Morning brought a telegram from Monsieur Guidet, and a couple of hours later the little Frenchman arrived at Grey House in a sorry state of apprehension. The clock!—impossible that he could have failed in any way!—there must have been gross and deliberate ill-usage! … and many more words to the same effect. When he stopped for breath Caw assured him that there was nothing wrong with the clock and mentioned why and by whom the summons had been sent him. Whereupon Monsieur went frantic. "Stop the clock—nevaire!—what crime to think of!—the clock must not stop till he stop himself!"
"All right, Monsoor, you can explain all that to Mr. Alan Craig. The clock, like everything else here, belongs to him now,—and I happen to have a headache this morning."
"Hah! you have rejoice at the return of the young Mr. Craik," said Guidet, controlling himself and sympathetically considering Caw's red eyes and husky voice. "Good!—but you look upon the wine when he was wheesky, and there is not so much jolly good fellow in the morning—eh, Mr. Caw?"
"Oh, yes, we've been doing a lot of rejoicing—I don't think," returned Caw with weary good humour. Thanks to Handyside's attentions he was not much the worse of the spray which had been more efficacious than virulent. Within half an hour he had managed to attract the attention of the house-keeper who had given the alarm. What had puzzled every one concerned was that the attempt should have ended as it had begun with the assault on the servant. Nothing had been touched. "Must have taken fright," was the only conclusion arrived at after a thorough search and rather a discursive consultation.
Caw ushered the clock-maker into the study. Handyside and Marjorie were present by invitation.
"You had better wait, Caw," said Alan. "Be seated, Monsieur Guidet. Many thanks for coming so promptly."
Monsieur bowed solemnly to each person, looked for a moment as if he were going to bow to his masterpiece also, and took the chair preferred by Caw.
"It was my dutiful pleasure to come with speed, Mr. Craik, for sake of your high respectable uncle, and I am at his service, I hope, when I am at yours."
Alan gave the embarrassed nod of the average Briton listening to an ordinary observation elegantly expressed. "Very good of you, I'm sure. Well, I suppose Caw has told you why we have troubled you—simply to have your opinion as to stopping the clock now, instead of allowing it to go on for nearly a year."
Obvious was the effort with which Monsieur Guidet restrained his feelings while he enquired whether the clock had been annoying anybody.
"By no means," Alan answered, wondering how much the man knew. "But my friends and I have come to the conclusion that certain annoyances will not stop until the clock does. I hesitate to ask you questions, Monsieur Guidet—"
"I beg that you will not do so, Mr. Craik. I have leetle knowledge, but it is discreet and confiding. But in one thing I am sure: your reverent" (possibly he meant "revered") "uncle did not mean the clock to bring annoyance to you and your friends. No, sir!"
"In that case, I should imagine he would have wished it to stop as soon as possible. Caw assures me that the main object in making the clock to go for a whole year was to allow time for my return before certain wishes of my uncle took effect. You take my meaning?"
"I do, sir; and though the late Mr. Craik did not remark it so to me, I can believe such a thing was in his brains at the time. But to stop the clock before he has finished his course—that is another story, sir!"
Teddy put in a word. "Dangerous, Monsieur?"
"Why do you ask such a question, sir?"
"My friend probably refers to the notice and to the green fluid," said Alan.
"Monsieur," cried Marjorie, "may I guess what the danger is?"
"Hush, Marjorie!" muttered her father.
Monsieur gave her a beautiful smile and a charming bow. "Mademoiselle," he said sweetly, "is welcome to one hundred thousand guesses."
With that there fell a silence. It was broken by Caw.
"If I may say so, Monsoor seems to have forgotten that the clock is the property of Mr. Alan Craig, and therefore—"
"Mr. Caw," said Guidet quickly, "because I remember that, I say what I say; I refuse what I refuse."
"Come, Monsieur," said Alan, "it is an open secret that that clock is more than a time-keeper."
"Myself would almost suspect so much." He said it so quaintly that a smile went round. Caw alone preserved a stolid expression.
"Monsoor," he said very quietly, "I respectfully ask the lady and the gentleman here present to bear witness to a promise which I am ready to put in writing. … If I am alive when that clock stops, about a year hence, I will pay you, Monsoor, a thousand pounds."
Guidet sprang up and sat down again. He appealed to Alan. "What does he mean, Mr. Craik?"
"He means," Alan answered, "that whatever possible danger there may be in stopping the clock, there is very probable danger in letting it go on. Is that it, Caw?"
"Yes, Mr. Alan, and I hope you will believe that my remark was not entirely selfish."
"The trouble, Monsieur," added Alan, "is that like yourself I cannot answer questions."
"One, if you please, Mr. Craik. Is the danger for you also?"
Alan smiled. "I'm not worrying much—"
Marjorie interposed. "Yes, yes, Monsieur!" she exclaimed, and hastily lowered a flushed face.
The Frenchman was plainly distressed. "This," he said at last, "was not expected. I perceive that you have enemies, that my esteemed patron had enemies also. Not so bad did I understand it to be. I imagined Mr. Christopher Craik was humourist as well as clever man—"
"So he was," the host interrupted; "but the ball he set rolling is now doing so more violently than I can believe he intended. Still, if stopping the clock before its time is likely to stultify his memory in any way—why then, Monsieur, I, for one, will do my best to keep it going. What do you say, Caw?"
"If that is how you feel, sir, then I say, 'long live the clock!'"
"Hear, hear!" murmured Teddy.
"Caw," cried Miss Handyside, "you're simply splendid!"
Caw had not blushed so warmly for many years.
Guidet, pale and perturbed, had taken a little book from his pocket and opened it at a page of tiny figures close-packed. Now he rose. "If I may go to a quiet place for one half-hour, I—I will see if anything can be done, Mr. Craik, but I promise nothings."
"See that Monsieur Guidet has quietness and some refreshment," said Alan to the servant, and the two left the room.
"Let's go for a walk," remarked Teddy. "This clock business is getting on my nerves. I shall never again wear socks with—"
"But I do think," said Marjorie hopefully, "the funny little man means to do something."
Dr. Handyside got up and strolled over to the clock. "Monsieur Guidet," he observed, "has evidently the sensibilities of an artist as well as the ordinary feelings of humanity. Caw has appealed to the latter. If I were you, Alan, I should appeal to the former by suggesting to Guidet the probability of an attack on the clock itself."
On the way out-of-doors, Alan looked into the room where the Frenchman sat staring at a diagram roughly drawn on notepaper. He wagged his head drearily.
