Chapter Twenty Four.

Chapter Twenty Four.Two Nights of Watching.“Thank goodness!” said Guest to himself, as he moved slightly and saw that his companion appeared to be sleeping heavily; but as he rose Stratton followed his example, looking very pale, but more like himself.“Morning; how are you?” said Guest.“Better—much better.”“You should have undressed and gone to bed, and you’d have been better still. How’s the shoulder?”“Gave me a good deal of pain several times in the night, but it is easier now.”“Glad of it, but take my advice; let’s have in a doctor, and let him dress it properly.”“There’s no need,” said Stratton quietly. “A wound only needs to be kept from exposure to the air to heal itself.”“Well, of all the obstinate fellows!”“Oh, no,” said Stratton, with a wan smile. “You see I have been very obedient. If the wound is disposed to turn bad, as I shall soon know, I will have medical advice. If there is no need, surely you can spare me the annoyance of answering a surgeon all kinds of questions, and being tied-down to his routine.”“Well, I will not worry you, old fellow, for you do seem to be better.”“Much,” said Stratton quietly. “I only want to be at peace for a time. I think I shall go into the country.”“Will you?”“Y–e–s, I think I will.”“With me. Then we’ll go as soon as you can start.”“No, no,” cried Stratton excitedly. “I should be poor company, and would rather go alone.”“Not fit. Look here. Happy thought. I’ll ask Brettison in.”“No, no!” cried Stratton excitedly.“But he’s the very man. Quiet, calm, and don’t talk. Go and pick buttercups and daisies along with him for a few days, and then come back to me quitecompos mentis, and we’ll see what can be done.”Guest made toward the door, but Stratton intercepted him.“I tell you no,” he said firmly, “and—and—Brettison is out.”“Out?”“Gone into the country.”“Humph!” ejaculated Guest, looking at his friend curiously, for there was something in his manner which puzzled him. But Stratton said cheerfully:“Nearly nine. Will you order some breakfast from the tavern?”“Eh, to be sure. Let’s go. No; afraid you are not well enough. I’ll send Mrs Brade. But no nonsense,” said Guest.“I give you my word,” said Stratton quietly.“I take it;” and after a visit to the bedroom Guest came back, looking refreshed and ready to go out and order the meal to be brought.In due time this was at the door, and, to the young barrister’s great satisfaction, his friend drank a cup of coffee, and ate sparingly of some dry toast, looking every minute more and more himself.There were moments when his face twitched and his eyes looked strange; but that Guest set down to the pain of his wound; and in the course of the morning, feeling more and more relieved, he said:“Look here, old fellow, I think if you’ll give me your word of honour there shall be no nonsense, I’ll go back to my place and change,”—he glanced at his wedding garments as he spoke.“Yes, I would,” said Stratton quietly.“You are not going to be ill?”“Certainly not.”“And I can trust you?”“Of course.”“Then I will go.”“Oh, yes; I shall be all right now, and I may write to you from the country and ask you to join me.”“Thanks,” said Guest dryly; “but you are not going yet. We’ll talk about that when I come back.”“Come back?” said Stratton wildly.“Oh, yes; I shan’t be above an hour.”“But, really, my dear Percy—”“I will not hear a word now. There, let some fresh air into the room; the place smells stuffy; my fault, I suppose. It’s as if the ghosts of all the cigars I have smoked here were rising up in evidence against me. Ta ta! I shall not be long.”Stratton made no reply, but smiled at him faintly as he passed out and closed the door after him. But the moment Stratton was alone there was a sudden change. He clasped his hands to his head, and began to pace the room with rapid strides, but dropped one arm directly as he turned pallid with pain.“What to do?” he muttered—“what to do? Mad? Enough to make me. Well, let them think what they please. It makes no difference now.”He thrust his hand into his pocket and took out a key, and then shuddered; but drawing himself up, he set his teeth hard and crossed to where the easy-chair stood in which he had passed the night, wheeled it from the door, and went to the window after slipping the bolt.His hand was on the blind, and he was in the act of drawing it down when there was a knock, and he stood as if paralysed.“Back so soon!” he thought, and, as if recalling the scene of the previous day, when Guest insisted upon admission, he gave a sharp glance round the room, smoothed his hair, and went and opened the door.“Thank you, sir,” said Mrs Brade, stepping in; and he involuntarily gave way. “Mr Guest asked me to come in and tidy you.”“No, no, not to-day. I—”“But Mr Guest said I was to, sir, and if you objected I was to tell you to be calm. It’s very glad I am to see you much better,” said the woman, going to the bedroom. “Why, you haven’t been to bed all night, sir. I don’t wonder you look pale,” she continued, re-entering and crossing the room. “Did you use your bath?”She uttered a wild cry as Stratton rushed at her, caught her by the shoulder with a fierce grip, and swung her away.“I tell you,” he cried, with a fierce growl, “I will not have the place touched. Go! At once!”The woman was too much alarmed to speak, and, making for the door, hurried out, and made for the porter’s lodge, “that agitated,” as she said to herself afterward, “that she felt as if she could never go there again.”Stratton wiped the cold sweat from his brow as soon as he was alone, and once more began to pace the room, with the key in his hand. But he did not use it. Thrusting it back in his pocket, he sat down and hurriedly wrote a letter, in which he inclosed a cheque; then looking out an address from a directory, he fastened down the envelope, and opened the window, at which he waited till he saw a familiar face, and asked its owner to slip the letter in the first pillar box.This act seemed to revive him, and he grew a little calmer. He turned to a cabinet containing natural history specimens preserved in spirits, and taking out first one and then another, he carefully examined them, removing the tied-down stoppers of several of the large-mouthed vessels; and he was still examining one of these, with the spirit therein looking limpid still, when there was a double knock.His first idea, as he started up, was to hurriedly replace the glass vessel, but a moment’s thought decided him upon leaving it on the table and opening the door.“Back again, you see,” said Guest, looking at him inquiringly. “Ah, busy with your specimens. That’s right. Nothing like keeping the mind busy; but clear away; the fellow will be here soon with the dinner, and I’ve brought some cigars. Mrs Brade been?”“Yes; but you are not going to stay here this evening?”“Indeed, but I am.”Stratton frowned, but said nothing, and in due time the dinner came, was eaten, and the evening became a repetition of the last, but with the difference that Stratton seemed far more calm and able to keep himself under control.But as the night wore on he stubbornly refused to go to bed. If his friend intended to stay there in a chair, he would do the same.“Compulsion will only make him wild and irritate his wound,” thought Guest, and twelve o’clock struck as they settled themselves in their chairs as before.“Better humour him,” said Guest to himself, as he felt more content with the change growing in his friend; “he’ll be better to-morrow, and then, perhaps, tell me all about his trouble.”The lamp had been turned down, so that the room was very gloomy, but there was light enough for Guest to make out the weird aspect of the busts and various natural history specimens about, one great eagle owl over the door catching a gleam of the lamp, and looking, with its fixed glass eyes, fully aware of the mystery overhanging the place. The various articles of furniture, too, assumed a strange guise, and cast shadows of a startling nature; but, after a few minutes, Guest settled down to the contemplation of his friend, whose eyes seemed to be closed, though a few minutes later a faint scintillation showed that he was still awake and watchful.But Guest was too weary now to feel any dread. Stratton was evidently sorry for his mad attempt, and perfectly sane, so, after a few brave efforts to keep awake, the young barrister calmly dropped off into a deep sleep, and the busy working of a dream, in which Edie was scornfully telling him that she had discovered all about his escapade with a dark woman resembling the queen of spades, and when he tried to catch her in his arms and convince her that he was a perfectly innocent man, she sprang from her seat, uttering a piercing cry.Trembling and startled, Guest leaped up, to find the lamp turned to its full height, and, with the strange hoarse cry still ringing in his ears, he saw Stratton standing back against the cabinet farthest from the fireplace, glaring wildly, while from out of the closet, apparently, a curious rustling noise, followed by a dull blow upon something hollow, fell upon his ear.

“Thank goodness!” said Guest to himself, as he moved slightly and saw that his companion appeared to be sleeping heavily; but as he rose Stratton followed his example, looking very pale, but more like himself.

“Morning; how are you?” said Guest.

“Better—much better.”

“You should have undressed and gone to bed, and you’d have been better still. How’s the shoulder?”

“Gave me a good deal of pain several times in the night, but it is easier now.”

“Glad of it, but take my advice; let’s have in a doctor, and let him dress it properly.”

“There’s no need,” said Stratton quietly. “A wound only needs to be kept from exposure to the air to heal itself.”

“Well, of all the obstinate fellows!”

“Oh, no,” said Stratton, with a wan smile. “You see I have been very obedient. If the wound is disposed to turn bad, as I shall soon know, I will have medical advice. If there is no need, surely you can spare me the annoyance of answering a surgeon all kinds of questions, and being tied-down to his routine.”

“Well, I will not worry you, old fellow, for you do seem to be better.”

“Much,” said Stratton quietly. “I only want to be at peace for a time. I think I shall go into the country.”

“Will you?”

“Y–e–s, I think I will.”

“With me. Then we’ll go as soon as you can start.”

“No, no,” cried Stratton excitedly. “I should be poor company, and would rather go alone.”

“Not fit. Look here. Happy thought. I’ll ask Brettison in.”

“No, no!” cried Stratton excitedly.

“But he’s the very man. Quiet, calm, and don’t talk. Go and pick buttercups and daisies along with him for a few days, and then come back to me quitecompos mentis, and we’ll see what can be done.”

Guest made toward the door, but Stratton intercepted him.

“I tell you no,” he said firmly, “and—and—Brettison is out.”

“Out?”

“Gone into the country.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Guest, looking at his friend curiously, for there was something in his manner which puzzled him. But Stratton said cheerfully:

“Nearly nine. Will you order some breakfast from the tavern?”

“Eh, to be sure. Let’s go. No; afraid you are not well enough. I’ll send Mrs Brade. But no nonsense,” said Guest.

“I give you my word,” said Stratton quietly.

“I take it;” and after a visit to the bedroom Guest came back, looking refreshed and ready to go out and order the meal to be brought.

In due time this was at the door, and, to the young barrister’s great satisfaction, his friend drank a cup of coffee, and ate sparingly of some dry toast, looking every minute more and more himself.

There were moments when his face twitched and his eyes looked strange; but that Guest set down to the pain of his wound; and in the course of the morning, feeling more and more relieved, he said:

“Look here, old fellow, I think if you’ll give me your word of honour there shall be no nonsense, I’ll go back to my place and change,”—he glanced at his wedding garments as he spoke.

“Yes, I would,” said Stratton quietly.

“You are not going to be ill?”

“Certainly not.”

“And I can trust you?”

“Of course.”

“Then I will go.”

“Oh, yes; I shall be all right now, and I may write to you from the country and ask you to join me.”

“Thanks,” said Guest dryly; “but you are not going yet. We’ll talk about that when I come back.”

“Come back?” said Stratton wildly.

“Oh, yes; I shan’t be above an hour.”

“But, really, my dear Percy—”

“I will not hear a word now. There, let some fresh air into the room; the place smells stuffy; my fault, I suppose. It’s as if the ghosts of all the cigars I have smoked here were rising up in evidence against me. Ta ta! I shall not be long.”

Stratton made no reply, but smiled at him faintly as he passed out and closed the door after him. But the moment Stratton was alone there was a sudden change. He clasped his hands to his head, and began to pace the room with rapid strides, but dropped one arm directly as he turned pallid with pain.

“What to do?” he muttered—“what to do? Mad? Enough to make me. Well, let them think what they please. It makes no difference now.”

He thrust his hand into his pocket and took out a key, and then shuddered; but drawing himself up, he set his teeth hard and crossed to where the easy-chair stood in which he had passed the night, wheeled it from the door, and went to the window after slipping the bolt.

His hand was on the blind, and he was in the act of drawing it down when there was a knock, and he stood as if paralysed.

“Back so soon!” he thought, and, as if recalling the scene of the previous day, when Guest insisted upon admission, he gave a sharp glance round the room, smoothed his hair, and went and opened the door.

“Thank you, sir,” said Mrs Brade, stepping in; and he involuntarily gave way. “Mr Guest asked me to come in and tidy you.”

