely.
"The course the detective is adopting is inevitable," he said. "We had better go to the Cedars, and see his father or mother."
"Come along, then," said the captain, who seemed all excitement and indignation, and the two gentlemen hurried off.
At the gates of the Cedars they found a policeman, and it was some moments before he would permit them to pass.
At last they succeeded in overcoming his scruples, and made their way to the house.
Mrs. Dodson came to them, pale and agitated, but her scorn at the mere idea of Leicester's committing such a deed helped to keep her up.
She answered all their questions as she had done those of the inspector.
"Leicester is not here," she said, "and I cannot tell you where he is. He often goes away suddenly and unexpectedly. He may be in London, but, if he is, he will come down at once. I have telegraphed for him and his father, who went up with Mr. Lennox. What is all this silly story about a murder, Captain Murpoint?"
The captain did his best—or pretended to do—to reassure and soothe her, and Mr. Thaxton, after a few moments' silence, asked if he could see the valet.
Mrs. Dodson dispatched a messenger to find the valet,who soon appeared, looking as bewildered as every one else.
He, however, threw some light upon the matter by informing them of the dispatch of the portmanteau.
"What!" exclaimed Mr. Thaxton. "Why did you not say so before?"
The man hung his head. He was a faithful fellow, and had hoped, by concealing his master's destination, that he should give him all the more time to get out of the way, "if so be as he had committed a mistake."
"Foolish fellow!" said Mr. Thaxton. "It is to your master's interest to return and clear up the matter. We must telegraph to the Isle of Man. If, as I suppose, Mr. Leicester started last night, he would not reach there until midday. Do not be alarmed, madam; he will assuredly hurry back, posthaste, and set the affair straight, so far as he is concerned."
"That I am confident of, sir," said Mrs. Dodson, with simple dignity.
The two gentlemen rose and departed, the captain still excited, the lawyer very calm and thoughtful. They telegraphed, through the police, to the Isle of Man, and waited feverishly for an answer.
An answer came late that night.
TheWavehad come in, telegraphed the skipper of the yacht, but Mr. Leicester had not arrived by it.
Before nightfall the hue and cry was in full voice, and the police were on the alert to arrest Leicester Dodson, wherever and whenever he might be found, on a charge of willful murder.
The days rolled on in the little fishing village, and the terrible drama which had convulsed it was still talked of and remembered, but with less vividness every day.
Up at the Cedars two sorrowful human beings, clad in black, were learning that bitter lesson which all must learn, to suffer and to bear.
Violet was their sole comfort in the hour of darkness.
She had given them the only explanation of the tragedy they would accept, namely that Leicester had slain Starling in self-defense and had himself fallen over the cliff into the sea.
Violet's plump roundness gradually toned down to a spareness which was grace itself, but, alas! strangely different to her old healthful vigor.
One other person beside the relations of Leicester mourned for him, and that was little, lame Jemmie, Willie Sanderson's brother.
To the poor, afflicted lad Leicester had seemed to be a beneficent god. The child adored the man who had, in so kindly and true a fashion, ministered to his wants, and no one shed more tears than little Jemmie.
In his little chair, which he could propel himself, he would haunt the Cedars, and the walks which had been favorite resorts of Leicester, and there weep over the memory of his great friend and hero.
One evening, the lad set off in his quiet, sad way for a walk, or, rather, ride on the cliff.
Impelled by an awful curiosity, the boy drove close to the edge of the cliff, and looked down.
He drew back, with a sob of grief and was about to return, but, as he made the movement, his tear-dimmed eyes caught the glimmer of some object lying under the edge of the cliff, half hidden by the overhanging tufts of grass.
With a mechanical curiosity, he drew near to it, and saw, with a beating heart, that it was a knife.
Instantly it flashed upon him that it was the very knife with which Leicester had, in self-defense, slain Jem Starling.
With the knife hidden in his bosom he returned home, determined to destroy the weapon, with its telltale rust of blood, on the first opportunity.
Of course, the doctor was not at all satisfied with the outward calm and serenity with which Violet bore her grief.
"It is all very well," he said to Mr. Thaxton, as he and that gentleman were smoking a cigar on the lawn and conferring together as to the state of Violet's health, "it is all very well to say that she is resigned, but I must confess that I do not like the word when it is applied to thenumbed stillness of a young girl. Could you not get up a little difficulty of some sort? Anything would answer the purpose to divert her mind from this terrible subject."
"Hem!" said Mr. Thaxton. "I have always avoided business, though, as you are aware, I was summoned to go into some matter. Every day I offer to touch upon the subject with Mrs. Mildmay she entreats me to wait a little and to remain."
"Yes," said the doctor, "and I am very glad you are here, but still I think I would attempt to interest her. Cannot Captain Murpoint assist us? He seems to have taken the management of affairs."
"Yes," said Mr. Thaxton, and his brow clouded slightly. "Captain Murpoint is invaluable; he is extremely clever, and seems to obtain implicit obedience here."
At that moment Captain Murpoint came on to the lawn.
"Good-morning," said Mr. Thaxton. "We were talking of you, captain. Mr. Boner was suggesting that it would be as well to attempt a little diversion for Miss Mildmay."
"With all my heart," said the captain, gravely.
"In the shape of business," continued Mr. Thaxton. "You have never informed me yet why my presence was wanted at the Park."
The captain's face flushed slightly. He had been waiting for this moment, and now it had come he braved it boldly.
"I wrote to you at the request of Miss Mildmay," he said. "It was a matter connected with a locket of her father's—mine it would have been had he lived longer. But let us come in; we will find the ladies, and go into it—that is, if Violet is well enough. You, Mr. Boner, must come and ascertain that for us."
So, with his usual artfulness, he secured another witness for the business which he had on hand.
The three gentlemen went into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Mildmay and Violet were seated, the elder lady knitting, the younger, not reading, with a book open before her.
Mr. Thaxton crossed over to her, and, seating himself by her side, said, in the gentle voice with which he always addressed her:
"My dear young lady, do you feel well enough to go into business this morning?"
Violet smiled, faintly.
"I am quite well," she said. "I always am. It is only your kind heart which fears otherwise. What business is it?"
"The business upon which you sent for me," said Mr. Thaxton.
Violet started slightly, and a dim look of pain shadowed her eyes.
"I forgot," she said. "I forget so many things." Then she looked over at the captain. "Captain Murpoint sent for you; he will tell you."