"I fear I can do nothings," he sighed.
"Perhaps I ought to mention, Monsieur," Alan said, as if the idea had just occurred to him, "that my enemies are just as likely to attack the clock as my person—more likely, it may be."
"Hah!" Guidet bounded on his seat. "My clock!—They dare to attack him!—"
"Possibly with explosives—"
"Enough! Pray leave me, Mr. Craik. I—I may yet find a way. Give me a whole hour."
During the walk up the loch Teddy actually forgot the clock. Alan and Marjorie were in front, and he noted his friend's bearing towards the girl with a pained wonder, and thought of Doris.
On returning to the house they found Monsieur waiting for them. He held a sheaf of papers covered with queer drawings and calculations. And he hung his head.
"Mr. Craik," he said sadly, "I have struggle, but it is no use. I see an hour, thirteen days after to-day, when perhaps Imightstop him without disaster—but only perhaps—only perhaps. And so I dare not, will not risk. One leetle, tiny mistake of a second, and"—he made an expressive gesture—"all is lost."
The silence of dismay was broken by Handyside.
"But bless my soul, Monsieur Guidet, if you stop him at the wrong time, you can easily set him going again."
"Not so! He stop once, he stop for ever."
"But," cried Marjorie excitedly, "although you stop him—the clock, I mean—it will still be there; it won't fly away."
The little man regarded her for a moment. "Mademoiselle," he said and bowed, "he will be done—finished—dead. I will say no more." He turned to Alan. "Mr. Craik, I am sorry to be not obliging to you. Yes; and I confess I am nearly more sorry for myself. But I hope the time comes when you will understand and excuse. The good God preserve you and him—and Mr. Caw—from enemies." He bowed all round. "Adieu."
And so ended the little company's great expectations.
"I suppose there's nothing for it but to hang on," said Alan with a laugh, "and get used to the situation. I think you, Teddy, had better chuck your berth in London, live here, and help me to write that book on my Eskimo experiences."
"Very pleased," replied Teddy, "if you don't mind my having the jumps once a while."
"Oh, do come and stay with Mr. Craig," said Marjorie in her impulsive fashion, which annoyed Teddy chiefly because he was forced to confess it charming. He disapproved of the proprietary interest she seemed to take in his friend, and yet had circumstances been a little different, how he would have welcomed it!
"A very good notion," observed Handyside. "The clock can't have too many guardians, and I don't imagine you would care to bring in strangers."
"Not to be thought of," replied Alan. "But I'm sorry for Caw. Teddy and I must leave him alone for a few days. We're catching the two o'clock steamer. Things to see about in Glasgow, and on to London in the morning. I'm hoping the big dog may turn up to-day."
Marjorie gave her father a surreptitious nudge.
"I don't like intruding my services," said the doctor, "but I should be very glad to spend the nights here during your absence—"
"Me, too," said Marjorie.
"Be quiet, infant! Just be candid, Alan."
"I'd be jolly glad to think of Caw having your support, doctor," the young man heartily answered, "but it would be accepting too much. I have no right to bring you into my troubles—"
"Then that's settled," said Handyside. "I hope you don't mind my saying it, but I've felt a new man since I learned that the stones were false. Marjorie and I must be going now, and there's only one thing I want to be sure of before we part."
"What is that, doctor?"
"I want to be sure that the Green Box is in its place."
They all laughed. "That's easy!" Alan opened the drawer. "Behold!—just where it was last night."
Marjorie's hand darted downward. "What key is this?" she cried, holding it up.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "I could swear that wasn't there last night."
"Might have been lying in the shadow," Teddy suggested. "It's a new key."
"Oh, do try it in the box!"
"I think we may do that much." Alan lifted the box to the table. "Try it yourself, Miss Handyside."
"It fits!—it turns! Oh, Mr. Craig, just one little peep inside!"
"Against the rules," said Teddy, burning with curiosity.
"What rules?"
"We decided that it would be against my uncle's wishes to open the box before the clock stopped," Alan said reluctantly. Then brightly—"But, I say! we didn't take into account the fact that it had been already opened, though not by us—which alters the position considerably. Don't you agree, Teddy?"
"Oh, confound the thing, I'm dying to see inside, and yet—"
"I rather think—" began the doctor.
"Oh, don't think, father!" said Marjorie, her fingers on the edge of the lid. She looked to Alan. "May I?"
A tap, and Caw came in with a telegram for Alan.
"Excuse me," the host said, and opened it.
Caw caught sight of the key in the box, forgot his manners, and leapt forward, laying his hand on the lid.
And Alan went white as death. "Turn the key, Caw," he said hoarsely, "and take it away." Partially recovering himself, he apologised to the girl. "It was too rude of me, but something reminded me that I should be betraying a trust by opening the box now. Please try to forgive me."
She was very kind about it, for there was no mistaking his distress.
Presently she and the doctor departed. Alan dropped into a chair and handed the message to the wondering Teddy.
"Read it aloud. Listen Caw."
Teddy read:—
"Handed in at Fenchurch Street, 11:20 a. m. Alan Craig, Grey House, LochLong.For life's sake don't ever try to open Green Box—Friend."
In the train, nearing London, Alan and Teddy yawned simultaneously, caught each other's eye, and grinned.
"We've had a deuce of a talk," said Alan, "and I hope you feel wiser, for I don't. How much simpler it would all have been had my uncle refrained from those explicit instructions respecting Bullard. We've actually got to be tender with the man until that blessed clock stops."
"But oh, what a difference afterwards!—though I doubt if we'll ever get anything like even with the beggar. By the way, about the Green Box—"
"Don't return to it!"
"I must, old chap. Do you still take that warning wire seriously? You don't think now that it was sent by Bullard for purposes of his own?"
"I feel that the warning was genuine and not Bullard's. Yet who could have sent it? Lancaster? Doris? … But how should they know there was anything changed about the box? Also, was it Bullard who was in the house the night before last? It was certainly not he who went for Caw…. Oh, Lord, we're beginning all over again! Let's chuck it for the present. And, I say, Teddy, won't you come with me to Earl's Gate after we've had some grub?"
"Thanks, no. I've made up my mind to have another dose of shadowing our friend. Ten to one I have no luck, but instinct calls."
"It's jolly good of you, and I'm afraid it's going to be a filthy night of fog. Well, when shall I see you?"
"Depends. Don't wait up for me. To-morrow is included in my leave, and the next day is Sunday, so we are not pressed for time."