“No, no, not to-day. I—”

“But Mr Guest said I was to, sir, and if you objected I was to tell you to be calm. It’s very glad I am to see you much better,” said the woman, going to the bedroom. “Why, you haven’t been to bed all night, sir. I don’t wonder you look pale,” she continued, re-entering and crossing the room. “Did you use your bath?”

She uttered a wild cry as Stratton rushed at her, caught her by the shoulder with a fierce grip, and swung her away.

“I tell you,” he cried, with a fierce growl, “I will not have the place touched. Go! At once!”

The woman was too much alarmed to speak, and, making for the door, hurried out, and made for the porter’s lodge, “that agitated,” as she said to herself afterward, “that she felt as if she could never go there again.”

Stratton wiped the cold sweat from his brow as soon as he was alone, and once more began to pace the room, with the key in his hand. But he did not use it. Thrusting it back in his pocket, he sat down and hurriedly wrote a letter, in which he inclosed a cheque; then looking out an address from a directory, he fastened down the envelope, and opened the window, at which he waited till he saw a familiar face, and asked its owner to slip the letter in the first pillar box.

This act seemed to revive him, and he grew a little calmer. He turned to a cabinet containing natural history specimens preserved in spirits, and taking out first one and then another, he carefully examined them, removing the tied-down stoppers of several of the large-mouthed vessels; and he was still examining one of these, with the spirit therein looking limpid still, when there was a double knock.

His first idea, as he started up, was to hurriedly replace the glass vessel, but a moment’s thought decided him upon leaving it on the table and opening the door.

“Back again, you see,” said Guest, looking at him inquiringly. “Ah, busy with your specimens. That’s right. Nothing like keeping the mind busy; but clear away; the fellow will be here soon with the dinner, and I’ve brought some cigars. Mrs Brade been?”

“Yes; but you are not going to stay here this evening?”

“Indeed, but I am.”

Stratton frowned, but said nothing, and in due time the dinner came, was eaten, and the evening became a repetition of the last, but with the difference that Stratton seemed far more calm and able to keep himself under control.

But as the night wore on he stubbornly refused to go to bed. If his friend intended to stay there in a chair, he would do the same.

“Compulsion will only make him wild and irritate his wound,” thought Guest, and twelve o’clock struck as they settled themselves in their chairs as before.

“Better humour him,” said Guest to himself, as he felt more content with the change growing in his friend; “he’ll be better to-morrow, and then, perhaps, tell me all about his trouble.”

The lamp had been turned down, so that the room was very gloomy, but there was light enough for Guest to make out the weird aspect of the busts and various natural history specimens about, one great eagle owl over the door catching a gleam of the lamp, and looking, with its fixed glass eyes, fully aware of the mystery overhanging the place. The various articles of furniture, too, assumed a strange guise, and cast shadows of a startling nature; but, after a few minutes, Guest settled down to the contemplation of his friend, whose eyes seemed to be closed, though a few minutes later a faint scintillation showed that he was still awake and watchful.

But Guest was too weary now to feel any dread. Stratton was evidently sorry for his mad attempt, and perfectly sane, so, after a few brave efforts to keep awake, the young barrister calmly dropped off into a deep sleep, and the busy working of a dream, in which Edie was scornfully telling him that she had discovered all about his escapade with a dark woman resembling the queen of spades, and when he tried to catch her in his arms and convince her that he was a perfectly innocent man, she sprang from her seat, uttering a piercing cry.

Trembling and startled, Guest leaped up, to find the lamp turned to its full height, and, with the strange hoarse cry still ringing in his ears, he saw Stratton standing back against the cabinet farthest from the fireplace, glaring wildly, while from out of the closet, apparently, a curious rustling noise, followed by a dull blow upon something hollow, fell upon his ear.

Chapter Twenty Five.Mrs Brade has Ideas.Thinking over the events of the past nights, and the overwrought state of his friend’s nerves, which had made him start in horror from his sleep at the noise made by the rats which infested the old house, Guest went on to muse over his position, and the prospects of the admiral accepting him as a husband for his niece, while Myra’s engagement stood as it did.“Time cures all things,” he muttered. “Wonder how the poor boy feels now. By George, he startled me and spoiled my night.”He had been having an early walk, Stratton seeming calm enough that morning, and he was now returning through the archway when there was a low cough, and he heard his name uttered.Turning sharply, it was to see Mrs Brade at her doorway, beckoning to him.“Good-morning. You wish to speak to me?”“Yes, sir, if you would not mind stepping inside, sir. I’m all alone, except my husband, sir.”Guest stepped into the little room, half parlour, half kitchen, of the porter’s lodge, and Mrs Brade carefully wiped a highly polished, well beeswaxed chair with her apron and set it by the fire.“No, no, not there,” said Guest hastily. “I’m hot enough already.”“Of course, sir,” said the woman, changing the position; “and you’ve been walking, sir. One oughtn’t to have a fire on a day like this; only you see, sir, one must cook and do everything here when one only has one room.”“Of course, Mrs Brade; but it is quite a little palace of cleanliness.”“Which it’s very good of you to say so, sir,” said Mrs Brade, with an ill-used air, “and it would be if it wasn’t for my husband. He’s one of the best of men, sir, but that untidy in his habits. What with one boot here, and another boot there, and tobacco ashes all over the place, he nearly worries my life out.”A low, peculiar sound came from an ajar door, sounding like a remonstrant growl from the gentleman in question, whereupon Mrs Brade went and shut the door, and drew an old moreen curtain across the opening.“He do breathe a little hard in his sleep, sir,” she said apologetically.“And likes plenty of it, eh?”“Oh, dear no, sir. It’s only eleven yet,” replied Mrs Brade, glancing at a sallow-faced Dutch clock on the wall. “He isn’t doo till twelve. You forget, sir, as he’s up pretty well all night to let in gents at all hours.”“Loose fish?”“Some of ’em, sir—if you means gents as don’t behave themselves and comes home smelling of spirits horrid. But most of ’em’s from Fleet Street, sir, from the noosepapers, as keeps ’em till two and three and four o’clock, and sometimes later.”“Of course, of course, Mrs Brade,” said Guest, rising. “We must have our morning papers.”“Yes, sir,andour bread and rolls; not that I wish you to think we’ve anyone in the inn as is a baker.”“I did not think so, Mrs Brade; but I’m in a hurry.”“And I won’t detain you, sir. But, of course, you were going in to see poor Mr Stratton, sir.”“Yes; what of that,” said Guest sharply.“I wanted to speak to you, sir, about him very serious, sir. Only yesterday, sir—”“Yes; go on, my good woman, go on. Is there anything fresh?”“Oh, yes, sir,” said the woman, putting her apron to her eyes. “I know all about his love troubles from the first.”“Yes, yes.”“And how he was disappointed about having Miss Jerrold.”“Well?”“And then, sir, when at last it was to come off, you see it was too much for him.”“And he has turned a little ill. There, he will soon be better.”“I hope so, sir,” said Mrs Brade, shaking her head, “but I’m afraid.”“Look here, you have seen or heard something to account, perhaps, for his sudden illness.”“Don’t call it illness, sir; the poor dear gentleman is mad.”“Mrs Brade!”“It’s a fact, sir, I assure you, and we may as well out with the truth.”“Look here,” said Guest, speaking hoarsely, for he felt startled at the woman’s words, coinciding so exactly with horrible thoughts hidden in his own breast. “This is a very serious thing to say. What grounds have you for such an assertion?”“Well, sir, if you’ll sit down I’ll tell you.”Guest reseated himself, feeling that if he wished to hear, he must let the woman go on in her own way.“I’ve always liked Mr Stratton, sir, since he’s been here, and his name always putting me in mind of Lady Burdett Coutts’ house at the corner of Strutton Street, where I have visited one of the servants.”Guest made an impatient gesture.“Yes, sir, I am coming to it as fast as I can. You see doing for him so long and looking upon him like a son, and doing for Mr Brettison, too, as is always most aggravating about his dusting, and his room’s a disgrace, but I never thought of Mr Stratton turning like that.”“Like what?”“I’m telling you, sir. Getting so that it’s a favour to be allowed to go into his room to tidy up, and him watching you and following you about with his eyes, and glaring at you all the time.”“Of course, he does not like his specimens touched.”“All which I know, sir, and I’ve studied him; but he never went on as he does now.”“Oh, nonsense! he’s ill and doesn’t want to be worried.”“He’s mad, sir, as Bedlam.”“Mrs Brade!”“He is, sir, and last night he tried to strangle me.”“What?”“He did, sir, as I’m a sinful soul, and when I got away from him down the stairs and back here into my room, it’s a mercy as I didn’t faint away.”“He touched you?”“Touched me, sir? He seized me. Oh, poor, dear gentleman, he’s gone.”“Look here,” said Guest sharply, “have you told anybody about it?”“No, sir; not yet.”“Then for Heaven’s sake don’t, Mrs Brade,” said Guest, in a low, hurried tone. “It was, perhaps, only a sudden paroxysm. You say you like him.”“Which indeed I do, sir.”“Then pray be silent. If such a report were spread it would be his ruin.”“Yes, sir, I thought of all that, and doctors signing things, and keepers coming to take him to shut him up in cells, with chains, and darkness, and howlings, and gnashing his teeth. Oh, my poor dear! my poor dear! Such a bonnie, good, lovable gentleman as you were!”Mrs Brade threw up her apron to her face and burst out into such a genuine passion of sobs and tears that Guest was touched, and he rose and placed his hand upon her arm.“Hush, hush!” he whispered; “don’t take on like that. Perhaps it is only due to excitement, and he’ll soon come round.”“Do you think so, sir?” cried the woman, dropping her apron.“I do, indeed, if he is kept quiet. Why, if it was known—”“And the keepers came, sir?”“Come, come, it’s not so bad as that. You have curious ideas about the treatment of the insane.”“Oh, no, sir; I’ve heard so much, sir.”“Never mind: we will not argue that. One thing is certain—any worry or excitement would be sure to make him worse.”“Of course, sir.”At that moment Mr Brade’s hard breathing was audible through the door and curtain, and Guest looked at it uneasily.“Then you have not told your husband?”“Indeed, no, sir.”“Then do not. Nor anyone else. We must keep this as our secret, Mrs Brade. My poor friend will come right I hope and feel, in time; so help me to guard him from all worry.”“Indeed I will, sir.”“No one must know. It would be bad for him at the institution.”“Yes, sir, and he’d have to give up his chambers, of course, if any of the neighbours—I mean gentlemen in the other rooms—made complaints.”“All of which we can avoid. It only wants time. There, I’ll go up and see him now, and Mr Brettison, too. Mind, I rely upon your being discreet.”“Of course, sir, and thank you for coming in. You don’t know how much good you’ve done me, sir.”“I’m glad you spoke to me,” said Guest; and he went across the inn to Stratton’s chambers.

Thinking over the events of the past nights, and the overwrought state of his friend’s nerves, which had made him start in horror from his sleep at the noise made by the rats which infested the old house, Guest went on to muse over his position, and the prospects of the admiral accepting him as a husband for his niece, while Myra’s engagement stood as it did.

“Time cures all things,” he muttered. “Wonder how the poor boy feels now. By George, he startled me and spoiled my night.”

He had been having an early walk, Stratton seeming calm enough that morning, and he was now returning through the archway when there was a low cough, and he heard his name uttered.

Turning sharply, it was to see Mrs Brade at her doorway, beckoning to him.

“Good-morning. You wish to speak to me?”

“Yes, sir, if you would not mind stepping inside, sir. I’m all alone, except my husband, sir.”

Guest stepped into the little room, half parlour, half kitchen, of the porter’s lodge, and Mrs Brade carefully wiped a highly polished, well beeswaxed chair with her apron and set it by the fire.

“No, no, not there,” said Guest hastily. “I’m hot enough already.”

“Of course, sir,” said the woman, changing the position; “and you’ve been walking, sir. One oughtn’t to have a fire on a day like this; only you see, sir, one must cook and do everything here when one only has one room.”

“Of course, Mrs Brade; but it is quite a little palace of cleanliness.”

“Which it’s very good of you to say so, sir,” said Mrs Brade, with an ill-used air, “and it would be if it wasn’t for my husband. He’s one of the best of men, sir, but that untidy in his habits. What with one boot here, and another boot there, and tobacco ashes all over the place, he nearly worries my life out.”

A low, peculiar sound came from an ajar door, sounding like a remonstrant growl from the gentleman in question, whereupon Mrs Brade went and shut the door, and drew an old moreen curtain across the opening.