The captain, thus adjured, crossed over to them, and explained.
Mr. Thaxton listened.
"And this locket," he said; "you are anxious to get, my dear?"
"Yes," said Violet, sadly. "I would like to have it. I had forgotten it. Yes, I would like to have it; I must have it."
"Then," said Mr. Thaxton, cheerily, hoping to rouse her to something like interest, "suppose we venture boldly into the ghost's quarters, and find it? What do you say, Mr. Boner? Are you courageous enough to accompany us?"
The doctor smiled an assent.
"Miss Mildmay must come, too," he said, hoping to rouse her, or to awaken some feeling in place of the dull lethargy which had taken hold of her.
"Yes, I will come. Auntie!" and she called to Mrs. Mildmay; "we will go together."
The whole plan, as far as this, had worked admirably, and the captain, offering his arm to Violet, led the way to the closed chamber.
Arrived at the door, Mr. Thaxton tried the handle.
"Have you the key?" he asked.
"Yes," said Violet, and she went to fetch it.
While she was gone, Mr. Boner examined the door.
"We shall want a screwdriver," he said; "the door is screwed up."
A servant was dispatched for the tool, and Mr. Thaxton himself unscrewed the door.
"The screws are quite rusty," he said; "the door has not been opened since the day on which it was first closed thus."
"No," said Violet, "it has never been opened," and, as she spoke, she unlocked it.
There was a few moments of silence, during which the lawyer's acute eyes had taken an inventory of the room and its contents.
"Yes," he said, "the room has evidently not been entered for years. Have you the keys, Miss Mildmay?"
Violet handed him a bunch of keys.
The doctor followed the lawyer into the room, and, drawing forward chairs, dusted them and requested Violet and Mrs. Mildmay to be seated.
"I suppose," said Mr. Thaxton, "that we had better try this old bureau first."
Mr. Thaxton slowly tried a key, and opened a drawer.
It was full of papers, which he merely glanced at and laid aside.
Then he opened the writing-desk portion of the bureau, and found a drawer full of trinkets.
"Here it must be," he said, pointing to the drawer. "Will you look?"
Violet rose, and, with trembling fingers, turned over the jewelry.
"These were my mother's jewels," she said.
"Is the locket in there?" asked Mrs. Mildmay.
"No," said Violet, after a pause, and with evident disappointment. "No, there is no locket here."
"Let us search another drawer," said the lawyer, and he unlocked the next in succession.
This, also, was full of papers, but nothing in the shape of a locket could be found there.
Mr. Boner came forward.
"I am rather familiar with the oddities of this sort of furniture," he said. "Indeed, I have a taste for old bookcases and secretaries. May I see if I can find a secret drawer?"
He passed his hand upon the beading running round the writing desk.
"No," said the doctor; "I am disappointed."
Violet rose.
"I will try," she said, and she passed her white, slender fingers over the ornamental part of the bureau.
As she did so, there was a sudden click, and before them all the secret drawer glided out.
Violet started, then bent down and examined it.
There was only an old, faded piece of parchment.
"There is no locket here," she said. "Only this," and she laid the paper on the table. "Will you please put the papers where they were—and—and—close the room again?"
And she shuddered.
"You are chilled," said the doctor. "There is a draught here from that broken window," and he pointed to the window, in which a pane was broken.
The captain started.
He had quite forgotten that slight evidence of his dark deed.
"A bat or an owl has flown against it," he said. "Let me take you downstairs, Miss Mildmay."
Violet placed her hand upon his arm.
"One moment," said Mr. Thaxton. "With your permission, I will glance at this document; it should be of some importance, so carefully preserved."
Violet made a gesture of assent.
"A lease, or something of the sort," muttered the lawyer, putting on his spectacles and taking up the parchment. "Ah!" he exclaimed, suddenly, looking up and scanning the faces all round with a look of surprise.
"What is the matter?" said Mrs. Mildmay, nervously.
"Have you any idea as to what this paper may be?" he asked Violet.
She shook her head, wearily.
"No," she said. "What is it?"
"This," said the lawyer, tapping the document, "is a codicil to your father's will, signed"—here he glanced at the last page—"by him, legally and in due form."
Violet remained silent.
There was a general expression of surprise.
Mr. Thaxton thought for a moment, with the document in his hand.
Then he said:
"I am glad there were so many present at the finding of the deed, and I think I will take the precaution of sealing it in your presence. May I ring for sealing-wax and paper?"
He rang the long silent bell, and a servant, at his request, brought the required articles.
Then, with due formality, the man of law folded the document and sealed it, using a seal of Violet's for the purpose.
"Now," he said, looking at his watch, "as it is important and only reasonable that we should learn the contents, I should recommend that Mr. Beal, the solicitor at Tenby, be telegraphed for. I would rather that another legal adviser as well as myself were present at the reading.
"I will telegraph at once," said the captain, gravely, as the party passed out of the room, which was locked and screwed up as it had been before.
In a very short time Mr. Beal, the Tenby solicitor, arrived.
Mr. Beal was the exact opposite to Mr. Thaxton in appearance and demeanor. He was astute, but a gentleman of the old legal school, and he had risen from a heavy dinner at the special summons with not a little of ill-humor.
"This is a singular discovery," said Mr. Beal. "Of course, it has considerably surprised you, madam."
Mrs. Mildmay murmured "Yes," and the lawyer, after conferring for a moment, broke the seal.
"It is very short," said Mrs. Beal. "Will you read it, or shall I?"
"You," said Mr. Thaxton.
Mr. Beal opened the parchment, and continued:
"'I, John Mildmay, being in sound bodily and mental health, do declare this to be my true codicil to my last will and testament. I do hereby bequeath to my dear and beloved daughter, Violet Mildmay, the whole of my real and personal estates, with the exception of the legacies mentioned in my will, to hold and to have on these terms; that is to say: That I hereby appoint Howard Murpoint, captain in Her Majesty's army, sole guardian and trustee ofmy moneys and estates, in trust for Violet Mildmay, who shall have and hold them so long as she remains unmarried or marries with the consent of the said Howard Murpoint; and I hereby will that, in case of Violet Mildmay's death unwedded or her marriage without the consent of the said Howard Murpoint, that all moneys and properties held under my will shall revert to the said Howard Murpoint, with the exception of the bequests and legacies contained in my will; and I bequeath the sum of five thousand pounds, to be raised from the estate, or from my personal assets, to the said Howard Murpoint, to have and to hold for his own use. And I do assign to him the sole charge and care of my beloved daughter, Violet Mildmay, and do beseech him to hold her as his own daughter, and to guard and cherish her as such. The aforesaid are my last bequests and wishes, subject, so far as legacies to servants and relations are contained in my last will and testament. Dated the — day of ——, 18—. As witness my hand."'(Signed)John Mildmay.'"'Witnesses: Henry Matthews, Mary Matthews.'"