"Consider what I said about your coming to Grey House for the winter. You could help me in many ways. Of course, I don't want you to risk your prospects at the office, not to mention your person, and you must allow me to—"
"I'll see what can be done. You know I'm keen to see the thing through. By the way, I needn't remind you to be mighty slim to-night so far as Mrs. Lancaster is concerned. She represents Bullard in that house. You spoke of inviting Lancaster to return North with you for a change of scene, and Heaven knows the old chap must need it; but don't you think such an invitation might simply mean upsetting the whole boiling of fat into the fire? Bullard—"
"And don't you think that the sooner we have the flare up the better?—Oh, hang! I keep on forgetting about that clock!"
"Lucky blighter! However, it's your affair, and the change might be Lancaster's salvation. He'll never get any peace for his poor weary soul where he is."
"You are fond of the man, Teddy?"
"Always liked him," Teddy answered, a trifle shortly. "Not so fond as you are, judging from what you're doing for him."
"Oh, drop that! I suppose there's no likelihood of getting them all to come North?"
"Can you imagine Mrs. Lancaster existing for a week without crowds of people and shops and theatres?"
"Well, we'll see," said Alan. "I—I'll consult Doris about it."
Ten minutes later they were in the Midland Hotel. Alan found a telegram from Caw—"Nothing doing,"—and received a legal-looking person who had been awaiting his arrival.
* * * * *
Time, the kindly concealer, is also the pitiless exposer. How often in the Arctic had Alan imagined, with his whole being athrill, this reunion with the girl who, in the last strained moment of parting, had promised to wait for him! How often had Doris, in the secrecy of her soul, even when the last hope of reunion had failed, repeated the promise as though the spirit of her lost lover could hear! And now fate had set these two once more face to face, and—neither was quite sure. Emotion indeed was theirs, joy and thankfulness, but passionate rapture—no! A clasping of hands, a kiss after ever so slight a hesitation, and the embrace that both had dreamed of was somehow evaded.
"You haven't changed, Alan, except to look bigger and stronger," she remarked, after a little while.
"And you are more lovely than ever, Doris," he said; and now he could have embraced her just for her sheer grace and beauty. He was angry with himself and not a little humbled, for he had never really doubted his love for Doris. Her comparative calmness troubled rather than wounded him, for his faith in her was not yet faltering like his faith in himself, and he wondered whether her calmness was born of girl's pride or woman's insight. Nevertheless, amid all doubts and questionings his main purpose remained unwavering: he was here to ask Doris to marry him as soon as possible, so that he might rescue her and her father from the difficulties besetting them.
As for Doris, her mind was working almost at cross purposes with his. Apart from the double barrier created by her father's unhappy position and her promise to Bullard, she knew that she could not willingly marry Alan, for at last it was given her to realise why the first news of his safety, as told by Teddy France, had failed to glorify her own little world.
She had seated herself, bidding him with a gesture to do the same, and now they were placed with the width of the hearth between them. She was the first to break the silence that had followed a few rather conventional remarks from either side, and it cost her an effort. She was pale.
"Alan, I wish to thank you for your message to father in Teddy's telegram. I—I think it saved him. But—please let me go on—I want to be quite sure that Teddy told you everything that mattered."
"Everything I need know, Doris. I wish you wouldn't distress yourself.It's going to be all right, you know. How is your father to-night?"
"I think he will be well enough to see you to-morrow," she replied, and went on to ask a number of questions very painful to her. When he had answered the last of them in the affirmative, she sighed and said: "Then, Alan, I think, I hope, you do know nearly all, and I can only beg you to believe that father never meant to injureyouin any way. It was not until there was no hope left of your being alive that he—"
"Doris, I implore you not to talk about it. Mr. Lancaster was my good friend in the old days, and I trust he is that still. When I see him to-morrow I shall have to depend on that friendship, because, you see, Doris, I shall want—with your permission—to ask a great favour of him."
On the girl's tired lovely face a flush came—and went. "Alan, this is no time for misunderstandings," she said bravely, "and when you have a talk with father, I wish you to—to try to forget me."
"Forget you! … Ah! you mean you do not wish me to refer to your part in helping him—"
"Oh," she cried hastily, "I was afraid, after all, Teddy would not tell you one thing—"
"It can't matter in the least, dear Doris. What I want to ask your father is simply his blessing on us both in our engage—"
"For pity's sake, no! Listen, Alan; and don't think too unkindly of me, for I have promised to marry Mr. Bullard—"
"Doris!"
"—a year from now." She bowed her head.
He was on his feet, standing over her. "Bullard!" he exclaimed at last, "Bullard! Good Lord, Doris! Had that fat successful gambler actually the impudence to ask you to marry him?"
"Oh, hush!" she whispered. "The fact remains that I gave my promise."
He drew a long breath. "Of course you gave your promise, and the reason's plain enough to me! You gave it for your father's sake!" As in a flash he saw what she had suffered. Teddy's story had told him much, but this! … His heart swelled, overflowed with that which is so akin to love that in the moment of stress it is love's double.
And this young man, casting aside his doubts of himself, caught in a passion evoked by beauty in distress and hot human sympathy, fell on his knees, murmuring endearments, and took this young woman, with all her doubts of herself, to his breast.
And Doris let herself go. Doubts or no doubts, right or wrong, it was sweet and comforting, after long wearing anxiety and arid loneliness, to find refuge in the strong, gentle arms of one who cared. But it was a lull that could not last.
"Dear," he was saying when she stirred uneasily, "you shall never marry him! Why, you don't even need to break your promise, for we will see to it that he shall never dare to ask you to fulfil it. Leave Mr. Francis Bullard to Teddy and me."
"Alan, this is madness!" She drew away from him. "How could I forget?Father is so completely in his power."
"But we are going to rescue him, you and I, thanks to good old Teddy."
She shook her head. "Ah, no, Alan, you are too hopeful."
Alan was puzzled. "Didn't you and he understand my message to him inTeddy's wire?" he asked at length.
"We understood that you—you forgave everything. Oh, it was kind and generous of you!"
"Was that all?" Alan got up and stood looking down at the fire. "I didn't want to say a word about it," he said presently. "I hoped Mr. Lancaster at least, would take my meaning. It's horrid having to discuss it with you, Doris, but Teddy mentioned something about a—a debt—"
"Oh!" It was a cry of pain. "Teddy must have misunderstood me. I never meant—"
"Teddy did it for the best, you may be sure, and I'm grateful to him. Let me go on, dear. It is this debt that gives Bullard the upper hand—is it not? Twenty-five thousand, Teddy mentioned as the amount."