“He do breathe a little hard in his sleep, sir,” she said apologetically.

“And likes plenty of it, eh?”

“Oh, dear no, sir. It’s only eleven yet,” replied Mrs Brade, glancing at a sallow-faced Dutch clock on the wall. “He isn’t doo till twelve. You forget, sir, as he’s up pretty well all night to let in gents at all hours.”

“Loose fish?”

“Some of ’em, sir—if you means gents as don’t behave themselves and comes home smelling of spirits horrid. But most of ’em’s from Fleet Street, sir, from the noosepapers, as keeps ’em till two and three and four o’clock, and sometimes later.”

“Of course, of course, Mrs Brade,” said Guest, rising. “We must have our morning papers.”

“Yes, sir,andour bread and rolls; not that I wish you to think we’ve anyone in the inn as is a baker.”

“I did not think so, Mrs Brade; but I’m in a hurry.”

“And I won’t detain you, sir. But, of course, you were going in to see poor Mr Stratton, sir.”

“Yes; what of that,” said Guest sharply.

“I wanted to speak to you, sir, about him very serious, sir. Only yesterday, sir—”

“Yes; go on, my good woman, go on. Is there anything fresh?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” said the woman, putting her apron to her eyes. “I know all about his love troubles from the first.”

“Yes, yes.”

“And how he was disappointed about having Miss Jerrold.”

“Well?”

“And then, sir, when at last it was to come off, you see it was too much for him.”

“And he has turned a little ill. There, he will soon be better.”

“I hope so, sir,” said Mrs Brade, shaking her head, “but I’m afraid.”

“Look here, you have seen or heard something to account, perhaps, for his sudden illness.”

“Don’t call it illness, sir; the poor dear gentleman is mad.”

“Mrs Brade!”

“It’s a fact, sir, I assure you, and we may as well out with the truth.”

“Look here,” said Guest, speaking hoarsely, for he felt startled at the woman’s words, coinciding so exactly with horrible thoughts hidden in his own breast. “This is a very serious thing to say. What grounds have you for such an assertion?”

“Well, sir, if you’ll sit down I’ll tell you.”

Guest reseated himself, feeling that if he wished to hear, he must let the woman go on in her own way.

“I’ve always liked Mr Stratton, sir, since he’s been here, and his name always putting me in mind of Lady Burdett Coutts’ house at the corner of Strutton Street, where I have visited one of the servants.”

Guest made an impatient gesture.

“Yes, sir, I am coming to it as fast as I can. You see doing for him so long and looking upon him like a son, and doing for Mr Brettison, too, as is always most aggravating about his dusting, and his room’s a disgrace, but I never thought of Mr Stratton turning like that.”

“Like what?”

“I’m telling you, sir. Getting so that it’s a favour to be allowed to go into his room to tidy up, and him watching you and following you about with his eyes, and glaring at you all the time.”

“Of course, he does not like his specimens touched.”

“All which I know, sir, and I’ve studied him; but he never went on as he does now.”

“Oh, nonsense! he’s ill and doesn’t want to be worried.”

“He’s mad, sir, as Bedlam.”

“Mrs Brade!”

“He is, sir, and last night he tried to strangle me.”

“What?”

“He did, sir, as I’m a sinful soul, and when I got away from him down the stairs and back here into my room, it’s a mercy as I didn’t faint away.”

“He touched you?”

“Touched me, sir? He seized me. Oh, poor, dear gentleman, he’s gone.”

“Look here,” said Guest sharply, “have you told anybody about it?”

“No, sir; not yet.”

“Then for Heaven’s sake don’t, Mrs Brade,” said Guest, in a low, hurried tone. “It was, perhaps, only a sudden paroxysm. You say you like him.”

“Which indeed I do, sir.”

“Then pray be silent. If such a report were spread it would be his ruin.”

“Yes, sir, I thought of all that, and doctors signing things, and keepers coming to take him to shut him up in cells, with chains, and darkness, and howlings, and gnashing his teeth. Oh, my poor dear! my poor dear! Such a bonnie, good, lovable gentleman as you were!”

Mrs Brade threw up her apron to her face and burst out into such a genuine passion of sobs and tears that Guest was touched, and he rose and placed his hand upon her arm.

“Hush, hush!” he whispered; “don’t take on like that. Perhaps it is only due to excitement, and he’ll soon come round.”

“Do you think so, sir?” cried the woman, dropping her apron.

“I do, indeed, if he is kept quiet. Why, if it was known—”

“And the keepers came, sir?”

“Come, come, it’s not so bad as that. You have curious ideas about the treatment of the insane.”

“Oh, no, sir; I’ve heard so much, sir.”

“Never mind: we will not argue that. One thing is certain—any worry or excitement would be sure to make him worse.”

“Of course, sir.”

At that moment Mr Brade’s hard breathing was audible through the door and curtain, and Guest looked at it uneasily.

“Then you have not told your husband?”

“Indeed, no, sir.”

“Then do not. Nor anyone else. We must keep this as our secret, Mrs Brade. My poor friend will come right I hope and feel, in time; so help me to guard him from all worry.”

“Indeed I will, sir.”

“No one must know. It would be bad for him at the institution.”

“Yes, sir, and he’d have to give up his chambers, of course, if any of the neighbours—I mean gentlemen in the other rooms—made complaints.”

“All of which we can avoid. It only wants time. There, I’ll go up and see him now, and Mr Brettison, too. Mind, I rely upon your being discreet.”

“Of course, sir, and thank you for coming in. You don’t know how much good you’ve done me, sir.”

“I’m glad you spoke to me,” said Guest; and he went across the inn to Stratton’s chambers.

Chapter Twenty Six.In gross Darkness.The staircase was very gloomy and quiet as Guest ascended, and he paused on the landing on finding Stratton’s outer door shut, and after a few moments’ hesitation, turned off to the left, meaning to have a few words with Brettison about their friend’s state.This door was also shut and he turned back, but feeling that, perhaps, after all, Brettison might be in, he knocked; waited; knocked again, and stood listening.“Off somewhere again picking flowers,” muttered Guest. “Men begin by picking them as children, and some end their lives gathering the sweet, innocent looking things.”He, however, gave one more double knock before turning away and going back to Stratton’s door.Here he knocked gently, but there was no reply. He knocked again, feeling a sensation of nervousness come over him as he thought of the words of the porter’s wife; and, as there was no reply, he could not help a little self-congratulation at there being no admission.But he frowned at his weakness directly.“Absurd! Cowardice!” he muttered. “This is nothing like acting the friend.”He knocked again, and, as there was still silence, he lifted the cover of the letter slit and placed his lips to the place.“Here, Malcolm, old fellow, open this door,” he cried. “I’m sure you are there.”A faint rustling sound within told him he was right, and directly after the door was opened.“You, Percy!” said the hollow-faced, haggard man, staring at him, and giving way unwillingly as, forcing himself to act, Guest stepped forward and entered the room.He repented the moment he was inside, for the room looked strange and gloomy through the window blind being drawn down, and there was a singularly wild, strained look in Stratton’s eyes, which never left him for a moment, suggestive of the truth of Mrs Brade’s words.Stratton had hurriedly closed the outer door upon his friend’s entrance, but he had left the inner undone; and now stood holding it open as if for his visitor to go.Guest felt ready to obey, but he again mastered his weakness and took a chair, knowing that if he was to perform a manly act and save his friend, he must be calm and firm. But in spite of himself, as he took his seat he gave a hasty glance round the room, thinking of its loneliness, and the extreme improbability of anyone hearing a cry for help.“Why have you come back so soon?” said Stratton at last.“The old reason. Sort of stupid, spaniel-like feeling for the man who kicks me.”Stratton made a hasty gesture.“Didn’t like to stop away long after your being so upset last night.”Stratton shuddered, and his friend watched him curiously again.“I’m much better now.”“Glad of it, but your nerves are terribly unstrung; or you wouldn’t be ready to jump out of your skin at the sound of a rat.”Stratton shuddered.“I know you couldn’t help it.”“No, but it’s going off now fast, and if I could be alone I should soon be right.”“Doubt it. No good; you must put up with me for a bit.”He tried to look laughingly in his companion’s eyes, but there was a strong feeling of dread at his heart as he felt that wild thoughts evidently existed in his friend’s brain, and that there was some terrible mischief hatching there.“Look here, Mal,” he said, mastering his own shrinking by remembrance of how the strong-witted man could often master the brain unhinged; “my impression is that you want change. Suppose you and I take a run. What do you say to Switzerland, and start to-day?”Stratton shuddered, and a curious, sneering smile dawned on his face.“Why don’t you ask me to explain my conduct again?” he said fiercely.“Because I have no right to. You are your own master, and are answerable to yourself.”“I’ll tell you,” continued Stratton, without heeding his visitor’s words, “it is because you think I am mad.”“Do I? Absurd!”“Yes. That is why you are here.”“I am not going to contradict you; but I will tell you why I am here. My old friend and companion suddenly turned queer, attacked with some illness, and I said to myself, ‘If I were to be bad like that I hope poor old Mal would come to me as I’m going to him.’”A hoarse sound, like a suppressed sob, escaped from Stratton’s lips, and, by a rapid movement, he caught and wrung Guest’s hand. But the wild look never left his eyes, and at the end of a few seconds he cast the hand away.“Oh, it’s true enough, old lad,” said Guest, smiling. “You know it, too. I want to do it for everybody’s sake.”Stratton made a peculiar movement in the air with his extended hands.“Come, come, don’t take it that way, old fellow,” cried Guest. “Sit down.”Stratton hesitated, and seemed to be trying to resist, but his friend’s calm firm way mastered him.“That’s better; now, then, let’s look matters plainly in the face, as doctor and patient if you like. You’re off the line, Mal. There’s no denying it. Overstrain. Well, it’s bad. Painful for you and everybody.”A low moan escaped from Stratton.“Bah! don’t groan over it, man. The human mind is a wonderful bit of machinery, and it gets out of order if you don’t take care. You haven’t taken enough care, and have broken down. Bad; but we’ve got to mend you and make you stronger than ever.”Stratton shook his head, and his pallor was so ghastly, as he now sank back in his chair and closed his eyes, that Guest was startled, and sprang up and made for the closet where he knew from of old that the spirit-stand was kept.But at the first movement in that direction Stratton leaped to his feet and intercepted him.“Stop!” he cried. “I am not ill. Let me be, Guest. You can do me no good.”“How do you know? I say I can,” cried the young man sharply, “and what’s more, I will. Now, come, lad, be reasonable. You’re out of gear, and you’re going to submit to me.”“I am my own master, as you said, and I will not be spied over or interfered with.”“Spied over” sounded bad—not like the words of a sane man.“Bah! Who wants to spy over you?”“Interfered with, then. Now go and leave me to myself.”“I shall not,” said Guest doggedly.“You will, sir. These are my rooms; your visit is ill timed; please to go, and wait till I ask you to visit me again.”“Hah, that settles it, if there were any doubt before. That’s not my old schoolfellow talking. You are ill—mentally ill, lad—so give in.”“Leave my rooms, sir!”“If I do, it will be to bring others back with me who will insist upon your yielding to proper treatment.”“Hah, you confess then? You think me mad.”“I did not say mad; I told you what I know now to be a fact. Will you give in and let me treat you on sound, common-sense principles, or drive me away to come back with others?”“You would not dare,” said Stratton, in a low, fierce whisper.“But I do dare anything for your sake—there, I’ll speak out!—for Myra’s.”A spasm convulsed Stratton’s face, and he ground his teeth as if in agony.“I can’t help it, lad; I’m being cruel to be kind. Now, then, do you persist in sending me away!”Stratton looked round in a furtive, frightened way, shuddered, and was silent.“Then I am to go and send others who will treat you. I must tell you the truth, lad; they may insist upon your leaving here and taking up your abode somewhere in the country.”Stratton started.“No, no; not at a madhouse. You are not mad. Only suffering from a nervous fit. It would be to stay for a time at some doctor’s, and I think it would be the best thing. It would get you away from the dull, gloomy chambers, where you hardly ever see the sun. They are bad enough to upset anyone. Once more, which is it to be?”Guest had been startled enough before by his friend’s acts and ways; his conduct now indorsed all prior thoughts of his state. For, as he rose and moved toward the door as if to go, Stratton sprang to him and caught his arm.“I give in,” he said huskily. “You are right. A little out of order. Nerves, I suppose. But no doctor. There is no need. I’ll—I’ll do everything you wish.”“Then you’ll come abroad with me?”“No. No, I cannot. I will not.”“Very well, then, I’m not going to see you grow worse before my eyes. I shall do as I said.”“No, no, for Heaven’s sake, don’t be so mad as to do that. Look here, Guest. I am ill, and weak, and low. I confess it, but I shall be better here. It is as you say, overstrain. If you force me to go somewhere else, I shall be ten times worse. I’ll do anything you advise, yield to you in every way, but I must stay here. The institution, you know.”“Leave of absence for a sick man.”“I could not ask for it. Besides, my work will do me good. I should mope and be miserable away.”“Not on the Swiss Alps.”“I tell you I will not go,” said Stratton fiercely.“Very well, I’ll be satisfied with what you have promised. So just draw up that blind and open the window wide.”Stratton hesitated.“At once, man. Your promise. The air of Benchers’ Inn is not particularly good; but it’s better than this mephitic odour of stuffiness and gas. Why, Mal, old lad, I can smell the methylated spirits in which you preserve your specimens quite plainly.”A faint ring of white showed round Stratton’s eyes; but Guest did not notice it, for his back was turned as he made for the window and let in the light and air.“That’s better. Now go to your bedroom, and make yourself look more like the Malcolm Stratton I know. I’ll be off now. I shall be back at a quarter to seven, and then we’ll go out and have a bit of dinner together.”“No, no; I could not go.”“What! I’m coming, I say, at a quarter to seven, and then we’re going out to dine.”“Very well,” said Stratton meekly, and his friend left the chambers.“Only touched a little,” said Guest, as he went across the inn, put his head in at the lodge, and nodded pleasantly to Mrs Brade, for she was engaged with someone else.“Better, Mrs Brade—nothing to mind. He’ll soon be all right,” he continued to himself. “Poor old chap. Only wants a strong will over him. Wish mine were stronger, and I had a little more manly pluck; but he did not see how nervous I was; and, take it altogether, I did not do so badly.”What time Stratton was pacing his room and talking hurriedly to himself.“It is horrible,” he muttered; “too much for a man to bear. Do I look so wild?”He stopped in front of an old Venetian mirror, and scanned his haggard countenance for a few moments before turning away with a shudder, to resume his walk up and down the room.“They could do it,” he said fiercely. “I could not help myself. My conduct would be sufficient plea. A visit from a couple of doctors, and no matter what I said, I might be taken away. Medical supervision,” he said, with a bitter laugh; “imprisonment till such time as they chose to set me free. Well, it would be pleasant to be able to throw all responsibilities upon someone else if one could only cease to think. But that would be too terrible. I must give up everything and trust to Guest.”He looked sharply round the room again, and stood listening, for he fancied that he heard a sound, and, stepping softly to the panel door on the right of the fireplace, he placed his ear to the woodwork, and stood listening for some moments.But he was evidently dissatisfied. He seemed to be trying to make out whether anyone was in Brettison’s room but he was listening at the end of a passage turned into a closet like his own, and he knew that if the door at the other end were closed it was in vain.He came away at last with a quick gesture indicating his discontent, and stood hesitating for a few minutes, when he again started and looked wildly toward the fireplace, for he was convinced that he heard sounds in the next chambers.They ceased, though, directly, and might have come from above; but he once more went back to the panel on the right, listened, and came away dissatisfied still.“I must know,” he said with a heavy sigh; and, taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, he stood selecting one which looked black and rusty, a good-sized key, from among those which had been worn smooth and remained bright.This done, he stood hesitating; and, looking straight before him, he shrank slowly backward till checked by a bookcase standing against the wall, when with an angry gesture that he should have been startled by the sight of his own ghastly face in the old mirror, he walked straight to the door on the left of the fireplace. Again he paused for a few moments, and then, with the sweat standing in great beads upon his brow, and the hair at his temples wet and clinging, he slowly, and without a sound, inserted the key, turned it in the well oiled lock, and drew open the door, which came toward him with a faint creak.He stood there peering into the darkness of the narrow, passage-like place, listening, and then came away to the other side of the room, thrust off his boots, and went to the window, which he closed again, and drew down the blind before going back to the door—entering, and walking to the end, to stand listening at the panel in the darkness for some minutes before he came out again, acting now with decision, as he went to the door of exit from the room, and slipped the bolt.Drawing a deep breath, he now hurried across to a little cabinet, from which he drew a bright steel implement, and then, with his brow rugged and his face looking old and worn, he was hurrying across back to the door of the open closet, when he caught his unshod foot in a thick Eastern rug, stumbled forward, and only saved himself from a heavy fall by throwing himself into an easy-chair.He rose, holding his left wrist as if it were sprained, and then stooped to pick up the steel implement he had dropped on the carpet.The change which came over the man was terrible as he stopped there, fixed of eye, fascinated as it were, and unable to move, glaring at a place on the carpet laid bare by the rug being kicked over. And a minute must have elapsed before he could tear himself away and draw himself up to hold the back of his hand across his eyes, as if to shut out some horrible vision.The sigh he heaved was hoarse and strange as he dropped his hand again, and hurriedly drew the rug back into its former position.That done, his mental strength seemed to return, and seizing the steel tool, he listened for a moment, and then hurried into the dark, passage-like closet.At that moment there was a sharp double knock at the outer door, and, active now as a cat, Stratton sprang into the room, listening to faintly heard, descending steps.Then, opening the inner door, he saw that there was a letter in the box, and satisfied of the cause of the interruption, he closed and bolted the inner door again, and once more crossed to the closet and entered.Then, from out of the darkness, came sound after sound as if someone was busy at work. Now it was the creaking of a hinge; then a faint rap, as of a lid escaping too soon from a person’s hand, and after that, for quite an hour, the rasping and cracking of wood, till Stratton came out bathed with perspiration, and looking more ghastly than ever.This time he stood wiping the great drops from his dripping brow before taking a flask from a shelf, unscrewing the top, and drinking deeply.He listened again, and once more drawing a deep breath he hurried back into the darkness of the closet, where the creaking noise was repeated, and followed twice by a deep, booming sound, after which there was a long-continued muffled gurgling, as of water flowing, and a peculiar odour filled the room.This was repeated; and at last Stratton reeled out of the place panting, staggered to the window, which he opened a little way by passing his hands under the blind, and held his face there to breathe the fresh air before hurrying-back to his writing table. Here he struck a match, lit a taper, and, taking it up, moved toward the closet door like one in a dream, but stopped short, blew out the light, and plunged into the darkness once again.