"'I, John Mildmay, being in sound bodily and mental health, do declare this to be my true codicil to my last will and testament. I do hereby bequeath to my dear and beloved daughter, Violet Mildmay, the whole of my real and personal estates, with the exception of the legacies mentioned in my will, to hold and to have on these terms; that is to say: That I hereby appoint Howard Murpoint, captain in Her Majesty's army, sole guardian and trustee ofmy moneys and estates, in trust for Violet Mildmay, who shall have and hold them so long as she remains unmarried or marries with the consent of the said Howard Murpoint; and I hereby will that, in case of Violet Mildmay's death unwedded or her marriage without the consent of the said Howard Murpoint, that all moneys and properties held under my will shall revert to the said Howard Murpoint, with the exception of the bequests and legacies contained in my will; and I bequeath the sum of five thousand pounds, to be raised from the estate, or from my personal assets, to the said Howard Murpoint, to have and to hold for his own use. And I do assign to him the sole charge and care of my beloved daughter, Violet Mildmay, and do beseech him to hold her as his own daughter, and to guard and cherish her as such. The aforesaid are my last bequests and wishes, subject, so far as legacies to servants and relations are contained in my last will and testament. Dated the — day of ——, 18—. As witness my hand.
"'(Signed)John Mildmay.'
"'Witnesses: Henry Matthews, Mary Matthews.'"
Mr. Thaxton looked gravely from one to the other, and examined the document.
"Is it in my brother's handwriting?" asked Mrs. Mildmay.
"Yes, madam," said Mr. Beal. "The late Mr. Mildmay's handwriting, I should say, undoubtedly."
"It is only my duty to state," said Mr. Thaxton, after a moment's silence, "that this document is singularly informal, and that it could be set aside—I do not say that there exists any wish to set it aside—but I say that it would not, in my opinion, hold good in a court of equity."
"Just so," said Mr. Beal, with legal solemnity.
"You say that it is my father's handwriting?" asked Violet.
"I should say so. Yes, certainly," said Mr. Beal.
Mr. Thaxton remained silent.
"What is your opinion, Mr. Thaxton?" asked the captain.
"I have formed none at present," said the lawyer, quietly. "I have not examined the document sufficientlyto do so. I know that it was an oft-expressed wish of the late Mr. Mildmay that his daughter should be placed under your guardianship."
"And it is so set down," said Violet, rising with her usual decision. "My father's will is mine!" She held out her hand to the captain, with a sad, gentle smile. "He has assigned me to your charge, and I resign myself. Will you undertake that responsibility? Will you be the guardian of the daughter of your dead friend?"
The captain took the little thin hand and bent over it while his tears—by some miraculous effort—dropped on it.
"I will," he breathed, struggling with his emotion. "I will cherish you, as he says, as if you were my own!"
We must return for a while to the kidnaped Leicester.
Gagged and completely powerless, he was hurried along by his captors, through the ruins and down, by a circuitous path, terribly narrow and steep, to the beach.
Though his mouth was gagged, he could still see and hear, and when they had reached the beach he saw the starlike signal which had often puzzled him and heard the sound of muffled oars.
Presently, amidst a dead silence, he was lifted into a boat, which instantly put about toward the open sea.
After some little time he saw the spars of a small schooner looming in the distance.
The boat reached it.
He was lifted from the boat and carried on deck.
There he was instantly surrounded by a crew of desperate and ferocious-looking sailors, half of them Lascars, a few Spanish, and one or two Englishmen.
Job, who had remained on deck, drew aside with the captain, and, after a few minutes' rapid conversation with him, returned to where Leicester lay.
"I am going, Maester Leicester," he said, gravely, andalmost sadly. "I be sorry to leave ye like this, but ye wouldn't come to terms and there was naught else to do. I'd advise ye to give in like a wise gentleman; no harm'll come to yer if yer keeps quiet. Good-by, Maester Leicester. I be sorry, mortal sorry, and I'd give a sight of money if it was any one else as we'd had to play the trick on."
So saying, he turned and dropped over into the boat, which instantly rowed away.
Immediately afterward the order was given to crowd all canvas and put the ship about.
While it was being executed the captain of the motley crew strode up to Leicester and unbound his hands and removed the gag.
Leicester sprang to his feet.
"Stranger," he said, with that nasal twang which proclaimed the Yankee, "I guess we'd better understand each other. I'm captain of this yere vessel, and what I say I mean; and no gentleman, whether he's an etarnal Britisher or a free man born under the Stars and Stripes can mean more. You've been consigned to my charge under peculiar circumstances. I'm to take care of you, keep yer safe and sound, and drop you soft as a kitten at a sartain place. Them's my instructions, and them's my intentions."
"I will offer no resistance to this villainous oppression," said Leicester, "on the condition that I am not kept in confinement and am allowed to mingle with and assist your crew."
The Yankee thought a moment and nodded.
"That's fair," he said. "And I agree, with this yere stipulation, that you comes no nonsense with my men, none of yer pitching yarns or tempting to a mutiny."
Leicester smiled bitterly as he glanced at the villainous countenance of the crew.
"I give you that promise," he said.
Leicester took off his coat, waistcoat, boots and stockings and quietly joined the crew at their task of setting the sails.
It was his wisest course of action, for had he been leftidle and fettered with nothing to do but to think and dwell upon his position he must have gone mad.
It is a beautiful spring morning, and the London season is, like the time of year, just at its greenest and most verdant state.
This afternoon the Lady's Mile in the park is tolerably full, and the loungers against the railings especially numerous.
At the corner, near the old elm, leans little Tommy Gossip; everybody knows Tommy, and, what is worse, Tommy knows everybody and everything.
"Who's that, my dear boy?" says Tommy, as a green chariot dashes by, in which are seated a stout elderly lady and a companion; "that's the Duchess of St. Clare," and he lifts his hat. "She's the queen of fashion, my boy, and can make or mar a reputation with a word. Jingo! how she paints! Ha!" And here Tommy Gossip brightens up into a state of mild excitement. "Here she is!"