"Don't!—don't!" She hid her face.
"And so—and so I just brought the money along with me." He cleared his throat. "And Mr. Lancaster will be a free man to-morrow. Doris, for God's sake, don't take it like that!"
She was not weeping, but her slim body seemed rent.
"Doris, since you are going to marry me, what could be more natural than that I should want to help your dearest one out of his trouble? I've more money than I need—honestly." He laid his hand on her shoulder. "Dear little girl," he continued, with a kindly laugh, "you've no idea how difficult it is to speak about it. And I can't carry the thing through myself; simply couldn't open the subject to him and offer the money. I want you to help me—and at once. I suppose he is strong enough to bear a small surprise. So I want you to go now and tell him, and—and give him these. I brought notes, you know, because they are more private." His free hand dropped a packet into her lap. Amazing how little space is required for twenty-five thousand pounds in Bank of England notes! "Doris!"
She did not raise her head, but her hands went up to her shoulder and took his hand between them. Hers were cold.
"My dearest!" he cried softly.
"Oh, Alan, Alan," she said in a dry whisper. "I shall never get over this, I will never forget your goodness. But I can't—Ican'tdo it."
"Yes, you can, dear. I know it's hard. I know it means sinking your pride—"
"Pride!—have I any left?"
"Plenty—and plenty to be proud of! Help me to remove your father's trouble, and we shall all be happy again. Just think that you are putting freedom into his hand—"
"Have mercy, Alan!"
"Dearest, is it too hard? Well, well, I must do it myself, after all. Only that will mean so many more troubled hours for him…. Doris, you will do it, for his sake and mine? After all, what does the whole affair signify? Simply that you and I will have so much less to spend later,—and do you mind that?"
He had won, or, at all events, filial love had won. It is the other sort of love that pride may withstand to the last.
She did a thing then that he would remember when he was an old man: drew his hand to her lips. The colour rushed to his face. "Not that, dear!"
She rose and he supported her, for she was a littledizzywith it all."What am I to say to him, Alan?"
"Just say that it is merely what my Uncle Christopher would have done, had he known. And tell him to get well quickly, because I want him to come to Grey House for a change, at the earliest possible day. I want you and Mrs. Lancaster also, Doris. Will you come?"
She shook her head. "I'm afraid—"
"Never mind now. I'll write to Mrs. Lancaster to-night, and perhaps I may see her to-morrow."
"You—you won't tell her about this, Alan?"
"Certainly not. I've forgotten about it," he said, with a smile intended to be encouraging. "And I'll go at once. Perhaps that will make it a little easier for you. As soon as you've seen your father, you ought to turn in. Will you?"
She attempted to smile, but her voice was grave. "I will do anything you wish—now and always. I can't thank you, Alan dear, but God knows—" She could say no more.
"You dear little girl," he said, rather wildly, "there's just one thing you must be quite clear about. This miserable money may buy your father's peace of mind, but it has not bought one hair of your beautiful head." He took her in his arms and kissed her. "Sleep well … till to-morrow!"
Her mind was still in turmoil as she went up the broad staircase, clutching against her bosom the precious packet, but her eyes were wet at last. Her father was saved! For herself she had no thought.
She halted at the door of his room, listening. It was essential that he should be alone…. She started violently.
Another door on the landing opened and Mrs. Lancaster came forth.
"Surely Mr. Craig has not gone already," she said. "I am just going down."
"He has gone, mother, but he hopes to see you tomorrow."
"Too bad! He can't have told you all his adventures, Doris." Thus far Mrs. Lancaster had learned nothing beyond the bare facts of Alan's return and his intention to call.
"I think he is keeping them for you and father," said the girl, striving for composure. "He wants us all to go to Grey House as soon as father is well enough to travel."
"At this time of year?—absurd, or, at all events, impossible!—for you and me, at any rate. Has Mr. Craig not been made aware of your engagement to Mr. Bullard?"
"I thought we had agreed not to talk of that." Doris laid her fingers on the door-handle.
Mrs. Lancaster came a little closer. "Is that a letter for your father?The last post must have been late?"
The strain was telling on Doris; she gave a nervous assent.
"Ah, it has not come by post, I see! Why it is not even addressed to him!"
"It is for him."
"From Mr. Craig?"
"Yes."
"If it is anything exciting, he ought not to have it to-night. It will spoil his chances of getting to sleep."
"I—I don't think so, mother."
"My dear girl, you ought to be perfectly certain, one way or another. I simply cannot trust you. Leave it with me, and you can give it him in the morning."
Doris felt faint. "I can take care of it, but I'm sure it won't do him any harm. I will—"
With a swift movement of her supple body and arm the woman possessed herself of the packet. At the feel, the almost imperceptible sound, of it her eyes gleamed, her dusky colouring darkened.
"Mother!" gasped Doris.
"I cannot risk having your father upset. You can ask me for it in the morning."
"Mother!" Impelled by a most hideous fear the daughter sprang, clutched, missed—and fell like a lifeless thing.
Mrs. Lancaster rang for her maid.
When Doris came hazily to herself she was in bed.
"Drink this, my dear," said her mother gently.
It was a powerful sleeping draught, and soon the girl's brain was under its subjection.
* * * * *
About ten o'clock Mrs. Lancaster, in her boudoir, rang up Bullard, first at his hotel, then at his office, whence she obtained a response.
"Can you come here at once?" she asked him.
"Impossible! Anything urgent?"
"Alan Craig has been here."
"… Well?"
"He knows about—things. I'm sure he does."
"For instance?"
"Robert's difficulties."
"No special harm in that, is there? He won't be alone in his knowledge for long, you know—"
"What do you mean?" she cried in alarm.
He ignored the question and asked another. "Was Craig in any way unpleasant? Quick, please!"
"I didn't see him, but I should imagine he was quite the reverse. The servant Caw must have kept back things. Doris tells me he wants the three of us to go to Grey House—"
"What? To Grey House?"
"Of course, I should never dream—"
"Great Heavens, how extremely fortunate for you! My dear Mrs. Lancaster, you must accept the invitation at once. Don't let it slip. Have your husband well enough to start in the beginning of the week."
"Are you crazy? What should I do at Grey House?"
"I'll tell you precisely what you may do—but not now. For the present I should inform you that it may be your last chance of salvation."