The staircase was very gloomy and quiet as Guest ascended, and he paused on the landing on finding Stratton’s outer door shut, and after a few moments’ hesitation, turned off to the left, meaning to have a few words with Brettison about their friend’s state.

This door was also shut and he turned back, but feeling that, perhaps, after all, Brettison might be in, he knocked; waited; knocked again, and stood listening.

“Off somewhere again picking flowers,” muttered Guest. “Men begin by picking them as children, and some end their lives gathering the sweet, innocent looking things.”

He, however, gave one more double knock before turning away and going back to Stratton’s door.

Here he knocked gently, but there was no reply. He knocked again, feeling a sensation of nervousness come over him as he thought of the words of the porter’s wife; and, as there was no reply, he could not help a little self-congratulation at there being no admission.

But he frowned at his weakness directly.

“Absurd! Cowardice!” he muttered. “This is nothing like acting the friend.”

He knocked again, and, as there was still silence, he lifted the cover of the letter slit and placed his lips to the place.

“Here, Malcolm, old fellow, open this door,” he cried. “I’m sure you are there.”

A faint rustling sound within told him he was right, and directly after the door was opened.

“You, Percy!” said the hollow-faced, haggard man, staring at him, and giving way unwillingly as, forcing himself to act, Guest stepped forward and entered the room.

He repented the moment he was inside, for the room looked strange and gloomy through the window blind being drawn down, and there was a singularly wild, strained look in Stratton’s eyes, which never left him for a moment, suggestive of the truth of Mrs Brade’s words.

Stratton had hurriedly closed the outer door upon his friend’s entrance, but he had left the inner undone; and now stood holding it open as if for his visitor to go.

Guest felt ready to obey, but he again mastered his weakness and took a chair, knowing that if he was to perform a manly act and save his friend, he must be calm and firm. But in spite of himself, as he took his seat he gave a hasty glance round the room, thinking of its loneliness, and the extreme improbability of anyone hearing a cry for help.

“Why have you come back so soon?” said Stratton at last.

“The old reason. Sort of stupid, spaniel-like feeling for the man who kicks me.”

Stratton made a hasty gesture.

“Didn’t like to stop away long after your being so upset last night.”

Stratton shuddered, and his friend watched him curiously again.

“I’m much better now.”

“Glad of it, but your nerves are terribly unstrung; or you wouldn’t be ready to jump out of your skin at the sound of a rat.”

Stratton shuddered.

“I know you couldn’t help it.”

“No, but it’s going off now fast, and if I could be alone I should soon be right.”

“Doubt it. No good; you must put up with me for a bit.”

He tried to look laughingly in his companion’s eyes, but there was a strong feeling of dread at his heart as he felt that wild thoughts evidently existed in his friend’s brain, and that there was some terrible mischief hatching there.

“Look here, Mal,” he said, mastering his own shrinking by remembrance of how the strong-witted man could often master the brain unhinged; “my impression is that you want change. Suppose you and I take a run. What do you say to Switzerland, and start to-day?”

Stratton shuddered, and a curious, sneering smile dawned on his face.

“Why don’t you ask me to explain my conduct again?” he said fiercely.

“Because I have no right to. You are your own master, and are answerable to yourself.”

“I’ll tell you,” continued Stratton, without heeding his visitor’s words, “it is because you think I am mad.”

“Do I? Absurd!”

“Yes. That is why you are here.”

“I am not going to contradict you; but I will tell you why I am here. My old friend and companion suddenly turned queer, attacked with some illness, and I said to myself, ‘If I were to be bad like that I hope poor old Mal would come to me as I’m going to him.’”

A hoarse sound, like a suppressed sob, escaped from Stratton’s lips, and, by a rapid movement, he caught and wrung Guest’s hand. But the wild look never left his eyes, and at the end of a few seconds he cast the hand away.

“Oh, it’s true enough, old lad,” said Guest, smiling. “You know it, too. I want to do it for everybody’s sake.”

Stratton made a peculiar movement in the air with his extended hands.

“Come, come, don’t take it that way, old fellow,” cried Guest. “Sit down.”

Stratton hesitated, and seemed to be trying to resist, but his friend’s calm firm way mastered him.

“That’s better; now, then, let’s look matters plainly in the face, as doctor and patient if you like. You’re off the line, Mal. There’s no denying it. Overstrain. Well, it’s bad. Painful for you and everybody.”

A low moan escaped from Stratton.

“Bah! don’t groan over it, man. The human mind is a wonderful bit of machinery, and it gets out of order if you don’t take care. You haven’t taken enough care, and have broken down. Bad; but we’ve got to mend you and make you stronger than ever.”

Stratton shook his head, and his pallor was so ghastly, as he now sank back in his chair and closed his eyes, that Guest was startled, and sprang up and made for the closet where he knew from of old that the spirit-stand was kept.

But at the first movement in that direction Stratton leaped to his feet and intercepted him.

“Stop!” he cried. “I am not ill. Let me be, Guest. You can do me no good.”

“How do you know? I say I can,” cried the young man sharply, “and what’s more, I will. Now, come, lad, be reasonable. You’re out of gear, and you’re going to submit to me.”

“I am my own master, as you said, and I will not be spied over or interfered with.”

“Spied over” sounded bad—not like the words of a sane man.

“Bah! Who wants to spy over you?”

“Interfered with, then. Now go and leave me to myself.”

“I shall not,” said Guest doggedly.

“You will, sir. These are my rooms; your visit is ill timed; please to go, and wait till I ask you to visit me again.”

“Hah, that settles it, if there were any doubt before. That’s not my old schoolfellow talking. You are ill—mentally ill, lad—so give in.”

“Leave my rooms, sir!”

“If I do, it will be to bring others back with me who will insist upon your yielding to proper treatment.”

“Hah, you confess then? You think me mad.”