"Who?" asked the lad at his side.
"Who? Why the beauty of the day, the new belle, the Ice Queen, as Madam White called her. By St. George, she grows more beautiful every day—and more pale."
And as he spoke he raised his hat, with an emphasis of reverence and eagerness, to an open carriage which slowly passed by.
In the carriage were seated three ladies.
Two of them were old, but one was superbly beautiful, with a beauty that was not only captivating but absorbing in its expression of pensive, resigned and dignified repose.
"There she goes! Look at the men. There's not a head covered, and there's not a heart, my boy, that would not jump out of its shoes at a smile from her. Who is she? Why she is the beauty and the belle and the mystery of London. Her name is Mildmay, Violet Mildmay. One of the old ladies with her is her aunt, Mrs. Mildmay. The other is a Mrs. Dodson—a relation of the family, some say, others a mother of that singular fellow, Leicester Dodson, Bertie Fairfax's sworn friend, who cut his throat down at some outlandish watering-place. Look, you seethose two gentlemen, those riding toward us on horseback? That is Howard Murpoint, Esq."
"Which," said the boy, "the old one?"
"No, the young one; the old gentleman is Mr. Dodson, poor Leicester Dodson's father. No, the young one; watch his face, my lad, for it is the face of a great man. That man can command millions. He is chairman of the great Confederated Credit Company, and director of half a hundred companies besides."
At that moment, while Mr. Gossip was running on to the delight of the lad, a tall, golden-haired man came slowly by.
Tommy Gossip caught his arm as he passed.
"Hello, Bert, back again! Dine with us at the Theseus to-night?"
"I can't, I'm busy," said our old friend. "I'm very sorry. Ah, there is Miss Mildmay," and, dragging himself from the gossip he made his way to the carriage.
Barely two years had elapsed since the time of that tragedy in the little watering-place of Penruddie, and wonderful changes have come about.
Captain Howard Murpoint, no longer known as captain, but as Howard Murpoint, Esq., M. P., is, or is supposed to be, one of the great capitalists of the day.
How he has made his money and found his position is a mystery and a marvel.
And what of Violet? Has she forgotten her love-passion? Has she forgotten her ill-fated lover?
Look at her face, and see if it is the face of a woman that forgets.
None know how much she remembers, how much of the past she still clings to.
To no one, not even to Mrs. Dodson, whom she loves as a daughter loves her mother, does she ever mention that familiar name.
"Leicester" may be graven on her heart, but it never passes her lips.
We shall see her to-night, for there is a ball, the first of the season, at the Duchess of St. Clare's, at which she will be present, in company with theélite, including Bertie Fairfax.
Bertie Fairfax, the favorite of the club and the drawing-room.Still the handsome Apollo Belvedere, but not quite the light-hearted, free, laughing fellow as of old.
He is a celebrated man, an author of great repute, whom men point out to their sons as a modern genius, and to procure whom at their balls and dinners women will do much.
Bertie was fond of a dinner once and loved a ball, but it seems now as if "man delighted him not, nor woman either," at least not women.
He will always go to a ball or a dinner if he is sure that Lady Ethel Lackland will be present.
For the rest, he spends his life, writing hard, in those very set of chambers which his dear friend Leicester shared with him, and which his spirit still visits.
There is to be a crowd at Clare House to-night, and Bertie will see Ethel—perhaps speak to her.
As he leans against the Mildmay's carriage he tells Violet that he will be there, and he knows by the gentle smile with which she looks down at him that she knows why.
"I am so glad," she says. "Will you look out for me? Lady Boisdale will not be there till eleven."
There is indeed a crowd at Clare House. The huge staircases are one great crush, the saloons a scene of warfare.
To dance is almost impossible, save to those young and ardent votaries of Terpsichore who are willing to whirl in the mazy waltz reckless of their own dresses and other people's toes.
Still, however, there is breathing and moving room in some of the corridors, and thither many have taken refuge.
Violet dances, and she sings, and laughs sometimes, but not as she did of old.
The earl and Howard Murpoint were alone in a corner.
"A great crush," said the earl, stroking his white mustache. "The young people seem to be enjoying themselves, which brings me to the remark that you ought to be classed with the juveniles, Mr. Murpoint."
And he looked at the capitalist with a cold smile.
"I am not very old, certainly," said Howard Murpoint. "Some would call me very young."
"For so successful a man," put in the earl, with another smile.
The successful man bowed.
"I have had my fair share of fortune," said Howard Murpoint, "but perhaps, like Sempronius, I have done more than deserve success—worked for it. That reminds me, my lord, that you have not yet made up your mind to join us in the new Penwain mines."
He glanced at the earl as he spoke, then looked away to the ballroom with a careless air.
"Eh—hem!" said the earl, "you wish my name to appear on the list of directors."
"Exactly," said Mr. Howard Murpoint. "An earl pleases, and—pardon me, my lord—soothes the monetary public, as you are aware."
The earl frowned, if a slight contraction of the eyebrows can be called a frown.
"I am already on the board of several of your companies, Mr. Murpoint, at your request."
"Certainly at my request, my lord; but you have not undertaken any responsibility, and I trust, have found your reward."
"Eh? Yes," said the earl. "To put it plainly, I have received certain shares as an equivalent for the use of my name, and they have paid tolerably well."
"Very well, I think," said Howard Murpoint, with quiet and smiling emphasis.
"Tolerably well," resumed the earl, as if he had not been interrupted. "But as you seem to attach so much importance to my—the fact of my name appearing on the list of the Penwain Mine Company, it has occurred to me that—ahem!—it may be worth more than I receive for it. I speak plainly."
"I am honored by your candor," said Howard Murpoint, with a crafty smile. "You have forgotten, while enumerating the equivalents received, some slight service which I have been enabled to render you."
"Loans, my dear sir," said the earl, "loans; which, of course, I shall pay. Merely loans."
It was Mr. Murpoint's turn to "ahem!"
"My dear lord," he said, in his sweetest voice, "we men of business know a great deal more than most people giveus credit for knowing. One little bird—pray don't think I wished him to whisper secrets—came to me one day and whispered your name and that of a certain well-known money-lender."
The earl's face grew more fixed, but he did not move a muscle or show the slightest anger or surprise at the captain's knowledge of his embarrassments.