"What on earth do you mean? Not the dia—"
"Listen carefully! I have already told you of the disaster to the mines—"
"But all that will come right in time."
"One may hope so. In the meantime, however, the Syndicate will require all its available funds, and, as you know, there is a matter of nearly twenty-five thousand pounds, which Mr. Lancaster—"
For a moment the woman was incoherent. Then—"Mr. Bullard, we have your promise that you would see that matter put right."
"My dear lady, this calamity was not to be foreseen. I am unspeakably sorry, but I have been hard hit, and the plain truth is that I am quite powerless for the present. Of course I shall do what I can to delay—er—discovery, but unfortunately I must leave for South Africa on Friday, this day week."
"Then all is lost! Ruin—disgrace—"
"Not so loud, please. Be calm. All may not yet be lost—if you at once accept young Craig's invitation. Now let us leave it at that. To-night I am distracted by a thousand things, but I will call in the morning to enquire for your husband and, incidentally, to make things clearer to you."
"Can't you explain now? I shan't be able to sleep—"
"No…. But, by the way, it would do no harm were your husband to ask Craig, if he is really friendly, for a loan. If I'm any judge of men, Craig is the sort of silly fool who, because he has come into a bit of money, is ready to give lots of it away. However, you can suggest it to your husband, if you like. How is he to-night?"
"I think he is better, but he was so excitable a little while ago that I had to give him some sleeping medicine. He is sleeping now."
"Sooner or later, you know, he has got to be told of the Johannesburg disaster. What about getting Doris to break it?"
After a pause—"I'll see," said Mrs. Lancaster, "but I do wish you would give me some idea—"
"You really must excuse me. I hear some one coming in to see me. Till to-morrow—good-bye!"
Mrs. Lancaster, her handsome face haggard, lay back in her chair and for a space of minutes remained perfectly motionless. At last her lips moved—
"Whatever happens, I shall have twenty-five thousand pounds."
As Bullard replaced the receiver, Flitch came slouching in.
"Couldn't help bein' a bit late, mister," he remarked. "Fog's awful to-night. Got lost more'n once."
"Fog that came out of a bottle, I suppose," said Bullard sarcastically.
For an instant resentment flamed on the hairy countenance, but Flitch seemed to get it under control and answered nothing. There was a certain change in the man's appearance. His hair and beard were freshly trimmed, and he had a cleanlier look than we have hitherto noticed; moreover, his expression had lost a little of its habitual sullen truculence.
"All right; sit down till I'm ready for you," said Bullard, and proceeded to clear his desk of a heap of newspapers. They were mostly Scottish journals of that and the previous day's dates. Earlier in the evening he had searched their news columns for a heading something like this: "Mysterious and Fatal Explosion in a Clydeside Mansion." Mrs. Lancaster's news had, of course, informed him that nothing of the kind had taken place, and had also raised doubts which he would have to examine later. Sufficient for the present that the Green Box plot had failed. Contrary to his calculations, the key had remained undiscovered; otherwise Alan Craig and Caw, who would surely have opened the box together, would have ceased to exist. Their destruction, however, was perhaps only postponed—unless he became fully persuaded that the new plan suggested by Alan's invitation to the Lancasters was a more feasible one.
He turned sharply from the desk to his visitor, who was still standing.
"Come for your second and final hundred—eh?"
Flitch stared at the carpet, crushing his cloth cap in his hand, and uttered the most unexpected reply that had ever entered Bullard's ears.
"No, mister."
An appreciable time passed before Bullard's gape became modified to a grin. "I see! You want me to keep it till you sail. Wise man! But upon my word, you took me aback—refusing money!—you! When do you want it, then? You had better tell me where to send it, as next week I may—"
Flitch, having moistened his lips, interrupted quietly with—
"I don't want yer money, mister,—now or ever."
"What the devil do you mean?"
"I've joined the army."
Bullard burst out laughing. "Was the sergeant sober?"
Flitch made an attempt, not very successful, to draw himself up and face the scoffer. "The Salvation Army, I was meanin'," he mumbled.
Bullard stopped laughing. Flitch spoke again awkwardly and in jerks."That night up yonder about finished me. I've turned over a new leaf. TheCaptain said it wasn't too late, if—if I repented of all my many sins."
"It'll take you a while to do that, won't it?" said Bullard, sneering to cover his perplexity.
"No doubt, mister."
"And so you are above money! How beautiful! Going to pay me back that one hundred pounds you got from me the other day, I suppose!"
"Haven't got it now, mister. Fifteen bob and coppers in me pocket—that's all."
"Crazy gambler! How do you imagine you are going to get out of this country without my help?"
"Goin' to stay and face any music that likes to play. That"—said Flitch, still quietly—"is what I'm going to do, mister."
Bullard took to fiddling with the nugget on his chain. "Well," he said, "as it happens, I haven't got many hundreds just now to throw about, but I expect you'll change your mind when the first tune begins to play—only I warn you, it may be too late then. That's all! Now, what about your prisoner? How did you leave him?"
Flitch hesitated before he said: "That's one o' things I'm goin' to tell ye about, mister …"
"Well, hurry up."
Flitch took a long breath and faced his patron, fairly and squarely.
"Mr. Marvel's gone," he said.
"What?"
"I was fearin' ye meant ill by him, and this mornin' I gave him back his money and let him go free."
Grey and ugly was Bullard's face; his body was rigid; his jaw worked stiffly. "You—you damned fool!"
The other drew his crumpled cap across his sweating forehead. "I was thinkin' ye wouldn't be extra pleased," he said, "but I'm for no more blood on me hands—no, nor other crimes, neither. Now," he went on, and his voice wavered, "now for the second thing. Mr. Alan Craig—"
"Idiot of idiots, he's in London at this moment! You'd better clear—that is, after I'm done with you."
"Ye give me good news, mister, for now I know for certain I've put meself right wi' Mr. Alan Craig—wait a moment!—and savedyoufrom another dirty sin. I knows what ye had in the parcel that night, mister; I saw ye fixin' up the infernal—"
"Curse you! what are you drivelling about?"
Flitch, his face chalky, continued: "And so I sent Mr. Alan Craig a wire warnin' him that—oh! for God's sake don't look at me so! I didn't giveyouaway!" His voice rose wildly as Bullard's hand stole to a drawer behind him. "No, no; ye shan't shoot me! I must ha' time to repent proper." He took a step forward. "I'm not goin' to hurt ye, but I'm not goin' to let ye kill me till—"
From his desk Bullard whipped a long, heavy ruler, sprang to his feet and lashed out at the other's head. "You two-faced swine!"