“I did not say mad; I told you what I know now to be a fact. Will you give in and let me treat you on sound, common-sense principles, or drive me away to come back with others?”

“You would not dare,” said Stratton, in a low, fierce whisper.

“But I do dare anything for your sake—there, I’ll speak out!—for Myra’s.”

A spasm convulsed Stratton’s face, and he ground his teeth as if in agony.

“I can’t help it, lad; I’m being cruel to be kind. Now, then, do you persist in sending me away!”

Stratton looked round in a furtive, frightened way, shuddered, and was silent.

“Then I am to go and send others who will treat you. I must tell you the truth, lad; they may insist upon your leaving here and taking up your abode somewhere in the country.”

Stratton started.

“No, no; not at a madhouse. You are not mad. Only suffering from a nervous fit. It would be to stay for a time at some doctor’s, and I think it would be the best thing. It would get you away from the dull, gloomy chambers, where you hardly ever see the sun. They are bad enough to upset anyone. Once more, which is it to be?”

Guest had been startled enough before by his friend’s acts and ways; his conduct now indorsed all prior thoughts of his state. For, as he rose and moved toward the door as if to go, Stratton sprang to him and caught his arm.

“I give in,” he said huskily. “You are right. A little out of order. Nerves, I suppose. But no doctor. There is no need. I’ll—I’ll do everything you wish.”

“Then you’ll come abroad with me?”

“No. No, I cannot. I will not.”

“Very well, then, I’m not going to see you grow worse before my eyes. I shall do as I said.”

“No, no, for Heaven’s sake, don’t be so mad as to do that. Look here, Guest. I am ill, and weak, and low. I confess it, but I shall be better here. It is as you say, overstrain. If you force me to go somewhere else, I shall be ten times worse. I’ll do anything you advise, yield to you in every way, but I must stay here. The institution, you know.”

“Leave of absence for a sick man.”

“I could not ask for it. Besides, my work will do me good. I should mope and be miserable away.”

“Not on the Swiss Alps.”

“I tell you I will not go,” said Stratton fiercely.

“Very well, I’ll be satisfied with what you have promised. So just draw up that blind and open the window wide.”

Stratton hesitated.

“At once, man. Your promise. The air of Benchers’ Inn is not particularly good; but it’s better than this mephitic odour of stuffiness and gas. Why, Mal, old lad, I can smell the methylated spirits in which you preserve your specimens quite plainly.”

A faint ring of white showed round Stratton’s eyes; but Guest did not notice it, for his back was turned as he made for the window and let in the light and air.

“That’s better. Now go to your bedroom, and make yourself look more like the Malcolm Stratton I know. I’ll be off now. I shall be back at a quarter to seven, and then we’ll go out and have a bit of dinner together.”

“No, no; I could not go.”

“What! I’m coming, I say, at a quarter to seven, and then we’re going out to dine.”

“Very well,” said Stratton meekly, and his friend left the chambers.

“Only touched a little,” said Guest, as he went across the inn, put his head in at the lodge, and nodded pleasantly to Mrs Brade, for she was engaged with someone else.

“Better, Mrs Brade—nothing to mind. He’ll soon be all right,” he continued to himself. “Poor old chap. Only wants a strong will over him. Wish mine were stronger, and I had a little more manly pluck; but he did not see how nervous I was; and, take it altogether, I did not do so badly.”

What time Stratton was pacing his room and talking hurriedly to himself.

“It is horrible,” he muttered; “too much for a man to bear. Do I look so wild?”

He stopped in front of an old Venetian mirror, and scanned his haggard countenance for a few moments before turning away with a shudder, to resume his walk up and down the room.

“They could do it,” he said fiercely. “I could not help myself. My conduct would be sufficient plea. A visit from a couple of doctors, and no matter what I said, I might be taken away. Medical supervision,” he said, with a bitter laugh; “imprisonment till such time as they chose to set me free. Well, it would be pleasant to be able to throw all responsibilities upon someone else if one could only cease to think. But that would be too terrible. I must give up everything and trust to Guest.”

He looked sharply round the room again, and stood listening, for he fancied that he heard a sound, and, stepping softly to the panel door on the right of the fireplace, he placed his ear to the woodwork, and stood listening for some moments.

But he was evidently dissatisfied. He seemed to be trying to make out whether anyone was in Brettison’s room but he was listening at the end of a passage turned into a closet like his own, and he knew that if the door at the other end were closed it was in vain.

He came away at last with a quick gesture indicating his discontent, and stood hesitating for a few minutes, when he again started and looked wildly toward the fireplace, for he was convinced that he heard sounds in the next chambers.

They ceased, though, directly, and might have come from above; but he once more went back to the panel on the right, listened, and came away dissatisfied still.

“I must know,” he said with a heavy sigh; and, taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, he stood selecting one which looked black and rusty, a good-sized key, from among those which had been worn smooth and remained bright.

This done, he stood hesitating; and, looking straight before him, he shrank slowly backward till checked by a bookcase standing against the wall, when with an angry gesture that he should have been startled by the sight of his own ghastly face in the old mirror, he walked straight to the door on the left of the fireplace. Again he paused for a few moments, and then, with the sweat standing in great beads upon his brow, and the hair at his temples wet and clinging, he slowly, and without a sound, inserted the key, turned it in the well oiled lock, and drew open the door, which came toward him with a faint creak.

He stood there peering into the darkness of the narrow, passage-like place, listening, and then came away to the other side of the room, thrust off his boots, and went to the window, which he closed again, and drew down the blind before going back to the door—entering, and walking to the end, to stand listening at the panel in the darkness for some minutes before he came out again, acting now with decision, as he went to the door of exit from the room, and slipped the bolt.

Drawing a deep breath, he now hurried across to a little cabinet, from which he drew a bright steel implement, and then, with his brow rugged and his face looking old and worn, he was hurrying across back to the door of the open closet, when he caught his unshod foot in a thick Eastern rug, stumbled forward, and only saved himself from a heavy fall by throwing himself into an easy-chair.

He rose, holding his left wrist as if it were sprained, and then stooped to pick up the steel implement he had dropped on the carpet.

The change which came over the man was terrible as he stopped there, fixed of eye, fascinated as it were, and unable to move, glaring at a place on the carpet laid bare by the rug being kicked over. And a minute must have elapsed before he could tear himself away and draw himself up to hold the back of his hand across his eyes, as if to shut out some horrible vision.

The sigh he heaved was hoarse and strange as he dropped his hand again, and hurriedly drew the rug back into its former position.

That done, his mental strength seemed to return, and seizing the steel tool, he listened for a moment, and then hurried into the dark, passage-like closet.

At that moment there was a sharp double knock at the outer door, and, active now as a cat, Stratton sprang into the room, listening to faintly heard, descending steps.

Then, opening the inner door, he saw that there was a letter in the box, and satisfied of the cause of the interruption, he closed and bolted the inner door again, and once more crossed to the closet and entered.

Then, from out of the darkness, came sound after sound as if someone was busy at work. Now it was the creaking of a hinge; then a faint rap, as of a lid escaping too soon from a person’s hand, and after that, for quite an hour, the rasping and cracking of wood, till Stratton came out bathed with perspiration, and looking more ghastly than ever.

This time he stood wiping the great drops from his dripping brow before taking a flask from a shelf, unscrewing the top, and drinking deeply.

He listened again, and once more drawing a deep breath he hurried back into the darkness of the closet, where the creaking noise was repeated, and followed twice by a deep, booming sound, after which there was a long-continued muffled gurgling, as of water flowing, and a peculiar odour filled the room.

This was repeated; and at last Stratton reeled out of the place panting, staggered to the window, which he opened a little way by passing his hands under the blind, and held his face there to breathe the fresh air before hurrying-back to his writing table. Here he struck a match, lit a taper, and, taking it up, moved toward the closet door like one in a dream, but stopped short, blew out the light, and plunged into the darkness once again.

Chapter Twenty Seven.Guest speaks out.“Why not a run to Saint Malo and a couple of months’ yachting?”Sir Mark proposed as a cure foreign travel, but Myra refused to go. Edie tried vainly to inveigle her into some distraction, and Guest spent a little fortune in concert and opera tickets in trying to persuade her to accompany them, but they were generally wasted.Miss Jerrold tried hard, too, and was more successful, coaxing her niece to come and stay at her house, or to spend quiet afternoons with her, no one else being admitted. And all the time it was understood that the unfortunate engagement was a subject tabooed; but one day, when Myra was with her alone, Guest having been there by accident when the cousins came—that is to say, by one of his accidents, and at a suggestion from Miss Jerrold that a walk would do Edie good, as her face looked “very pasty,” having taken Edie for the said walk—Miss Jerrold seeing the wistful eyes, sunken cheeks, and utter prostration of her niece’s face, bethought her of a plan to try and revive interest in things mundane, at a time when the girl seemed to be slowly dropping out of life.“We’ve petted and cosseted her too much,” said Aunt Jerrold to herself. “I’ll try that.”She triedthat, and attacked her niece in a very blunt, rough way, keenly watching the effect of her words the while.“I do wonder at a girl of your spirit wearing your heart out for the sake of a scoundrel. That’s done it!” she added to herself, for a complete change came over Myra’s aspect.“Aunt!” she cried indignantly.“I can’t help it, my dear,” said the old lady sharply. “I’ve kept it back too long, and it’s only just that I should tell you how reprehensible your conduct is. Here is a wretched man who professes to love you—”“Malcolm Stratton did love me, aunt,” said Myra proudly, as stung beyond endurance she gave utterance to the thoughts she had kept hidden so long.“Looks like it!” continued Aunt Jerrold. “Bah! the horsepond is too good for such as he!”Myra turned upon her fiercely.“Aunt,” she cried, “it is not true!”“But it is true, my dear, or the wretch would have said a few words in his defence.”“I cannot stay here and listen to you, aunt,” cried Myra, rising with dignity. “It is cruel of you to speak of Mr Stratton like this.”“Oh, of course. Silly girl! The worse a man is, the more weak, infatuated woman defends him.”“I defend him, aunt, because I am sure there must be some good reasons for Mr Stratton’s conduct. He was not the man who could have acted so. His whole career gives your charges the lie.”At that moment Edie and Guest returned, the former joyous and bright, but forcing a serious look as soon as she saw her cousin’s agitated face.“I am waiting for you, Edie,” said Myra coldly; and, turning to her aunt, she bent her head slightly. “Good-afternoon, Mr Guest,” she said, and she left the drawing room.“Aunt, dear, what is the matter?” whispered Edie.“We’ve been quarrelling, my dear; thank goodness!” said Miss Jerrold dryly. “There, good-bye. Run after her, little woman. Kiss me; I haven’t quarrelled with you.”She embraced the girl affectionately; and as Guest followed to the door, and held out his hand, Miss Jerrold whispered:“Come up again when you’ve seen them to the carriage.”In five minutes Guest was back looking at his hostess wonderingly, for the old lady was standing in the middle of the room with her face full of wrinkles, and her arms folded across her chest. She did not seem to see him, and he made a slight movement to attract her attention, when she waved her hand toward a chair.“Sit down, boy,” she said, without looking in his direction; “I’m thinking. I’ll attend to you directly.”He obeyed, more puzzled than ever; and at last she took a chair by the back, dragged it across the carpet in a masculine way, and thumped it down in front of him.“It’s not a pleasant subject for a lady—an unmarried lady—to talk about, Percy Guest,” she said; “but I’m getting such an old woman now that I think it’s time I might speak plainly.”“What about?” said Guest, wondering of what breach of good manners he had been guilty.“What about, you silly boy? Here’s poor Myra eating her heart out, Edie miserable, my brother a perfect bear, I’m worried to death, and you say, what about! Malcolm Stratton, to be sure.”“Oh!” cried Guest, very much relieved.“Well, I do not see anything to look pleased about, sir.”“No, of course not; only I thought I had been doing something.”“You have been doing nothing, it seems to me,” said Miss Jerrold sharply.“Really, I have done my best.”“But I thought barristers were such clever people!”“Oh, dear no,” said Guest seriously. “Very stupid folk as a rule. Sort of gun a barrister is. The solicitor is the clever man, and he has to load the barrister before he goes off.”“Then for goodness’ sake get some solicitor to load you, and then go off and shoot something.”“I wish you would load me, Miss Jerrold.”“Well, look here, my dear boy. We seem to have settled down to a belief that Malcolm Stratton has been a great scamp, and that he drew back on his wedding morning in consequence of the interference of some lady who had a hold upon him.”“Yes, that is what we thought,” said Guest sadly.“And then tried to commit suicide out of misery and shame?”“Yes, I have been able to get no further, poor fellow. He is utterly dumb, as soon as I try to get anything from him.”“What does that friend of his—that Mr Brettison say?”“Mr Brettison? I have not seen him.”“Why not? He has known Mr Stratton many years. You should have consulted him, and tried to find out from him what might have happened in days gone by.”“I did think of that.”“And did not act?”“I have had no chance. Mr Brettison is out of town. I have not seen him since the wed—”“Ah!” cried Miss Jerrold warningly.“Since that unhappy day.”“On that day?”“No. It was a day or two before, but I think I heard Stratton say Mr Brettison came to see him that day, and that he was going out of town.”“Humph! That’s strange!”“Why?” said Guest.“He was very fond of Malcolm Stratton, wasn’t he—I mean, isn’t he?”“Yes, of course.”“Why should he go out, on Stratton’s wedding day, instead of stopping to congratulate him?”“I don’t know. It was odd, but Mr Brettison is eccentric.”“It’s more than odd, Percy Guest,” said Miss Jerrold, looking very keen and intent; “the clue lies that way. Mr Brettison must have known something and quarrelled with Malcolm Stratton, it seems to me.”“You think so?”“Yes; his conduct suggests it. Out of town? Hasn’t he been to his chambers since?”“I think not.”“There’s your clue then. I’ve loaded you. Go off.”“And find Mr Brettison?”“Of course. Then try and get from him the information we want.”“Do we want that information, Miss Jerrold?”“Of course we do, sir. Malcolm Stratton’s actions may be purged from their grossness, and happiness come after all.”“Heaven grant it may!” cried Guest.“There, then, you have something sensible to do; better than always calling here in your speculative way. Go to work at once, and come and communicate with me.”Guest went off at once, and had himself driven to Benchers’ Inn, where he ascended to Stratton’s door, but turned off to Brettison’s, where all was dark and silent.He knocked, but there was no answer; and, after repeating the knock several times, he went to Stratton’s door, where he had no better success. Going down, he crossed to the tunnel-like archway, where he found Mrs Brade, and learned that Mr Brettison had not yet returned from the country.“Mr Stratton does not seem to be at home either.”“No, sir. He goes out a deal now, and is very seldom at home. Many people come to ask for him, and I give them his message—that they are to write.”“Well, that’s reasonable enough if they have not made appointments, Mrs Brade, so pray don’t shake your head like that.”“Certainly not, sir, if you don’t wish it, but I can’t help thinking he’d be better not left alone.”“Why?” said Guest impetuously, Mrs Brade tapped her forehead, and Guest frowned angrily.“Nonsense, my good woman,” he cried; “don’t exaggerate, and pray don’t jump at conclusions. Mr Stratton is no more mad than you are.”“That ain’t saying much, mister,” cried the porter from the next room, where he was making up for late hours consequent upon sitting up for occupants of the inn. “My missus is as mad as a hatter.”Mrs Brade darted to the door and closed it with a heavy bang, following it up by snatching, more than drawing the curtain over the opening—a curtain originally placed there to keep off draughts, but so used by Mrs Brade as to give the onlooker the idea that her husband was a personage kept on exhibition, and not shown save as a favour and for money paid.“I don’t know what I could be thinking of to marry such a man, sir,” she said indignantly. “Mad, indeed! Not mad enough to take more than’s good for me, and pretty often, too.”“A lesson for you, Mrs Brade,” said Guest sternly, “You cannot make a more painful or dangerous assertion about a person than to say that a person or personage is mad.”