"Do not be afraid, my lord," said the schemer, in his softest voice; "the secret is safe with me. I shall not tell any one that Lackland Hall is mortgaged to the neck; that there is a lien on every other house your lordship holds; that there is a bill of sale upon the furniture, and that Lady Lackland's diamonds are at the jewelers, being repaired. I shall not tell all this because it is not to my interest to do so."
The earl sat stroking his mustache and looking straight before him.
"You do indeed speak plainly, Mr. Murpoint," he said, "and, while I will not endeavor to disprove or deny your assertions, I must at least confess that they startle me. Granting, merely for argument's sake, that I am er—er—somewhat embarrassed, I cannot see how it can be to your interest to help me."
There was a pause.
Presently a couple—a handsome man and a beautiful woman—passed them as they promenaded after the dance.
"What a couple they make. My ward is beautiful and well-bred, my lord, and Lord Boisdale and she are good friends."
The earl scrutinized the sleek, serene face of the speaker with acute anxiety.
"I see," he said, "I see. You are right, you are right, Mr. Murpoint; they would make a handsome and suitable pair. It is a capital idea."
"Which requires capital," said Howard Murpoint.
The earl flushed.
"Your ward is wealthy——"
"And your son must needs be noble, my lord," continued the captain. "A match between them is a thing to be desired."
"You would give your consent?" said the earl, almost feverishly.
The captain smiled.
"Let us talk of something else," he said. "It is a shame to dispose of the young things without their consent."
Then suddenly he said:
"Did you hear that the prime minister had spoken of my scheme for negotiating with the Swedish mines with much favor?"
"Yes," said the earl, not understanding why the conversation had been so rapidly changed.
"A friend told me that I deserved a baronetcy for it, hah! hah!" and he laughed softly. "Fancy plain Howard Murpoint made Captain Sir Howard Murpoint, Bart., M. P.!"
"I see!" said the earl as a sudden light began to burst in upon him. "Let me follow your excellent example, Mr. Murpoint, and speak plainly. Do I understand that you will give your consent and bring about a marriage between my son, Lord Boisdale, and your ward if I obtain for you through my influence the baronetage which seems to cause you so much amusement?"
"My dear lord!" exclaimed the schemer, with a deprecating smile, "that is indeed speaking plainly. I am very grateful for your good intentions, very, but if I am anything, my lord, I am disinterested. From my boyhood I have worked for others; I am working for others now. It is enough for me that I can see my ward—my dearest friend's daughter!—happy. Be assured that if I thought a marriage between her and the admirable Lord Boisdale would tend to increase that happiness I would use every influence I possessed to bring about such a match, which would do us so much honor and would, I hope, be beneficial to the interests of your noble house."
The earl held out his hand and his cold, icy eyes glittered.
"You are a clever man, Mr. Murpoint, and a generous one. England is blessed indeed in the possession of such men as you! I am honored by your confidence—and—ahem—I think you really deserve the baronetcy!"
"You are very good to say so," smiled the captain, with a cunning light in his dark eyes.
"Shall I," he said, as the earl took up his crush hat and prepared to depart—"shall I have the pleasure of addingyour name to the list of directors of the Penwain Mining Company?"
"Certainly, certainly, I shall be delighted," said the earl; "I will go on to the club, I think," and after shaking hands warmly he departed.
Howard Murpoint leaned back in his chair, and watched the tall form of his latest dupe disappear amid the crowd.
"Snared at last," he muttered. "Did I speak too plainly? No; I think not. I have committed myself to nothing. Shall I get the baronetcy? I think so; if not, let the Earl of Lacklands beware. I have him in a cleft stick."
At that moment Bertie and Ethel approached. As they entered the corridor, Mr. Murpoint rose with a scowl and passed out.
"Those two," he murmured; "they must be disposed of before long. She thinks, poor girl, that Fate will prove kind and give her to the arms of Master Bertie. Lady Boisdale, I am your Fate, and have other intentions respecting you."
Bertie and Ethel entered as the curtain fell over the doorway through which they had passed.
"I thought papa and Mr. Murpoint were here," said Ethel.
"They are not far off, I dare say," said Bertie. "Will you not rest a while?"
"How warm it is," said Ethel, leaning forward and fanning herself. "Every one looks hot excepting dear Violet. See where she goes, pale and unruffled as usual. Dear Violet!" and she sighed.
Bertie's eyes followed Violet as she passed, leaning upon Lord Boisdale's arm.
"Do you think Miss Mildmay is ill or unhappy?" he asked, in a low, grave voice.
"I cannot say. I do not think her ill, and I would like to say that she is unhappy. I think she scarcely knows herself the exact state of her own feelings. See how dreamy and yet serene she looks; she is not thin either, and yet—oh, how terrible a puzzle is life—how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable."
Bertie looked up at her.
"Not to you—you are happy, Lady Boisdale. Whatshould you know of the temptations, the sorrows, the failures of life."
Ethel smiled.
"I may retort," she said, "in kind. What failures can the celebrated and popular Mr. Fairfax know?"
"The greatest failure a man can experience," said Bertie, leaning forward. "The failure of a hope, that at the best never deserved the word! Lady Boisdale, if you could read my heart at this moment you would see how bitter life is to me, how hollow the mockery of success which has fallen to me! Once I would have welcomed it, longed for it. Now it is as bitter Dead-Sea fruit which crumbles to dust beneath my touch. Once—nay, listen, I implore you to listen," for Ethel had half risen, pale and confused. "Once," he continued, very pale and earnest, and with a sad music in his voice. "When I was young enough to cherish such daring ambitions I dreamed that I could make a place for myself in this great struggling, writhing world, a place high enough to satisfy my ambition and feed my hope. I hoped to reach that place and to seat another there beside me, rather let me say, upon the throne itself while I knelt at the feet. This was a boy's dream, Lady Boisdale, and like most dreams only the bitterness of its unreality is left to me. I have made a place for myself, but it is empty and desolate. A desolate and bitter mockery because I dare not, I dare not hope that she whom I would have for my queen will ever deign to fill it. Lady Boisdale, could you see me as I really am, solitary, alone in the great world, bereft of my dearly-loved friend, bereft of my hope, you would pity me. Others might laugh me to scorn for a presumptuous idiot, but you, whose gentle heart I know so well, would pity me."
He took her hand as he spoke, his voice trembled.
A tear fell on the hand which held hers.