Flitch reeled backward, sobbing with pain and passion. "Ye devil's hound! … But I'll go for ye now!" Recovering his balance, he plunged furiously at the striker.
Bullard struck again—a fearful blow with a horrid sound.
This time Flitch did not go back, but toppled forward, clawing atBullard's waistcoat, and reached the floor with a thud and a single gasp.
And there was a silence, a period of petrifaction, that might have lasted for one minute or ten: Bullard could not have gauged it. At last he came to himself. His teeth were chattering slightly. He examined the ruler, drew it through his fingers; it was quite clean, and he replaced it on the desk, softly, as though to avoid disturbing any one. Yet he wiped his hands on his handkerchief before he crossed the room to an antique ebony cabinet where he helped himself to a little brandy. Then he came back to the desk and for a while stood lax, staring at the blurs of white paper thereon.
Stiffening himself, he turned and for the first time looked down on his handiwork….
Bullard had not meant to kill, though his heart had been murderous when he struck. It was without hope that he knelt to examine his victim. Flitch's time for repentance had been short indeed. He lay sprawled on his side, his hands clenched, yet his countenance was not so repulsive. Well, he had escaped human judgement, and worse men have lived longer.
Bullard got upon his feet. His mental energies were working once more. He must act at once. The simplest way out was simply to 'phone for the police and give himself in charge for killing a man in self defence. But that would mean, among other things, a trial! … Out of the question! There must be another and safer if less simple way out. He thought hard, and it was not so long before he found it. The fog!—if it were still there.
He shut off the lights and passed to the window. The sill was low; the sash opened inwards. Outside was a narrow balcony, with a foot-high stone balustrade. Presently he was peering out into the bitter, filthy night. The fog was denser than ever; he had never seen it so thick. The presence of lamps in the deserted street below was betrayed by a mere glow. Across the way the dark buildings could scarce be distinguished. The sounds of human life seemed to come from a great distance.
Leaving the window open, he gropingly moved back to his desk, struck a vesta and kneeling, went carefully through the dead man's pockets. A scrap or two of paper he took possession of. With the aid of another vesta he found his way to the cabinet for more brandy. Physically he required stimulant. Flitch had been a big heavy man … he was no smaller nor lighter now.
* * * * *
And so, at long last, the ponderous, inert, uncanny thing lay balanced across the balustrade and sill, the legs sticking into the room. Breathing hard, Bullard grasped the ankles. A heave, a jerk, a twist, a push…. Hands pressed hard over his ears, Bullard waited for an age of thirty seconds. Then action once more. He closed the window, switched on the lights, and inspected the floor. Finally he rang up the police station.
"I'm Bullard, Aasvogel Syndicate, Manchester House. A man attempting to enter by the window has fallen to the street. I'll remain here till you come."
The spiritual glow in which Alan left Earl's Gate had cooled considerably by the time he reached the Midland Hotel. It was not that he actually regretted his actions of an hour ago; rather was it as though an inward voice kept repeating, "Why aren't you happier, now that you have lifted a crushing load from an exhausted fellow-creature? Why aren't you in the seventh heaven since you are going to marry that most desirable girl?" There was never yet human exaltation without its reaction, but in Alan's case the latter had followed cruelly fast.
In the smoke-room, almost empty at so early an hour, he dropped into a chair and lit a cigarette. "What the deuce is wrong with me?" By the time the cigarette was finished he could, with a little more courage, have answered the question. For he could not deny that his thoughts had gone straying, not back to the brightly lighted drawing-room and the beautiful hostess, but to a dark garden and a terrified girl with a little revolver in her hand. Ordering himself not to be a cad as well as a fool, he removed to one of the writing-tables. There he set himself to compose a nicely worded note of invitation to Mrs. Lancaster. After that was done he drew a couple of cheques for the same amount and wrote the following letter to Mr. Bullard:
"Dear Mr. Bullard:
"You will no doubt be surprised to see my writing again, and I take this way of announcing my return home lest you should hear of it before I can find time to call upon you, which, however, I hope to do before long. To-night, on my arrival here, I called upon Mr. Lancaster, and was sorry to learn that he was too ill to receive me. But I do not wish to delay an hour longer than necessary the settlement of my debt to you both, and so I ask you kindly to receive on his behalf and your own, the enclosed two cheques in payment of the amounts of, and interests on, the advances which you and he so generously made to me in April of last year. I daresay you have almost forgotten the incident which meant so much to me, and still does. Until we meet,
"Faithfully yours,
"Alan Craig."
"A bit stiff and formal," was his comment after rereading it several times, "but I don't think it gives much away."
The two hours that followed were perhaps the dreariest he had ever spent in civilised circumstances. London had given him enough to think about in all conscience, but his mind would not be controlled; as surely as a disturbed compass needle it kept moving back to the north.
Teddy's arrival, half an hour after midnight, he hailed as a great relief. Teddy wore a tired and soiled aspect, but his eyes glinted with repressed excitement.
"Let's go up to my room, Alan," he said at once; "I've got something to shew you."
The moment they were there, with the door bolted, Teddy's fingers went to his waistcoat pocket.
"Recognise it?" he asked, holding up an inch of fine gold chain bearing a small nugget.
"No I don't. Stay! it's not unfamiliar—but no; I can't place it.Whose is it?"
"Bullard's."
"Oh! Where did you pick it up, Teddy?"
Teddy sat down on the edge of the bed. In a voice not wholly under control he replied—
"I took it from the hand of a dead man, a couple of hours ago."
"A dead man! Good—"
"He seemed to fall out of the fog, but it was actually from the window of Bullard's office, in New Broad Street. I was watching from the other side of the street when he fell. I—I was the first person to reach him. He was quite dead—awfully smashed, poor chap. There was a lamp near. One of his fists was slightly open. I noticed a glitter in it. It was this thing. I took it.—I must have a smoke."
"Better ring for something to drink."
"No. I want all my wits to make a clear story of it. Look here, Alan! The long and short of it is: Bullard committed murder to-night—"
"Oh, I say!"