“Why not a run to Saint Malo and a couple of months’ yachting?”

Sir Mark proposed as a cure foreign travel, but Myra refused to go. Edie tried vainly to inveigle her into some distraction, and Guest spent a little fortune in concert and opera tickets in trying to persuade her to accompany them, but they were generally wasted.

Miss Jerrold tried hard, too, and was more successful, coaxing her niece to come and stay at her house, or to spend quiet afternoons with her, no one else being admitted. And all the time it was understood that the unfortunate engagement was a subject tabooed; but one day, when Myra was with her alone, Guest having been there by accident when the cousins came—that is to say, by one of his accidents, and at a suggestion from Miss Jerrold that a walk would do Edie good, as her face looked “very pasty,” having taken Edie for the said walk—Miss Jerrold seeing the wistful eyes, sunken cheeks, and utter prostration of her niece’s face, bethought her of a plan to try and revive interest in things mundane, at a time when the girl seemed to be slowly dropping out of life.

“We’ve petted and cosseted her too much,” said Aunt Jerrold to herself. “I’ll try that.”

She triedthat, and attacked her niece in a very blunt, rough way, keenly watching the effect of her words the while.

“I do wonder at a girl of your spirit wearing your heart out for the sake of a scoundrel. That’s done it!” she added to herself, for a complete change came over Myra’s aspect.

“Aunt!” she cried indignantly.

“I can’t help it, my dear,” said the old lady sharply. “I’ve kept it back too long, and it’s only just that I should tell you how reprehensible your conduct is. Here is a wretched man who professes to love you—”

“Malcolm Stratton did love me, aunt,” said Myra proudly, as stung beyond endurance she gave utterance to the thoughts she had kept hidden so long.

“Looks like it!” continued Aunt Jerrold. “Bah! the horsepond is too good for such as he!”

Myra turned upon her fiercely.

“Aunt,” she cried, “it is not true!”

“But it is true, my dear, or the wretch would have said a few words in his defence.”

“I cannot stay here and listen to you, aunt,” cried Myra, rising with dignity. “It is cruel of you to speak of Mr Stratton like this.”

“Oh, of course. Silly girl! The worse a man is, the more weak, infatuated woman defends him.”

“I defend him, aunt, because I am sure there must be some good reasons for Mr Stratton’s conduct. He was not the man who could have acted so. His whole career gives your charges the lie.”

At that moment Edie and Guest returned, the former joyous and bright, but forcing a serious look as soon as she saw her cousin’s agitated face.

“I am waiting for you, Edie,” said Myra coldly; and, turning to her aunt, she bent her head slightly. “Good-afternoon, Mr Guest,” she said, and she left the drawing room.

“Aunt, dear, what is the matter?” whispered Edie.

“We’ve been quarrelling, my dear; thank goodness!” said Miss Jerrold dryly. “There, good-bye. Run after her, little woman. Kiss me; I haven’t quarrelled with you.”

She embraced the girl affectionately; and as Guest followed to the door, and held out his hand, Miss Jerrold whispered:

“Come up again when you’ve seen them to the carriage.”

In five minutes Guest was back looking at his hostess wonderingly, for the old lady was standing in the middle of the room with her face full of wrinkles, and her arms folded across her chest. She did not seem to see him, and he made a slight movement to attract her attention, when she waved her hand toward a chair.

“Sit down, boy,” she said, without looking in his direction; “I’m thinking. I’ll attend to you directly.”

He obeyed, more puzzled than ever; and at last she took a chair by the back, dragged it across the carpet in a masculine way, and thumped it down in front of him.

“It’s not a pleasant subject for a lady—an unmarried lady—to talk about, Percy Guest,” she said; “but I’m getting such an old woman now that I think it’s time I might speak plainly.”

“What about?” said Guest, wondering of what breach of good manners he had been guilty.

“What about, you silly boy? Here’s poor Myra eating her heart out, Edie miserable, my brother a perfect bear, I’m worried to death, and you say, what about! Malcolm Stratton, to be sure.”

“Oh!” cried Guest, very much relieved.

“Well, I do not see anything to look pleased about, sir.”

“No, of course not; only I thought I had been doing something.”

“You have been doing nothing, it seems to me,” said Miss Jerrold sharply.

“Really, I have done my best.”

“But I thought barristers were such clever people!”

“Oh, dear no,” said Guest seriously. “Very stupid folk as a rule. Sort of gun a barrister is. The solicitor is the clever man, and he has to load the barrister before he goes off.”

“Then for goodness’ sake get some solicitor to load you, and then go off and shoot something.”

“I wish you would load me, Miss Jerrold.”

“Well, look here, my dear boy. We seem to have settled down to a belief that Malcolm Stratton has been a great scamp, and that he drew back on his wedding morning in consequence of the interference of some lady who had a hold upon him.”

“Yes, that is what we thought,” said Guest sadly.

“And then tried to commit suicide out of misery and shame?”

“Yes, I have been able to get no further, poor fellow. He is utterly dumb, as soon as I try to get anything from him.”

“What does that friend of his—that Mr Brettison say?”

“Mr Brettison? I have not seen him.”

“Why not? He has known Mr Stratton many years. You should have consulted him, and tried to find out from him what might have happened in days gone by.”

“I did think of that.”

“And did not act?”

“I have had no chance. Mr Brettison is out of town. I have not seen him since the wed—”

“Ah!” cried Miss Jerrold warningly.

“Since that unhappy day.”

“On that day?”

“No. It was a day or two before, but I think I heard Stratton say Mr Brettison came to see him that day, and that he was going out of town.”

“Humph! That’s strange!”

“Why?” said Guest.

“He was very fond of Malcolm Stratton, wasn’t he—I mean, isn’t he?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Why should he go out, on Stratton’s wedding day, instead of stopping to congratulate him?”

“I don’t know. It was odd, but Mr Brettison is eccentric.”

“It’s more than odd, Percy Guest,” said Miss Jerrold, looking very keen and intent; “the clue lies that way. Mr Brettison must have known something and quarrelled with Malcolm Stratton, it seems to me.”

“You think so?”

“Yes; his conduct suggests it. Out of town? Hasn’t he been to his chambers since?”

“I think not.”

“There’s your clue then. I’ve loaded you. Go off.”

“And find Mr Brettison?”

“Of course. Then try and get from him the information we want.”

“Do we want that information, Miss Jerrold?”

“Of course we do, sir. Malcolm Stratton’s actions may be purged from their grossness, and happiness come after all.”

“Heaven grant it may!” cried Guest.

“There, then, you have something sensible to do; better than always calling here in your speculative way. Go to work at once, and come and communicate with me.”

Guest went off at once, and had himself driven to Benchers’ Inn, where he ascended to Stratton’s door, but turned off to Brettison’s, where all was dark and silent.

He knocked, but there was no answer; and, after repeating the knock several times, he went to Stratton’s door, where he had no better success. Going down, he crossed to the tunnel-like archway, where he found Mrs Brade, and learned that Mr Brettison had not yet returned from the country.

“Mr Stratton does not seem to be at home either.”

“No, sir. He goes out a deal now, and is very seldom at home. Many people come to ask for him, and I give them his message—that they are to write.”

“Well, that’s reasonable enough if they have not made appointments, Mrs Brade, so pray don’t shake your head like that.”

“Certainly not, sir, if you don’t wish it, but I can’t help thinking he’d be better not left alone.”

“Why?” said Guest impetuously, Mrs Brade tapped her forehead, and Guest frowned angrily.

“Nonsense, my good woman,” he cried; “don’t exaggerate, and pray don’t jump at conclusions. Mr Stratton is no more mad than you are.”

“That ain’t saying much, mister,” cried the porter from the next room, where he was making up for late hours consequent upon sitting up for occupants of the inn. “My missus is as mad as a hatter.”

Mrs Brade darted to the door and closed it with a heavy bang, following it up by snatching, more than drawing the curtain over the opening—a curtain originally placed there to keep off draughts, but so used by Mrs Brade as to give the onlooker the idea that her husband was a personage kept on exhibition, and not shown save as a favour and for money paid.

“I don’t know what I could be thinking of to marry such a man, sir,” she said indignantly. “Mad, indeed! Not mad enough to take more than’s good for me, and pretty often, too.”

“A lesson for you, Mrs Brade,” said Guest sternly, “You cannot make a more painful or dangerous assertion about a person than to say that a person or personage is mad.”