He looked up and saw that she was weeping.
In an instant his reserve, his determination to go no further was broken down.
He drew the hand to his lips and, looking up at her averted face, passionately said, in a voice trembling with love and supplication:
"Lady Boisdale—Ethel! you know for whom my hearthas thirsted, you know why to me the world is bitter and life a mockery! It is because I love you—I love you, Ethel, and I have not dared to hope. If you can forgive me my presumption. If you can—if you can love me—oh, Ethel, you know I have loved so long and hopelessly. Forgive me if I have forgotten the gulf which yawns between us. Why should I not?" he exclaimed, suddenly and passionately. "Is it a crime to love a noble woman, because she is an earl's daughter? Hearts are not given to the rich and mighty alone. The peasant revels in the power to love, and I—I who kneel at your feet pleading for your pardon, feel that I have not sinned against Heaven or man, but have simply obeyed the pure impulse of my soul in daring to love you. Ethel, Ethel, you too condemn me!"
And with a tone of despair and reproach, he half rose.
"No! no!" cried Ethel, turning to him and laying her white, trembling hand upon his arm. "No, no. Condemn you! I love you!"
So Bertie had declared love, and won an acknowledgment from Ethel that his love was returned.
"Ethel," he said, and the name sounded wonderfully sweet as he dwelt upon it with loving tenderness, "Ethel, I must go to the earl and ask for my pearl of price. Shall I go to-morrow?"
Ethel turned pale and sighed.
"To-morrow?" she said. "Yes, must it be so soon?"
"Yes," he said, quietly and gravely, "the world will say that I should have asked him first; but we cannot always control our hearts, they will have their way sometimes, and mine has been under bolt and bar so long—so long."
"So long?" she murmured, blushing and turning away from him.
"Almost from the day when I first saw you—do you remember the time? Poor Leicester was alive then, and I poured all my hopes and fears into his ears. Ethel, I thought it hard that I should be debarred from hope; youwere an earl's daughter—as you are now—and I was penniless, struggling, unknown."
"But it is all altered now," breathed Ethel, pressing his hand. "You are famous, and—and not poor."
Ethel rose, intoxicated with her new born happiness, to meet Lady Lackland, who was seen approaching.
"Ah, Mr. Fairfax," said the countess, eying him suspiciously with a cold smile. "How good of you to take care of Lady Boisdale. I suppose you have been cooling yourselves. Ethel, my dear, the carriage is waiting; I don't know where your papa is."
There was a crush in the street, and while Bertie, bareheaded, was placing the ladies in the carriage the earl and Lord Fitz came up.
Mr. Murpoint was with them, serene and self-composed as usual, though the crush and confusion were bewildering.
"Here you are!" said the earl. "We were just going to look for you. Fitz has been seeing the Mildmays to their brougham."
Howard Murpoint closed the door as the two gentlemen entered the carriage and stood with his dark eyes, half closed, fixed upon Ethel.
Then the carriage was on the move, and Bertie and Howard Murpoint stood looking after it.
Howard Murpoint regarded Bertie with a smile.
"You do not fear influenza," he said, nodding at the other's bare head.
"Eh? Oh, no," said Bertie. "I'll get my hat now, though."
And with a cool nod he strode into the hall again.
Howard Murpoint turned to make his way to his own brougham, and in doing so nearly knocked down a gentleman who was standing near him.
"Ha, Smythe," he exclaimed, "you here?"
"Eh? Yes," said the man, a short, nervous-looking creature, with fair, insipid face and timid, restless eyes. "Yes; just passing on my way to the club and—and stopped to look in."
"Club!" said Howard Murpoint. "Better come home and coffee with me."
And he linked his arm within that of his acquaintance.
Wilhelm Smythe, for that was the name, or rather improved name—it had been William Smith—of the stranger, was the son of a retired tea merchant.
His father had left him an enormous amount of property and a very small amount of brains.
The captain—or rather Howard Murpoint, as he preferred to be called, had met him at a club some few months previously and had found out all about him.
He had won the good opinion of the half-cunning simpleton, who thought Howard Murpoint the nicest and most disinterested of friends.
All the way home Howard Murpoint gave a glowing description of the ball, to which, of course, Wilhelm Smythe had received no invitation, and the poor fellow was in agonies of envy.
"Delightful!" he exclaimed. "And she was there, for I saw her."
"Whom?" asked the captain.
"Can you ask me?" sighed Mr. Smythe, "when you know that I am madly in love with her."
The captain smiled.
"'Pon my word, I've heard nothing," he said, encouragingly.
"Why, all the fellows have been chaffing me," said the simpleton.
"And who is the lady?" asked the captain.
They were ascending the stairs to the smoking-room as the question was asked, and Mr. Smythe flung himself into the most comfortable lounge of the great man's luxurious sanctum ere he answered.
"Don't you know? Can't you guess?"
"Not an idea," said the captain, handing him the cigars. "Come, who is she?"
The little fellow sighed, and replied, with due solemnity:
"Lady Boisdale!"
The captain's eyes flashed. He had wanted a tool! Here was one, ready made to his hand.
"Come," said the captain, pushing the bottle, and eying his dupe keenly, "if you have set your heart upon marrying Lady Ethel Boisdale I think I can help you."
"You can!" exclaimed the young fellow.
"I can, and I will," said the captain, quietly, "on one condition—that you will never mention that you are indebted to me for your success."
"I promise that," said Mr. Smythe, eagerly; "and you really will——"
"Do my best to recommend you to the earl and his peerless daughter, and, what is more, I will venture to bet you something, that I succeed."
"Eh?" said Mr. Smythe, scarcely catching the idea.
Then suddenly he saw what Mr. Howard Murpoint meant.
"I see!" he said. "I'll bet you—you a—a—five thousand."
The captain raised his eyebrows.
"I never bet," he said, "unless the stake is worth something. If I am to enter it in my book it must be twenty thousand."
Mr. Smythe hesitated—only for a moment.
"Twenty thousand be it," he said. "If I marry Lady Ethel I pay you twenty thousand, and if I don't——"
"I pay you," said Mr. Murpoint, softly. "It's a wager."
And he held out his long, clawlike, white hand.
Mr. Smythe rose, clasped it eagerly, and, after a fervent and excited "Good-night," took his departure.
It was morning, bright, beaming morning, by that time, and Mr. Murpoint had too many great matters on hand to allow of his retiring to rest.