Teddy ignored the interruption. "Of course I went with the crowd to the police station, and, though not as a witness, managed to get in. Bullard with an inspector turned up before long, but I kept out of his way. He had called the police himself. The man, he stated, had been trying the window of his private room while he was in another part of the premises; on entering his private room and switching on the lights, he had caught a glimpse of a face and hands falling backwards. That was all a lie. The lights had been out for some time when the man fell. The fog was horribly thick, but I can be sure of that much. And then—this!" he dangled the nugget.
Alan broke the silence. "It looks bad, certainly, but still, you know, Bullard might not—and quite naturally, too—have liked to admit that after a struggle he pushed the man from the window—if that's what you mean."
"No, that's not what I mean. About twenty minutes earlier, I saw the man enter Bullard's office by the usual way—"
"Ah!"
"And note this, Alan! At the police station, I saw his fingers go to the nugget—he has a habit of playing with the thing when he is talking—and when he realised that it wasn't there, I thought he was going to faint. He soon pulled himself together, but—"
"The police didn't suspect him, did they?"
"Bless you, no! They were all sympathy! Oh, he's safe enough—for the present. The poor chap he murdered was certainly rough looking enough to be a burglar."
"What was he like?"
"A big strong man, with an ugly red-bearded face, and—it's queer how one notices trifles—his ears were pierced for—"
"Good Heavens, it was Flitch!"
Teddy jumped. "The man who shot you—"
"The same—I'm sure of it, even from your slight description. And—andBullard has killed him!"
"Your revenge, Alan."
"No, no, old man, I never wanted his life. It was only his employer I was after."
"You've got his employer now—if you want him."
Alan stared at his friend. "Why do you sayif I want him? Don't you imagine I want him?"—he cried—"not for anything he may have done or tried to do to me, but for what might have happened had Mar—Miss Handyside opened that infernal Green Box—"
"The telegram may have been a hoax. The box may or may not contain an infernal contrivance, but even if it does, you can't convict Bullard any more than you can arrest the soul of the man who is dead."
"I don't understand you," said Alan. "Tell me why you used those words, 'if I want him,' meaning Bullard."
"Simply because," answered Teddy, "I'm pretty sure you don't want him.Think a moment!"
The other sprang to his feet. "Come along, Teddy! There's no thought required. That nugget has got to be handed to the police before we're an hour older."
Teddy rose slowly and slipped the nugget into his pocket. "Alan, my son," he said gently, "that nugget does not leave my possession—no, not for all your uncle's genuine diamonds. Think again!"
"Oh, rot! If you're afraid of the police, Teddy—"
"Perhaps I am—"
"Well, give the thing to me, and I'll—"
"One moment." Teddy's face went ruddy. "I'd like you to answer a question, though it may strike you as abominably impertinent. Are you—are you as fond as ever of Doris Lancaster?"
Alan was also flushed as he replied: "Doris and I settled that to-night, Teddy. But what has it to do with Bullard's nugget? I'm aware it has something to do with Bullard—"
"Hold on!" said Teddy, pale again. "I think I can put it so plainly that you'll wonder why you didn't see it for yourself right away. Listen! Put this nugget into police hands, and Bullard goes into the dock. If Bullard goes into the dock, ugly things, not all connected with this murder, will surely come out. Lancaster will be involved; Doris—"
Alan threw up a hand. "God forgive me, Teddy," he cried, "and thank God it wasn't I who found the nugget!"
* * * * *
"Besides," said Teddy a good deal later, "your Uncle Christopher was most desirous that nothing should happen to Bullard before the clock stopped. And now, old chap, I think we had better turn in."
Left to himself, Teddy sighed. "He's going to marry Doris, and, whether he knows it or not, he's in love with that Handyside girl. Surely I have the devil's own luck!"
Never a heavy sleeper, Mrs. Lancaster was fully aware of her daughter's entrance before Doris reached her bedside. She affected neither drowsiness nor ignorance of the latter's quest.
"You ought not to have got up so early, Doris," she said. "Why, it's not eight yet. Not that light—the far away one, if you insist. Are you feeling better?"
"Yes, I think so. I've had a long sleep." The girl's eyes were shining strangely, and the shadows beneath them were deep; but she did not look ill. "Father is awake now," she said.
"Indeed! I suppose you have come for that packet." Mrs. Lancaster raised herself a little on the pillows. "I suppose, also, you are aware what the packet contains, Doris."
"Yes, mother."
"Is it a gift or a loan to your father?"
"A loan—I hope. Please let me have it—"
"One moment, my dear. Am I right in further supposing that your father intends to pay a particular debt with all this money?"
Doris's head drooped in assent.
"Has it not occurred to you that your father would be treating me very badly if he used all this money for such a purpose?"
"Mother!"
"You fancy I have said something very dreadful, but—listen! Things have gone wrong at Johannesburg. There has been rioting. Mines have been wrecked and ruined. For a long time to come—years, perhaps—your father's income may be next to nothing. What is to become of me? You, of course, have your Mr. Bullard—not so rich as he was; but he is not the sort of man to remain long poor. You had better sit down, Doris. I have kept the newspapers of the last few days from your father."
The girl was clutching the brass rail of the bed. "Do you mean that father is ruined?" she whispered, aghast.
"Not far from it, I'm afraid. Now don't make a fuss. I rely on you to break the news of the mines to him before Mr. Bullard arrives this morning. Mr. Bullard will give him the details, no doubt. Another thing; you must persuade Mr. Bullard to get rid of that debt we have mentioned. He has his own difficulties at present, I should imagine, but he is not the man to be beaten by a sum like twenty-five thousand pounds. We cannot have scandal—disgrace. You have done much for your father already—that I freely admit—but at this crisis you must do more.—My smelling salts are behind you."
Doris had swayed, but she recovered herself, though her face was white and desperate.
"Mother, that money you have—"
"I'm afraid you are going to be shocked, Doris, but I had better tell you at once that the money is mine."
"Yours!" It was a shock, a dreadful shock, and yet Doris had come to her mother's room full of ghastly apprehensions. "Oh, but you can't mean it!"
"My dear girl, can I be franker? Call it anything you like, theft, if you fancy the word; but the money is mine. I decline to go into the gutter for any one."
"But—dear God!—don't you realise what your keeping it will mean to father? Yes, you do! You know too well—"
"I have shown you a way out of that difficulty. Mr. Bullard will do anything you ask—"
"And what am I to say to father?"
"Nothing!—unless you wish to kill him. For Heaven's sake, take a reasonable view of the matter. A year hence your father will probably bless me for what I have done. A thousand a year is always something. As for Mr. Craig, he will have helped even more practically than he thought. Of course, your taste in accepting money from one man while engaged to another is open to question."