Chapter Twenty Eight.Walking in the Dark.Disappointed in his visit to the inn, Guest went back to his own chambers, where his first act on reaching his room, with its lookout over the old rookery, was to take out his pocketbook, and carefully examine a photograph—a proof intrusted to his care that day—and which he instantly pressed to his lips several times before restoring it to its envelope, and returning it to his breast.His next proceeding was to light his pipe, lie back, and think over Miss Jerrold’s words; and the more he thought over them the more they seemed to fit with the situation.One thought begat another till he grew startled at the growth emanating from Miss Jerrold’s suggestion.Stratton had always been greatly attached to him, he knew, but he did not always confide in him; he had a way of being extremely reticent, especially over money matters, and he recalled a little upset they had once had about a time when Stratton was hard pressed to get his rent ready and had raised the money in what he (Guest) had dubbed a disreputable way—that is to say, he had borrowed from “a relative” instead of from his friend.“The old lady’s right,” mused Guest, after a long period of thinking, during which his ideas seemed to ripen. “Mr Brettison must know, and depend upon it, he, being such a particular, high-souled man, was angry with Stratton, and would not come to the wedding. Of course; I remember now, Stratton did say that morning that Brettison was off, out collecting. Now, how to find out where he has gone.”No idea came, for Brettison was one of the most erratic and enthusiastic of beings. Being very wealthy, and living in the simplest way, money was no object; and he would go off anywhere, and at any cost, to obtain a few simple and rare plants for his herbarium. As Guest mused over the matter, he recollected that Stratton said something about the south; but whether it was south of England, France, or Italy, he could not remember.“Might be the South Pole,” he muttered pettishly. “Fancy that old chap having nothing better to do with his money than spend it over weeds!”“Now, if I had half,” he said, after refilling his pipe, “I could go to the old admiral and say—Oh, what a fool I am!”But somehow that idea about Brettison and his money seemed to pervade his brain for the next few days, and to be mixed up with Stratton and his troubles. He recollected the money lying in crisp banknotes upon the table, and recalled that it was a heavy sum. That was an entirely fresh view to take; could Stratton have borrowed that money from Brettison? Likely enough, and that might have caused the estrangement. People did not like lending money. They would offer to do so, but when the demand was made they were a little bitter.“‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be,’” muttered Guest, quoting from his favourite author, and then adding, “if you can help it.”“Bah! That upsets the idea of the lady in the case,” he muttered impatiently. “What a fool I am! As if it was likely that poor old Mal would try to make his quietus with a bare bodkin—modernised into a six-shooter—because old Brettison was huffed at his borrowing money. I must pump it out of the poor fellow somehow.”That evening he went to Stratton’s chambers, but could get no reply; and he waited about on the stairs till, growing uneasy and suspicious once more, he knocked again, and listened at the letter slit.Just then he heard steps, and the occupant of the upstairs chambers ascended to the landing.“How do?” he said. “Mr Stratton’s out. I met him on the Embankment not half an hour ago.”That swept away the black, mental cobwebs once more for a time about Guest’s brain, and he went away relieved—but not before writing his intention of dropping in about ten that night, and thrusting his card in at the slit—to dine at his club, after which he went into the library to read up some old legal cases, and think about Edie.He was punctual to the time appointed in Benchers’ Inn, but there was no light in Stratton’s window, none in Brettison’s, and he waited till eleven in the expectation of seeing his friend come back.At the above hour he became convinced that Stratton had returned early and gone to bed, so he went to his own chambers vexed and irritated, after dropping another card into the letter-box, making an appointment for the next evening at seven.“Take him out for a bit of dinner. He seems to be very busy just now, or else he is behaving very sensibly and taking exercise to get back his strength.”Guest went to Benchers’ Inn the next evening at seven, but the outer door was closed, and after waiting for some time he went off to his club and wrote a letter begging Stratton to make an appointment to see him.Next day glided by and there was no reply. The chambers were still closed, and the Brades had not seen their occupant; neither had Mr Brettison come back.Guest made light of the matter, and then went and called on the admiral, who promptly begged him to stay to dinner, but the young man refused, glanced at Edie, and stayed.This delayed the visit which he had intended to pay Miss Jerrold, but he went to her on the following day to report his ill success, and then to the great institution where his friend ruled over the natural history specimens.To his surprise Stratton was not there, one of the officials informing him that his chief had taken a month’s vacation to recover his health.“He seemed so broken down, sir, by study, that the committee suggested it.”“And never said a word to me,” thought Guest. “Well, the man who says poor old Mal is mad is a fool, but he certainly does act very queerly. Never mind. He’ll come all right in time.”More days glided by, and Guest became alarmed, for he could get no tidings of Stratton. The chambers were always closed, and no notice was taken of the letters; so he went to Bourne Square on business—he made a point of going there on business whenever he could—and was shown into the drawing room, where Myra greeted him very kindly, though he noted a peculiar, anxious, inquiring look in her eyes two or three times before she rose and left the room.“Now, Mr Guest,” said Edie as soon as they were alone, “you have something to communicate?”“Something I want to say, but don’t be quite so businesslike.”“I must,” she said sharply. “Now tell me: something from—about Mr Stratton.”He told her of his ill success, and she frowned.“We don’t want his name mentioned here, and we take not the slightest interest in him; but as you are interested, and as news, of course you can tell me anything. But isn’t his conduct very strange?”“More than strange.”“And you can’t find Mr Brettison either?”“No; but I’m not surprised at that. He’s collecting chickweed and ‘grundsel,’ as Mrs Brade calls it, somewhere. But I shall be glad when he comes back.”Edie sat thoughtfully for a few minutes.“You see, directly you cannot get to see him because his doors are shut you begin to think something is wrong.”“Naturally.”“And that’s absurd, Percy—Mr Guest.”“No; no; don’t take it back again like that,” he pleaded.“Mr Guest,” she said emphatically. “Now look here: he must come to his chambers sometimes, because he would want his letters.”“Possibly,” said the visitor coldly, for that formal “Mr Guest” annoyed him.“And he communicates with the people at the institution.”“Yes, but he has given them no fresh address.”“Then naturally they write to his chambers, and Mal—this man gets his letters from time to time. There’s nothing shocking the matter. He is avoiding you, and wants to break off the intimacy.”“Then he is not going to,” said Guest with spirit. “I’m afraid he has done something wrong some time.”“Indeed?” said Edie, with her eyes twinkling.“I mean, men do.”“Oh!”“I have, lots of times.”Edie grew a little more stately—a hard task, for she was toopetiteto look dignified.“I don’t mean anything bad,” said Guest hastily; “and if old Mal thinks he is going to get rid of me he’s mistaken. I’m not a woman, to throw a fellow over because he’s had some trouble in the past. I forgive him whatever it is.”“I suppose wicked people find it easy to forgive other sinners?” said Edie demurely.“Of course. Poor old lad!” said Guest thoughtfully; “I wonder what he did do.”“I’d rather not discuss such matters, if you please, Mr Guest,” said Edie coldly.“Oh, very well, Miss Perrin. I thought I could come to you for help and counsel as a very dear friend, if as nothing else, and, now I want your help, you back out.”“No, I don’t—Percy.”“Ah!”Only that interjection, but it meant so much in words—and acts, one of which resulted in the fair young girl pointing to the chair from which Guest had risen, and saying, with a little flush in her cheeks:“Suppose somebody had come into the room. Sit down, please, Mr Guest.”He obeyed.“Now come; help me,” he said. “We must forgive poor old Malcolm, whatever it is; and one of these days perhaps, someone else will.”“No, never: that is impossible.”“But what can he have done?”“I don’t know, unless he has been married before, and killed his wife so as to get married again.”Guest looked at her in horror, and she turned scarlet.“I—I beg your pardon,” she stammered. “I did not mean that.”“No,” said Guest dryly. “I should think not.”Farther conversation was stayed by the entrance of Myra, looking rapt and strange, as if in a dream. She did not seem to notice them, but walked across to the window, and, as she went, Guest was shocked by the alteration in her aspect. It was as if she had lately risen from a bed of sickness, while that which struck him most was the weary, piteous aspect of her eyes.As she turned them upon him at last it was in a questioning way, which he interpreted to mean, “I am dying for news of him, but it is impossible for me to ask;” and a curious feeling of resentment rose within him against Stratton, for he felt that he had literally wrecked, the life of as true a woman as ever breathed.A faint smile dawned upon her lips, and she glanced from him to Edie and back—a look which made the crimson on Edie’s cheeks grow deeper, as the girl said quickly:“Mr Guest came to tell me how hard he is trying to get some news, and what he has done.”“News!” cried Myra excitedly, and her hands were raised toward their visitor, but she let them drop to her sides as her brows contracted.“He has been telling me that he has—”“Where is papa—has he come back?” said Myra, coldly ignoring her cousin’s proffered information, and a few minutes later Guest shook hands and went away.“Her pride keeps her silent,” he said thoughtfully. “No wonder, but she’d give the world to hear the least bit of news. Poor girl! She’d forgive him almost anything. I must, and will, find it all out before I’ve done.”But the days grew into weeks, and Guest’s visits to Bourne Square were always barren of news, save that he was able to announce that Stratton certainly did go to his chambers now and then. This he found out from the porter’s wife, who bitterly bewailed the state into which they were falling.“You may shake your head at me, Mr Guest,” she said, “and it’s our secret, for not a word shall ever leave my lips, but let me ask you, is it in the behaviour of a gentleman as has got all his change—”“Got all his—Oh, I see, you mean his senses.”“Why, of course, sir, to keep his rooms shut up as he does, and never a duster or a brush put inside the door.”“He is afraid of his specimens being disturbed, Mrs Brade.”“Oh, dear, no, sir. It never was his way. I’d got used to his manners and customs—we understood each other, and if I lifted up a bottle or a specimen, whether it was a bird or only a bone, down it went in the same place again, so exact that you couldn’t tell it had been moved.”“But Mr Brettison does the same, Mrs Brade.”“Him, sir?” said the woman contemptuously; “that’s different. One knows he’s a little bit queer. It’s nothing new for him to be away months together, and then come back loaded with rubbidge.”“When did you say Mr Stratton came here last?”“Four days ago, sir, and I went after him, and begged and prayed of him, with a pail and broom in my hand, to let me do him up, but he only pynted downward like a man in a play; and there’s his place going to rack and ruin.”“Next time he comes, Mrs Brade,” said Guest, slipping a sovereign into her hand, “send your husband on to me directly and try and keep Mr Stratton till he comes back.”“That I will, sir,” she cried eagerly; and she kept her word over and over again, but to Guest’s intense chagrin always too late.“Just comes in quickly, sir, runs up to his rooms and gets his letters, and goes out the other way.”This occurred till Guest grew damped, then angry, then damped again; but, in spite of his disheartened state, he manfully resumed his search, for whenever he was disposed to give it up as what he called a bad job, he was forced on by Edie with the greatest eagerness—“to saveherlife.”There was a time when Guest thought of getting professional help, but a strange dread of something terrible being wrong kept him back from this, and he spent every spare hour in seeking for his friend in every resort, but all in vain. Still he heard of him again and again, and of his calling at the institution, where he had a fresh release from duty granted him for a month; and feeling that he was bound to run against his friend sooner or later, Guest relaxed his efforts, and the very next day caught sight of Stratton in a cab, followed it till it turned down one of the Strandculs-de-sac, saw him alight at a great house overlooking the river and pay the cabman; and then followed him in, and up a great winding stone staircase to a door on the upper floor.“She lives there,” thought Guest with a feeling of rage in his breast, and, running lightly up the last few steps, he crept unobserved behind Stratton, and laid a hand upon his shoulder just as he was thrusting a latchkey into the lock.Stratton gave a violent start, but did not turn round. He only uttered a low sigh.“Very well,” he said. “I have been expecting you for weeks.”“Stratton!” cried Guest reproachfully, and his friend turned slowly round so haggard and aged a countenance that Guest was startled.“You?” said Stratton, with a curious, dazed look around, as if for someone else whom he had expected to see there.“I thought—I thought—” He paused, and then after an interval: “Well, you have found me. What do you want?”Guest did not reply for the moment, but looked sharply from his friend to the door and back.“There is someone in there!” he said to himself; “and for Myra’s sake I will know the truth.”Then aloud:“Take me into your room; we can’t talk here.”Stratton made a quick movement before the door as if to keep him back.

Disappointed in his visit to the inn, Guest went back to his own chambers, where his first act on reaching his room, with its lookout over the old rookery, was to take out his pocketbook, and carefully examine a photograph—a proof intrusted to his care that day—and which he instantly pressed to his lips several times before restoring it to its envelope, and returning it to his breast.