Instead he stepped into a cold bath which was ready for him in an adjoining room, and, dressing himself in his business suit of dark Oxford mixture with an imposing white waistcoat, made his way to his office in Pall Mall.
Seating himself in his chair in his own private room he touched a small bell.
In answer to the summons there entered a tall, thin and cadaverous-looking man with a small dispatch case.
"Good-morning, Ridgett," said Mr. Murpoint.
The man bowed, and took from his portfolio a number of papers.
The captain went over them with a quick scrutiny and issued his instructions.
"You will proceed in this case, Mr. Ridgett," he said, throwing one letter over.
"Yes, sir. The woman is a widow, and very poor, and suffers from an incurable complaint."
"The office has nothing to do with that," said Mr. Murpoint. "We did not kill the husband, and we did not undertake to cure her complaint. She came into our hands of her own accord, and we simply demand the fees due us. You will proceed without delay. Have you bought up the L debts yet?"
"Not all, sir," was the reply. "You instructed me to wait further commands."
"Wait no longer," said Mr. Murpoint, "but get as many of the Lackland bills together as you can. You understand?"
"Certainly," said Mr. Ridgett.
And, dismissed by a nod, he took his departure.
Scarcely had he gone when the small and weather-beaten face of the smuggler entered the room.
Job, who had often paid visits to the captain at various places, but never at the office, was awed for a moment by the grand furniture and piles of papers and documents.
"Mornin', captain——"
"Have you brought the account?" said Mr. Murpoint.
Job nodded, and produced a greasy bag, which he placed on the polished table.
The captain turned out the contents of the bag, and commenced counting the heap of gold and silver.
Then he examined an account which was made out on a dirty piece of paper Job had handed to him, looking up at last with a dark frown.
"How is this?" he said, in a low, stern voice. "There is some mistake. Here is only a third of the profits—there should be a half."
"There bean't no mistake, capt—sir," said Job, with an emphatic nod. "They've sent all they means to send, and a hard job I had to get that. The boys say that they don't see the justice like of one man—gentleman or no gentleman—taking half the swag when they've worked for the whole of it."
"Oh, they don't?" said Mr. Murpoint, with a soft smile. "Tell them that unless I have the remainder of the money by this time next week, and a fair half for the future, paid to the very day, I will peach upon the lot of them. Not aman shall escape me. The police shall know how the great smuggling trade is done and who does it. You tell them, will you, with my compliments?"
"I'll tell them," said Job, quietly.
"Any news from sea?"
"About Maester Leicester?" asked Job, looking at the ground with a sudden change of manner.
"Hush, no names," said Mr. Murpoint, cautiously.
"No, no news," replied Job. "He's dead by this time, p'r'aps."
"All the better," said Mr. Murpoint. "Dead or alive, he's safe."
"Ay," said Job, and, touching his forehead, he departed.
The captain leaned back in his chair and gave himself up to thought.
"Leicester Dodson is dead, or buried alive. Violet's money is in my hands; the earl and all his clan are in my power; I am master of thousands, some say millions; and the world calls me one of its greatest men. Who says that honesty is the best policy?"
And as he concluded with the momentous question, he laughed with the keenest enjoyment and insolence.
Bertie was very happy that night as he sat in his solitary chambers and smoked his favorite pipe.
All the weary, hopeless months gone by since first he had seen and loved sweet Ethel Boisdale seemed to have vanished like dark spirits before the joy of that night.
He had told her that he loved, and had won the sweet confession from her lips that she loved him in return.
How bright seemed the world to him—how full of hope and enjoyment!
His dull, book-lined rooms assumed a new aspect under his happy eyes and all at once appeared comfortable quarters, full of pleasant peace and quiet.
But in the morning, after a night of happy, glorious dreams, came the stern reality.
He dressed himself with unusual care, and surveyed himself in the glass.
Would the earl, proud Lord Lackland, accept him as a son-in-law?
He dared not answer his own query, but whiled awaythe early hours by pacing to and fro, doing a little work, smoking at intervals and thinking always.
As the clock struck eleven he took up his hat and started on his momentous business.
While he was on his way to the Lackland mansion in Grosvenor Square the earl himself was seated in the breakfast-room munching his toast and sipping his coffee.
Lady Lackland was seated at the table.
Fitz and Ethel were out in the park at their morning gallop.
"Extraordinary thing," said Lady Lackland, in answer to a remark of the earl's, "I cannot understand it. The man has done so much, made so much money and obtained such wonderful power that he makes one afraid. I always said he was clever. I could see it the first moment I saw him. Do you remember the conversation I had with him the day of the thunder storm? It seemed almost as if he knew the codicil would be found. And he has actually consented to Fitz's engagement with Violet Mildmay. More, he has promised in an indefinite, cautious sort of way to advance the match. A wonderful man. I hope he will succeed; we want money, we must have it."
"We must," said the earl. "It is a singular thing that we have not been ruined long before this. I feared that the bills would have been called in long ago, but I seem to have heard very little of them lately."
"Perhaps your creditors think that Fitz will marry well and are waiting till you should get some money."
"Perhaps so," said the earl, coolly. "I wish Ethel were as well disposed of."
Lady Lackland sighed.
"Ethel is my great trouble," she said. "She is beautiful enough to make a really great match, but there is no doing anything with her; she is as cold as ice to all of them, and I am powerless."
"Hem!" said the earl, and he shifted in his chair to get more comfortable. "There is one little difficulty about Ethel which you seem to forget; perhaps you do not know it."
"What is that?" asked the countess.
"That her private fortune has long since been swallowed up."
Lady Lackland looked grave.
"And if she marries, her husband will want it—at least, ask for it. If he should, where is it to come from?"
He put the question quite calmly, and Lady Lackland sighed.
"Nobody was ever so poor as we are——"
"Or spent more money," said the earl, comfortably. "Ethel is a difficult question; a big marriage would bring questions, questions would bring awkward answers. I have spent her fortune, and I cannot replace it."
At that moment, while the countess sat with a look of annoyance and distress, silent and dismayed, a servant entered with a card.
The earl glanced at it, and handed it to the countess.
"Bertie Fairfax!" she breathed.
"Show Mr. Fairfax into the library," said the earl.
Then, when the servant had withdrawn, he smiled over his cup quite calmly and unmoved.
"Bertie Fairfax," said the countess, with a frown.
"What is to be done? Of course he comes to ask for Ethel."