With a soft heart-broken cry Doris let go her hold and fell on her knees at the bedside.
"Mother, in the name of all that is right and good, give me back the money. I don't want to—hate you."
Mrs. Lancaster touched a wisp of lace to her eyes, "Really, Doris, you are making it very painful for me, but some day you will see that I was wise. For the present, I would rather die than give up the money. I have no more to say."
In some respects Mrs. Lancaster was a stranger to her daughter, but Doris always knew when her mind was immovable. She knew it now. She rose up from her knees. Out of her deathly face her eyes blazed. Had she spoken then, it would have been to utter an awful thing for any daughter to say to the one who bore her.
"Doris!" exclaimed the woman, shrinking under her scented, exquisitely pure coverings.
The girl threw up her head. "If father goes down," she said bravely, "I go down with him. And I don't think the money will make you forget, mother. There are two sorts of gutters." She turned and went quickly out.
But in the privacy of her own room she fell on the bed, a crushed and broken thing, a creature of despair, writhing, groping in the darkness of an unspeakable horror. If there was a sin unpardonable, surely her own mother had committed it. If there was a bitterness beyond that of death itself, surely she herself was drinking thereof.
Well was it for the mind of Doris Lancaster that she was not left long to herself. A maid tapped and said that Mr. Lancaster was asking for her. She arose immediately and removed the outward signs of misery, telling herself that whatever happened, he must be spared until the last moment; also, the divulging of the disaster on the Rand must be postponed, whether Mr. Bullard liked it or no. For the present she had to give her father his breakfast and tell him of Alan's visit. She prayed Heaven for a cheerful countenance.
Mr. Lancaster had rested well and was looking better, but anxious.
"You didn't come in to see me last night, after all," he said.
"Mother told me you were asleep, so I didn't disturb you—and I was unusually tired, dear."
"But he came?"
"Oh, yes. Alan came, and he's coming again this evening, when he hopes to see you."
"Aren't you well, Doris? You shivered just now. … What did he say?"
"Nothing that wasn't kind, father. He wants you to go to Grey House for a change the moment you feel able for the journey. He wants us all to go. What better news can I give you than that, dear?"
Lancaster's eyes grew moist. "God bless the boy for shewing that he bears me no ill-will," he said. "What did he talk about?"
"It was a very short visit last night," she replied, "but, as I told you, he is coming again to-night. You think you will be able to see him?"
"I shall have no peace till I can thank him for his big heart…. Doris,I wish you had not promised Bullard—"
"Oh, hush! We agreed not to speak of that."
He sighed heavily. "What a woeful mess I've made of my life; and I've had so many chances, my dear, that I dare not hope for one more. And I don't blame anybody but myself—"
"Dear, don't think of it that way. You have simply been deceived in people, or, at least, in one person."
"Your mother made me believe in him, and certainly he knew how to make money. No, I don't blame your mother, Doris. I've been a disappointment to her—"
"Father, I can't bear your talking so, for I believe in you with all my heart. And think of Alan Craig, and Teddy France, too—oh, they would do anything for you!"
He shook his head, smiling very faintly. Then, suddenly, he became grave and a strange look—strange because unfamiliar—dawned.
"Doris, give me your hand. Will you say again that you believe in me?"
"I believe in you with all my heart," she answered, striving for control.
"Then—then you arenotgoing to marry Bullard."
"Oh, please—"
"You and I," he went on, "are both longing, dying for freedom, and I know of a way out. Doris, will you believe in me, continue to desire me for your father, though I bring ruin and shame on you? Answer me!"
"Nothing could change me, dear."
"Then I will take the way out wherever it may lead, for prison itself would be freedom to me, and marriage with Bullard would be worse than prison to you. Doris, Lord Caradale, the chairman of the Syndicate, arrives from America on Tuesday. I will tell him the truth—"
She caught him in her arms. "No—no—not that," she sobbed. "He is a hard, cruel man; he—"
"It is the one way to freedom for us both. For my own poor sake, my girl, don't seek to weaken my resolve. I would like to do the right thing once before I die." He kissed her. "Now leave me, and don't fret. Don't let any one come to me for an hour or two."
Lest she should break down utterly, Doris obeyed. The thing had got beyond her strength physical and mental. She could have cried aloud for help. And in a sense she did, for she went to the telephone and rang up Teddy France at the Midland Hotel.
"Can you meet me at the Queen's Road Tube in half an hour?" she asked.
"Certainly. I'll start now," said Teddy, who had not breakfasted. Alan was not yet downstairs. "Something wrong, Doris?"
"Just come, please. Good-bye."
He was there before her, his heart aching.
What had happened that she could not tell to Alan? Before long he knew. She told him all as they walked in Kensington Gardens, in the brilliant sunshine. It seemed to Teddy far more horrible than the gruesome business in the fog of twelve hours ago.
"And you feel there is no hope of inducing Mrs. Lancaster to—to change?" he said at last. Knowing Mrs. Lancaster as he did, he recognised the futility of the question.
"If you don't mind, Teddy," she answered, "we won't speak about that again. The shame of it sickens me. But what about—Alan? He and father will meet tonight. I don't for a moment imagine that Alan will mention the money, but naturally he will think it very strange if father doesn't. And, oh! howcanI explain to Alan? It's too dreadful!"
"Alan," he said, "would only be sorry—as sorry as I am. But, Doris, it isn't to-night yet."
"You mean that I have time to—to see Mr. Bullard? He is coming to the house this morning—may be there now—and I don't want him to get near father. Yes," she said, in a lifeless voice, "I will speak to him—plead with him, if necessary—"
"No, you shan't!" said Teddy, who doubted very much whether Mr. Bullard would reach Earl's Gate that morning. The inquest was at noon.
"It's the only way out. Father must not be allowed to trust himself to the tender mercies of Lord Caradale next week. I know Lord Caradale. He doesn't mind how money is made; but he does mind how it is lost. Oh, Teddy, don't you think father has suffered enough?"
"More than enough—and so has his daughter." Teddy gritted his teeth.Every moment this girl grew dearer; every moment she seemed further away."Doris," he went on, "I want your promise that you will do nothing at alltill I see you again. Should Bullard come to the house, keep him from Mr.Lancaster, but tell him nothing. Meet me here again at three o'clock."Gently he stopped her questions. "And forgive my leaving you at once.Don't hope too much, dear, but don't altogether despair. There's just achance that there may be another way out."