His next proceeding was to light his pipe, lie back, and think over Miss Jerrold’s words; and the more he thought over them the more they seemed to fit with the situation.

One thought begat another till he grew startled at the growth emanating from Miss Jerrold’s suggestion.

Stratton had always been greatly attached to him, he knew, but he did not always confide in him; he had a way of being extremely reticent, especially over money matters, and he recalled a little upset they had once had about a time when Stratton was hard pressed to get his rent ready and had raised the money in what he (Guest) had dubbed a disreputable way—that is to say, he had borrowed from “a relative” instead of from his friend.

“The old lady’s right,” mused Guest, after a long period of thinking, during which his ideas seemed to ripen. “Mr Brettison must know, and depend upon it, he, being such a particular, high-souled man, was angry with Stratton, and would not come to the wedding. Of course; I remember now, Stratton did say that morning that Brettison was off, out collecting. Now, how to find out where he has gone.”

No idea came, for Brettison was one of the most erratic and enthusiastic of beings. Being very wealthy, and living in the simplest way, money was no object; and he would go off anywhere, and at any cost, to obtain a few simple and rare plants for his herbarium. As Guest mused over the matter, he recollected that Stratton said something about the south; but whether it was south of England, France, or Italy, he could not remember.

“Might be the South Pole,” he muttered pettishly. “Fancy that old chap having nothing better to do with his money than spend it over weeds!”

“Now, if I had half,” he said, after refilling his pipe, “I could go to the old admiral and say—Oh, what a fool I am!”

But somehow that idea about Brettison and his money seemed to pervade his brain for the next few days, and to be mixed up with Stratton and his troubles. He recollected the money lying in crisp banknotes upon the table, and recalled that it was a heavy sum. That was an entirely fresh view to take; could Stratton have borrowed that money from Brettison? Likely enough, and that might have caused the estrangement. People did not like lending money. They would offer to do so, but when the demand was made they were a little bitter.

“‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be,’” muttered Guest, quoting from his favourite author, and then adding, “if you can help it.”

“Bah! That upsets the idea of the lady in the case,” he muttered impatiently. “What a fool I am! As if it was likely that poor old Mal would try to make his quietus with a bare bodkin—modernised into a six-shooter—because old Brettison was huffed at his borrowing money. I must pump it out of the poor fellow somehow.”

That evening he went to Stratton’s chambers, but could get no reply; and he waited about on the stairs till, growing uneasy and suspicious once more, he knocked again, and listened at the letter slit.

Just then he heard steps, and the occupant of the upstairs chambers ascended to the landing.

“How do?” he said. “Mr Stratton’s out. I met him on the Embankment not half an hour ago.”

That swept away the black, mental cobwebs once more for a time about Guest’s brain, and he went away relieved—but not before writing his intention of dropping in about ten that night, and thrusting his card in at the slit—to dine at his club, after which he went into the library to read up some old legal cases, and think about Edie.

He was punctual to the time appointed in Benchers’ Inn, but there was no light in Stratton’s window, none in Brettison’s, and he waited till eleven in the expectation of seeing his friend come back.

At the above hour he became convinced that Stratton had returned early and gone to bed, so he went to his own chambers vexed and irritated, after dropping another card into the letter-box, making an appointment for the next evening at seven.

“Take him out for a bit of dinner. He seems to be very busy just now, or else he is behaving very sensibly and taking exercise to get back his strength.”

Guest went to Benchers’ Inn the next evening at seven, but the outer door was closed, and after waiting for some time he went off to his club and wrote a letter begging Stratton to make an appointment to see him.

Next day glided by and there was no reply. The chambers were still closed, and the Brades had not seen their occupant; neither had Mr Brettison come back.

Guest made light of the matter, and then went and called on the admiral, who promptly begged him to stay to dinner, but the young man refused, glanced at Edie, and stayed.

This delayed the visit which he had intended to pay Miss Jerrold, but he went to her on the following day to report his ill success, and then to the great institution where his friend ruled over the natural history specimens.

To his surprise Stratton was not there, one of the officials informing him that his chief had taken a month’s vacation to recover his health.

“He seemed so broken down, sir, by study, that the committee suggested it.”

“And never said a word to me,” thought Guest. “Well, the man who says poor old Mal is mad is a fool, but he certainly does act very queerly. Never mind. He’ll come all right in time.”

More days glided by, and Guest became alarmed, for he could get no tidings of Stratton. The chambers were always closed, and no notice was taken of the letters; so he went to Bourne Square on business—he made a point of going there on business whenever he could—and was shown into the drawing room, where Myra greeted him very kindly, though he noted a peculiar, anxious, inquiring look in her eyes two or three times before she rose and left the room.

“Now, Mr Guest,” said Edie as soon as they were alone, “you have something to communicate?”

“Something I want to say, but don’t be quite so businesslike.”

“I must,” she said sharply. “Now tell me: something from—about Mr Stratton.”

He told her of his ill success, and she frowned.

“We don’t want his name mentioned here, and we take not the slightest interest in him; but as you are interested, and as news, of course you can tell me anything. But isn’t his conduct very strange?”

“More than strange.”

“And you can’t find Mr Brettison either?”

“No; but I’m not surprised at that. He’s collecting chickweed and ‘grundsel,’ as Mrs Brade calls it, somewhere. But I shall be glad when he comes back.”

Edie sat thoughtfully for a few minutes.

“You see, directly you cannot get to see him because his doors are shut you begin to think something is wrong.”

“Naturally.”

“And that’s absurd, Percy—Mr Guest.”

“No; no; don’t take it back again like that,” he pleaded.

“Mr Guest,” she said emphatically. “Now look here: he must come to his chambers sometimes, because he would want his letters.”

“Possibly,” said the visitor coldly, for that formal “Mr Guest” annoyed him.

“And he communicates with the people at the institution.”

“Yes, but he has given them no fresh address.”

“Then naturally they write to his chambers, and Mal—this man gets his letters from time to time. There’s nothing shocking the matter. He is avoiding you, and wants to break off the intimacy.”

“Then he is not going to,” said Guest with spirit. “I’m afraid he has done something wrong some time.”

“Indeed?” said Edie, with her eyes twinkling.

“I mean, men do.”

“Oh!”

“I have, lots of times.”

Edie grew a little more stately—a hard task, for she was toopetiteto look dignified.

“I don’t mean anything bad,” said Guest hastily; “and if old Mal thinks he is going to get rid of me he’s mistaken. I’m not a woman, to throw a fellow over because he’s had some trouble in the past. I forgive him whatever it is.”

“I suppose wicked people find it easy to forgive other sinners?” said Edie demurely.

“Of course. Poor old lad!” said Guest thoughtfully; “I wonder what he did do.”

“I’d rather not discuss such matters, if you please, Mr Guest,” said Edie coldly.

“Oh, very well, Miss Perrin. I thought I could come to you for help and counsel as a very dear friend, if as nothing else, and, now I want your help, you back out.”

“No, I don’t—Percy.”

“Ah!”

Only that interjection, but it meant so much in words—and acts, one of which resulted in the fair young girl pointing to the chair from which Guest had risen, and saying, with a little flush in her cheeks:

“Suppose somebody had come into the room. Sit down, please, Mr Guest.”

He obeyed.

“Now come; help me,” he said. “We must forgive poor old Malcolm, whatever it is; and one of these days perhaps, someone else will.”

“No, never: that is impossible.”

“But what can he have done?”

“I don’t know, unless he has been married before, and killed his wife so as to get married again.”

Guest looked at her in horror, and she turned scarlet.

“I—I beg your pardon,” she stammered. “I did not mean that.”

“No,” said Guest dryly. “I should think not.”

Farther conversation was stayed by the entrance of Myra, looking rapt and strange, as if in a dream. She did not seem to notice them, but walked across to the window, and, as she went, Guest was shocked by the alteration in her aspect. It was as if she had lately risen from a bed of sickness, while that which struck him most was the weary, piteous aspect of her eyes.

As she turned them upon him at last it was in a questioning way, which he interpreted to mean, “I am dying for news of him, but it is impossible for me to ask;” and a curious feeling of resentment rose within him against Stratton, for he felt that he had literally wrecked, the life of as true a woman as ever breathed.

A faint smile dawned upon her lips, and she glanced from him to Edie and back—a look which made the crimson on Edie’s cheeks grow deeper, as the girl said quickly:

“Mr Guest came to tell me how hard he is trying to get some news, and what he has done.”

“News!” cried Myra excitedly, and her hands were raised toward their visitor, but she let them drop to her sides as her brows contracted.

“He has been telling me that he has—”

“Where is papa—has he come back?” said Myra, coldly ignoring her cousin’s proffered information, and a few minutes later Guest shook hands and went away.

“Her pride keeps her silent,” he said thoughtfully. “No wonder, but she’d give the world to hear the least bit of news. Poor girl! She’d forgive him almost anything. I must, and will, find it all out before I’ve done.”

But the days grew into weeks, and Guest’s visits to Bourne Square were always barren of news, save that he was able to announce that Stratton certainly did go to his chambers now and then. This he found out from the porter’s wife, who bitterly bewailed the state into which they were falling.

“You may shake your head at me, Mr Guest,” she said, “and it’s our secret, for not a word shall ever leave my lips, but let me ask you, is it in the behaviour of a gentleman as has got all his change—”

“Got all his—Oh, I see, you mean his senses.”

“Why, of course, sir, to keep his rooms shut up as he does, and never a duster or a brush put inside the door.”

“He is afraid of his specimens being disturbed, Mrs Brade.”

“Oh, dear, no, sir. It never was his way. I’d got used to his manners and customs—we understood each other, and if I lifted up a bottle or a specimen, whether it was a bird or only a bone, down it went in the same place again, so exact that you couldn’t tell it had been moved.”

“But Mr Brettison does the same, Mrs Brade.”

“Him, sir?” said the woman contemptuously; “that’s different. One knows he’s a little bit queer. It’s nothing new for him to be away months together, and then come back loaded with rubbidge.”

“When did you say Mr Stratton came here last?”

“Four days ago, sir, and I went after him, and begged and prayed of him, with a pail and broom in my hand, to let me do him up, but he only pynted downward like a man in a play; and there’s his place going to rack and ruin.”

“Next time he comes, Mrs Brade,” said Guest, slipping a sovereign into her hand, “send your husband on to me directly and try and keep Mr Stratton till he comes back.”

“That I will, sir,” she cried eagerly; and she kept her word over and over again, but to Guest’s intense chagrin always too late.

“Just comes in quickly, sir, runs up to his rooms and gets his letters, and goes out the other way.”

This occurred till Guest grew damped, then angry, then damped again; but, in spite of his disheartened state, he manfully resumed his search, for whenever he was disposed to give it up as what he called a bad job, he was forced on by Edie with the greatest eagerness—“to saveherlife.”

There was a time when Guest thought of getting professional help, but a strange dread of something terrible being wrong kept him back from this, and he spent every spare hour in seeking for his friend in every resort, but all in vain. Still he heard of him again and again, and of his calling at the institution, where he had a fresh release from duty granted him for a month; and feeling that he was bound to run against his friend sooner or later, Guest relaxed his efforts, and the very next day caught sight of Stratton in a cab, followed it till it turned down one of the Strandculs-de-sac, saw him alight at a great house overlooking the river and pay the cabman; and then followed him in, and up a great winding stone staircase to a door on the upper floor.

“She lives there,” thought Guest with a feeling of rage in his breast, and, running lightly up the last few steps, he crept unobserved behind Stratton, and laid a hand upon his shoulder just as he was thrusting a latchkey into the lock.

Stratton gave a violent start, but did not turn round. He only uttered a low sigh.

“Very well,” he said. “I have been expecting you for weeks.”

“Stratton!” cried Guest reproachfully, and his friend turned slowly round so haggard and aged a countenance that Guest was startled.

“You?” said Stratton, with a curious, dazed look around, as if for someone else whom he had expected to see there.

“I thought—I thought—” He paused, and then after an interval: “Well, you have found me. What do you want?”

Guest did not reply for the moment, but looked sharply from his friend to the door and back.

“There is someone in there!” he said to himself; “and for Myra’s sake I will know the truth.”

Then aloud:

“Take me into your room; we can’t talk here.”

Stratton made a quick movement before the door as if to keep him back.

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