"Not having seen him, I cannot say."
"What shall you say if he does?"
"It all depends," said the earl, wiping his mustache. "I may have to order him to leave the house, or I may——"
"Be careful!" said the countess.
The earl smiled coldly, and left the room.
Bertie rose as the earl entered.
"Good-morning, Mr. Fairfax," he said, fixing his cold, steely eyes on Bertie's face, and holding out a cold, impassive hand.
"Good-morning, my lord," said Bertie, who had determined to remain self-possessed and unembarrassed, whatever might be the issue of the interview, or, however the question might go. "Good-morning. I am afraid I am rather early, but I have come on a matter in which impatience is permissible."
"Pray sit down," said the earl, seating himself as he spoke in a hard, straight-backed chair, and looking asstraight as the chair itself. "Nothing has happened, I hope."
"Nothing of harm, I hope," said Bertie, gravely. "I have come, my lord, to ask you for the hand of Lady Boisdale."
The earl raised his eyebrows, assuming a surprise which, of course, he did not feel.
"I had thought it best to declare my purpose and put my request as plainly and as straightforwardly as I could. I do not undervalue the prize which I pray for at your hands, my lord, and I am humbly conscious that I am not worthy to receive it from you. I can only plead that I love her with all my heart and that I have loved her for years. But, a few months ago, I should have deemed my request presumptuous to the extent of madness, but now, although I am not one whit more worthy of her, I am, perhaps, in the eyes of the world a little less presumptuous."
The earl listened with an unmoved countenance, as if he were listening to some passage from a book which in no way concerned him.
"May I ask, Mr. Fairfax," he said, "if you have made Lady Boisdale acquainted with the state of your feelings?"
Bertie flushed the slightest in the world.
"I regret to say that I have, my lord. No one can regret it more than I do. I know that I should have come to you first, and have gained permission to place myself at your daughter's feet. But the depth of my devotion must plead for me; may I hope that it will? We are all, the best of us, the slaves of impulse. There are times when the heart asserts itself and enslaves the will, which, perhaps for years, has bidden its voice be silent, as mine has done."
The earl bowed.
"May I ask," he said, "in what way Lady Ethel received your advances?"
"I found that, for once, true love had won its best return."
"She consented, do you mean?"
Bertie bowed.
"Then, doubtless, Mr. Fairfax," said the earl, as softlyas ever, "you were kind enough to place her in possession of facts of which I am in ignorance?"
Bertie did not understand, and looked as if he did not.
"In such matters as this," said the earl, "it is best, as you say, to speak with candor. I refer to your position in the world, and your ability to keep Lady Boisdale in the society which, all my friends tell me, she so greatly adorns."
Bertie bowed.
"My lord, I should have shamed her by any such allusion, and lost all hope of winning her heart. To you I may say that I am not poor in the eyes of many, though I may seem poor indeed to one of your lordship's position and wealth."
The earl winced inwardly, but showed nothing of it outwardly.
"I have an income of two thousand pounds a year, and I trust that I may be able before long to own with gratitude that it is doubled. It is not a large sum, my lord."
"I may conclude that the sum you mention is the whole—in fact, that you are not prepared to make any settlement?"
"All that I have shall be hers," said Bertie. "The richest man in England can do no more."
"No settlement!" said the earl, coldly. "Under the circumstances, you would not, therefore, expect a fortune with her?"
Bertie crimsoned.
"Your lordship forgets," he said, with quiet dignity, "that I came to ask for your daughter and not for your money."
The earl showed no displeasure at the stern retort, but took it simply as an assent, and nodded.
"Mr. Fairfax, to be candid, as we have been all through, Lady Lackland and I have had higher hopes for Ethel, much higher. It is true that you are famous, and that you are well descended; the Fairfaxes run with ourselves, I think. It is usual—nay, it is the duty of a father to endeavor to place his daughter in a higher station than the one which she inherits from him. If I ignore that duty and consent to give up that hope, I trust I shall be pardoned if I make one suggestion."
"My lord, I am in your hands," said Bertie, with simple dignity and earnestness.
"And that is that you will give me, both of you, a formal quittal of any fortune or estate that may be due to her. I simply suggest it as a fair and honorable thing. You may be aware, or you may not, that Lady Ethel has some small fortune of her own; under the circumstances I must make the condition that should I give my consent you will agree to let the money remain in the estate, vested, so to speak, in the family."
Bertie smiled.
"As I said before, my lord, I ask only for Ethel. What money she may have is at her own disposal. I don't wish to touch one penny of it, directly or indirectly."
"My dear Mr. Fairfax, do not let us continue this branch of our subject, then," said the earl, with a smile that was intended to be cordial, but was more like a stray sunbeam on an October morning. "I will confess that I merely put the question to test you, not that I doubted your honor, but—well, well, you are young, she is young, and I am obliged to guard both of you. But, there, if you still feel confident that you can make her happy, and that you can take her for herself alone, my dear Fairfax, I give her to you, and with her my most hearty blessing."
Bertie gasped with astonishment.
To him, knowing nothing of Ethel's fortune which the earl had appropriated, his consent to Ethel's betrothal was simply astonishing.
He had expected to be repulsed, refused.
The tears sprang to his eyes, his gentle nature was filled with gratitude.
"My lord," he said, grasping the cold hand, "I cannot thank you; thanks for such a gift were idle and vain. Only one who has waited for years, hoping against hope until the heart was sick, can tell what I feel now. My lord, if you will pardon me I will take my leave."
"Good-by, my dear boy," said the earl, "good-by; you will find Ethel in the park. Heaven bless you!"
Bertie found himself outside—how he scarcely knew—bathed in delight and satisfaction.
Where should he find Ethel? Every moment he was away from her now seemed an insane delay.
Where——As he hurried to make his way to the Park there came around the corner, smiling and serene as usual, Mr. Howard Murpoint.
A short gentleman leaned upon his arm.
"Ah, Mr. Fairfax, how d'ye do?" said the captain, with a sunny smile of friendly greeting. "What a delightful morning. Allow me to introduce my friend—Mr. Wilhelm Smythe, Mr. Bertie Fairfax."
Bertie shook hands with the captain, and bowed slightly to his friend, then with a nod hurried on.
He turned at the corner in time to see the captain and his friend standing on the doorsteps of the Lackland house, and as he saw an indefinable and intangible shadow crept over him and chilled him.